#Mama June weight

[amandaanddonnie]

Mama June taking steps to Improve her Health & more

[thinkinonsense]

Bewitched

˖⋆࿐໋ james logan howlett ✦ bridgerton au series

bewitched masterlist

cw: 1800s mentality on marriage and women, pinning, bickering, enemies to lovers

pairing: viscount!logan howlett x fem!reader

a/n: as of right now, i'm not sure how long this series will be but i'm so excited for it! i tried to make the reader as universal as possible but i did have to give her some sort of last name, so if that isn't your thing, you can always change it to fit. after the set up, i'll probably drop the last name.

bridgerton lore: ton (high society), debuting (when you begin dating/looking for a partner), spinster (an unmarried woman)

main masterlist

in early june, everyone returned back to england for this season and whispers of a french woman joining the ton spread around. one morning at breakfast, marie howlett was reading one of the gossip columns aloud to her family when her eldest brother, james walked into join them at the table.

"it says she's staying with her aunt, lady worthington. she is four and twenty and the only child. her passions are literature and painting. apparently, the queen has one of her paintings in her home..."

"she sounds lovely. doesn't she, james?" their mother said, hoping her boy was listening.

"she's a spinster." he says, eating some of the fruit on the table. "that's not viscountess material."

"the queen seems to find her to be diamond material." marie jabs.

james has never fallen for one of the diamonds. sure, their beauty is prominent and sometimes they can hold an intellectual conversation but for the most part they are simply shoved forward so the queen can take credit for their marriage.

"i have more important priorities this season."

"well, this season you should prioritize finding a viscountess." their mother bit at him.

during this time every year his mother gives james the same speech over and over again. the marriage speech. ever since his father died during battle, james has been plagued with not only his grief but also the weight of replacing his father and eventually having to find a replacement for his mother as well. instead of focusing on marriage, james kept himself busy either working or traveling and keeping his family afloat.

"mama, i promise i will find a wife at some point." james sighs. "i just haven't met anyone that can handle being my viscountess."

"what about the red headed girl from last season? you seemed to fancy her quite a bit."

"she married lord summers this past spring."

"and the munroe girl?"

"she's interested in mister brooks."

all his mother does is sigh in response to the news. he takes this as the perfect chance to escape the interrogation.

luckily for james, there was always an excuse to avoid marriage. in the past he's gotten close to making that walk down the aisle but something always held him back. he's never believed much in love or marriage past it's convenience. sure, he believed it was the blueprint of life, to take a wife and start a family but his marriage is seen as a much bigger deal.

all the mamas in the ton were practically throwing their daughters in his direction. at balls, he's always forcing marie to dance with him because if not, he will be forced to socialize with these young unintellectual girls who only value him for his money and title. james didn't want to have to nurture these girls. he would take care of his wife but he wanted someone who was independent from him.

ever since his father died in the war, james has always been guarded of his feelings. especially, when it came to love. when he went with his mother to identify his father's body, james swore on that day that he would never let love destroy him like it did his mother.

"remember, marie is debuting tonight at the first ball of the season." his mother called after him. "don't be late."

"i wouldn't miss it." he smiles at his little sister before dashing out the door and back to his study.

˖⋆࿐໋

a rainbow of silks are spread across your bed as you try to figure out what to wear tonight. if your mother was here, she would know exactly what would look best on you. it's only been three months since her passing yet the ache in your chest grows stronger day by day.

"what are you thinking of wearing tonight?" your aunt asks, lingering in the doorway.

"i'm not sure yet." you sigh, picking at the pretty gowns. "i like the light blue one."

arguably, it was the prettiest in the pile. so simple, you hoped to blend in among the wash of colors in the room tonight. the boning of the corset poked the left side of your ribs a little but beauty is pain.

as you got ready, the nerves started to kick in. by now you should be on your second or third child and pregnant with the next. why was love taking so long to find you?

ever since you were a little girl, you were a hopeless romantic. dreaming of your first kiss and getting married to your knight in shining armor. back home, there was a cruel joke that you were the girl before the wife. you get just close enough before they end it. afraid that the curse would travel with you.

"don't worry." you aunt hums, brushing your hair. "the queen picked you as her diamond for a reason."

"i know, i know." you nod, avoiding your reflection in the mirror. "i just wish mother was here with me."

"i do too, dear."

"she should've seen me married."

a small tear rolls down your pink painted cheeks. it feels like you let her down by not taking a husband before her illness got worse.

men have it so easy. there's no pressure from society put on them. you can marry at fifty to a nineteen year old if you so please because you know that they will marry you out of fear and desperation.

"who says she can't?" your aunts smile reflected in the mirror. "she's still looking down on you, probably working on sending you a lord or a duke for a husband as we speak."

"amusing." you giggle.

"imagine a viscount or a prince!"

both of you laugh at the possibility. viscounts and princes were usually swept up quickly in high society. all of them probably have pregnant wives by now.

"don't get too ahead of yourself."

˖⋆࿐໋

the queens ball was unlike anything you had ever seen. beautiful gardens, bright lights, and people gathered everywhere. inside the ballroom, the chandelier lights almost blind you.

like a hawk, lady chamberlain spots you two. she is an older lady and a close family friend. you haven't seen her since you were a little girl, surprised that she was able to recognize you.

"lady worthington and miss bowery, lovely to see you here!" the woman smiled, wrapping her arms around both of you.

"hello, lady chamberlain." you smile, feeling slightly at ease seeing a familiar face here.

"you look marvelous, sweetie." she smiles, taking in your appearance. at least someone appreciated all the bells and whistles that went into your dress for this evening. "truly like a diamond."

"thank you." you curtsy. a warm rose color rises to the surface of your cheeks at her compliment.

"let's go find that viscount i've told your aunt about." she says.

suddenly, she's pulling you and your aunt over to meet everyone.

quite some time has passed and yet you've only met barton's and a few lords. from one eligible bachelor to the next, it was the same process. you introduce yourself, dance, ask a bit about each other, jump into talks of marriage and children. it was all a bit overwhelming to say the least.

there's no news on a prince yet but lady chamberlain was holding out for a viscount while your aunt held out for a duke. meanwhile, you just needed someone with charm and charisma to save you from these godawful men of the ton.

"i'm going to get a drink." you announce, one the music ends.

in one of the dim corners of the room there was a refreshment table where you poured a hefty amount of wine into your glass and down as much of it –in a very unlady like manner– as you could before another person could find you.

it wasn't long until someone behind you clears their voice loudly.

"i was unaware that they taught women to drink like soldiers in france..."

you spin around quickly to face the man in front of you. he is gorgeous and... huge. dawned in white puffy shirt and a tight black vest with detailed buttons. he towered over you intimidatingly with a small smirk creeping on his lips from shocked expression.

"i-i deeply apologize, my lord. it was just grape juice." you laugh nervously, avoiding his piercing stare.

"hm..." he hums, lifting his hand up and letting his thumb swiftly glide under your lip to catch the bit of liquid there. you watch in awe as he licks the bit of wine off his thumb with a soft groan. "they must make 'grape juice' different in france."

never in your whole life have you been left so speechless. a gentleman has never done more so than touch your hand, let alone act so scandalous. with a satisfied smirk, the man walks away to join a small group of young women. thank goodness that no one seemed to have noticed.

"miss bowery!" lady chamberlain called after you. "i want you to come meet the howletts."

swiftly, you get back to her as she approach a mother and daughter. both of them were stunningly and wore expensive looking gowns with luxurious jewels. lady chamberlains wide smile only made you grow more anxious.

"meet lady howlett and her daughter, the honorable, marie howlett." lady chamberlain introduced.

"lovely to meet you." you say, bowing gracefully before them.

"where is viscount james?" lady chamberlain asks.

"oh! he should be around here somewhere..." the woman looked behind the two of you until she flagged someone down. “there he is!”

the moment that you looked up at the viscount, you feared your heart might explode right then and there. silently pray to the gods above that he won't mention your previous encounter.

"miss bowery, this is my son, viscount james logan howlett." lady howlett announces proudly.

"what a pleasure to meet you, miss bowery." james smirked, trying to get a rise out of you.

"as is it for me, my lord." you curtsy politely, feeling hot under his gaze.

a cloud of lust fogs james mind at the words, my lord fell from your pretty, slightly berry colored lips. the lower his eyes drift from your face, the tighter his trousers get. every exquisite curve is highlighted by the way that the silk fell on your frame, reminding him of the goddesses he had only seen in the finest of paintings.

"might you wish to accompany me to a dance?" he asks, extending his hand to you.

you nod, offering him your gloved hand in return.

the two of you make your way to the dance floor with everyone else. the orchestra begins and you quickly fall in sync with each other.

"how are you enjoying england?" james asks.

"it's quite lovely." you lie.

"better than france?" he questioned with a small tilt of his head.

"no." you giggle softly. "nowhere on earth is better than home."

"i suppose i cannot argue with that."

"have you journed to france?"

"once. when i was younger, i went with my father. he loved france."

"that's why my mother left england. she fell in love with my father when she visited france."

"they must be true romantics."

"oh, most definitely." you smile.

carefully, logan spins you twice. never letting you stumble over your own two feet like most men would.

"i truly am sorry for earlier, my lord. that was completely unacceptable for a–"

"it's alright, sweetheart." the viscount cut you off with a chuckle. "your secret is safe with me."

james looks down to see your big round eyes sparkle up at him with great appreciation. there's a unique feeling blooming deep in his chest that he can't quite put his finger on.

"i heard from some mamas that you are seeking to wed this season." you say, looking elsewhere as the two of you pull apart.

"seeking is such a complex word." he sighs amusingly.

"i imagine it would be difficult to find a future viscountess."

"you have no idea."

all around you, you can see the women openly fawning over the viscount. some fan themselves while other clutch their jewels with either anger at you or lust for him. any of those women would duel to be in your shoes right now.

"do you have a desire to be viscountess?" his question made your heartbeat increase, pounding in your chest.

as a young girl, you watched your family struggle in order to survive so it would be a lie to say that you don't dream of having a title. you have a father back in france to take care of in his elderly age. but love was your main desire. you would marry a sweet common man as long as he loved you.

"i desire to be loved." you tell him.

the answer caught james off guard. the women of the ton had no issue telling him to his face that they want his tittle or money. none of those women actually cared about love.

"well, my darling, you are quite the fool to be seeking out something as pure as love in a place such as this." james says, pulling you so close that you can feel his heartbeat in his chest and his eyes darken.

"don't be so cock-sure, viscount howlett. i am no fool at all." you glare angrily up at him. "i wish you well on your journey to find such a bird-witted viscountess."

the song ends and you are quick to make an exit. hot on your heels, james follows you outside. perhaps you shouldn't have insulted the viscount to his face but you didn't quite care anymore. this night has been a bust and you aren't any closer to marriage then you were before walking in here.

"miss, bowery..." a man calls, capturing your attention. "would you accompany me to a dance?"

based on the man's appearance, he seems even more important that the viscount. he was definitely the opposite of james. this man wore light grey in places where james wore black. this man had a sweet smile where james had a scowl.

"her dance card is full." the voice behind you threatened.

the gentleman's face fell a little.

"actually, i have one last spot open on my dance card." you smile, showing him the tag tied to your right wrist which had exactly one spot open. "i would love to accompany you..."

"prince harrison." he grins.

you hum, offering your hand. the prince leans down and kissed your gloved fingers before sweeping you off to the dance floor again.

james fumed as he watched you walk away with the prince. lady howlett spots her son alone and walks over to him.

“please tell me that you did not scare off this seasons diamond, james.” lady howlett asked in a low whisper.

“i’m gonna call a carriage” he growls, annoyed.

“dear!”

his mother called after him but he couldn’t care to turn around and stay here any longer.

˖⋆࿐໋

on the carriage ride alone, james is stuck with the image of you. your beauty and the pain in your eyes when james called you a fool. oddly enough, james enjoyed the way you bit back at him. he just wishes that he hadn’t offended you.

apparently you must not be that hurt if you accepted a dance from harrison of all people. not because he wanted to court you but because harrison was barely considered a prince and was a poor excuse of a man. never having to lift a finger a day in his life. never knowing a single struggle. the prince was insufferable.

perhaps it was in james best interest to forget about the beautiful woman he met this evening. she is this seasons diamond after all, desired by too many. james wasn't known to chase the things he desired.

──★

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[pinkslaystation]

Tulips or Roses?

John Price x reader

In which you find John's old diary detailing his love for you his teammate and you begin to question his love for you. Word Count: 3.6k -> blurb - rose meets tulips

Being a civilian to a soldier was hard enough.

And it was even harder when your husband was a commander for one of the most skillful task force. So it wasn't unusual for him to be gone for long periods of time.

So on a random Friday evening, anticipating his arrival in the coming week, vacuuming the floors, cleaning the windows, you found yourself at the door of John's study, with was decorated with a glass name plate, with the words 'Study' accompanied with a painted heart created from blue and pink fingerprints from you and your husband.

John was never the man to tell you off if you entered his study, instead he encouraged it. He's beckoned you to bring him his evening tea to him, to give him a massage, sometimes when you wanted him, he'd allow you to help him under the desk, if you get what I mean. (speaking from experience ;>)

As you stepped into his room, you noticed the ceilings adorned with sizable white cobwebs, cringing at the apparent neglect of his study. When was the last time someone had even been here?

Sweeping his desk, wiping away the dust, you find a box underneath beside his chair, which prompted you to lifting it up and placing on top of the desk. Man, you underestimated it's weight. You struggled to lift a small but heavy moving box, and it caused a few books and papers to fall out.

You cursed at your clumsiness, picking up the loose sheets, until you fingers caught the spine of a red vintage-like book, which had the word 'diary' written on the front. You didn't take too much notice, skimming through the pages until you caught your name being mentioned a phew times.

You giggle, it's a diary probably with John confessing his love to you numerous time! You know you probably shouldn't look through it, I mean privacy exists, but you just can't help it.

So you look through some of the infrequent entries, the oldest dating back to 10 years back, and the most recent one being nearly 4 years, when you and John had first met.

30th February 2010

Suffering in Afghanistan, the lads and I are stuck in the safe house for a week now. Rose is here too, I should ask her if she's okay.

Ahhh you remember this story. When the Task Force was stuck in the city of Kandahar, in the safe house. You also remember John's team, whom you are well-acquainted with, Soap, Ghost, Gaz, Roach, Rose?

You skip through the boring entries, most of which are just John documenting his work-out plan and the places him and his team had visited.

5th July 2016

Gaz's going on and on about his lass. Someone tell him to talk to her at least, he doesn't even know her name! I keep bringing it up but he keeps mentioning when I'll talk to Rose.

You chuckled, assuming the chick was Gaz's current wife. But the last part caught your attention, Rose again? You remember John telling you that she'd retired, went back north to settle with her family now, so you don't think much of it, I mean they are team mates.

19th June 2017

Saw a cute kid and her mama, wishing I had kids, without this lifestyle. Rose wants a son but I don't particularly mind. Soap overheard our conversation and spammed me lols on Whatsapp, but I thought lol meant little old lady? I am a man though.

You raise your eyebrow at another mention of Rose, why doesn't he care if Rose wanted a son? You didn't realise how close your husband was to her.

2nd December 2018

Christmas this month with my boys. Rose invited me over for a smoke. Ghost rolls his eyes when I mentioned it to him, says I need to man up and make a move.

You squinted your eyes, rereading the entry, and hesitantly skipping to the next one.

7th April 2019

Drinks with my men (and Rose haha, she doesn't like being part of the men). It's her birthday and she wants to tell us something. She's got her red lips again. I'm excited, Soap kept nudging me the entire ride, that cheeky bugger.

Then immediately below it, an update: She's seeing someone.

You're slowly piecing the puzzle, though you don't want to assume anything.

21st August 2019

She came into my room crying, seems like it's not going well, good for me. I hope she's okay and she realises there's better fish in the sea. She hugged me, she smells like roses, I love floral scents. I tried leaning in, she says I'm like an older brother to her.

Your heart breaks a bit, sniffing at your freshly washed hair, which smelt like ... like roses.

You thought floral scents were YOUR thing.

You continued, to the next entry which was marked the date you remember meeting John for the first time at the pub. You force a smile, hoping the entry would lighten your mood.

30th November 2020

In the pub and bored. Rose brought her lad... they're back together. What does she see in him? Soap urges me to find someone else but my heart is set on someone, for a long time. Won't change. He keeps gesturing to a girl on the other end of the counter, she's pretty, but like a tulip. Not like a rose. Not like my Rose.

You grip at the notebook and you try your hardest not to rip the papers out of the book and set his entire study on fire.

You remember this day, when you were dragged to the pub by your friends after being dumped by your ex for another girl. You sat at one end of the counter, with tears in your eyes but one look at that buff Englishman on the other end and your mood flipped instantaneously, 180 degrees.

"Kelsey, look at that guy, Mr Army over there." You beckon towards John's direction, to your friend., slightly tipsy after a peg of beer.

Your friend looks at you with a raised eyebrow, then turns to the guy whose piqued your interest, "You should go for it." She encourages you.

So you get yourself 2 drinks and approach the guy, more confident that usual due to your alcoholic state. A beer would do.

"Hi, this seat empty?" You smile at him innocently.

All this time you had recalled a look of fondness towards you, when he'd first locked eyes with you. You remember bragging about how it had been love at first sight for the both of you, but thinking back, a feeling of doubt starts bubbling inside you.

"It's reserve- you know what. Take a seat."

You remember sitting next to him, passing him a drink, and telling him your name, "...and you are?" you question, although you see him wincing. At first you thought it was just an army thing, so guarded that even the slightest of movements would make him twitch.

But now you're questioning whether he really wanted to engage into a conversation with you.

The following hours, as you painfully recall, was filled with you talking about yourself and occasionally asking him after his life, though he gives you one word answers and frequent nods.

But that was just because he'd just come home from a mission right?

"...and he just broke up with me out of the blue! Like was my 12,000 followers on TikTok not good enough for you?" You chuckle, attempting to crack a joke. He smiles confused, and you note he's probably too old to understand what TikTok was.

"Sounds like an asshole, love." He replies.

"Hmm, he was...I- I just don't know what he'd leave me for her...like I gave you my everything, I was always with you through thick and thin and what, that wasn't enough for you?" You trail off, the effects of the 2nd beer hitting you.

"I understand dove, you just give 'em everything and they just find someone else. What does he have that I don't?" He spaces out, his eyes falling on his teammates sitting at a different table. You follow his gaze, smiling slightly when you lock eyes with one of his smirking subordinates, whom you know know as Soap.

"Those people, they're your team?" You question.

His eyes aren't on you though as he responds, "That mohawk, that's Soap, Ghost next to him, tough as steel but soft at heart, Gaz on the opposite, funny lad, Roach, good ol' Roach..."

You look at the woman to the right of 'Roach', taking in her beauty. Though she's sitting down, you can tell she's taller that you by least 4 inches, with a blonde pixie haircut and painted with a dark smokey eye. A deep smirk is plastered onto her plump ruby red lips as she looks at John Price finally talking to a woman that isn't her. She raises a hand, waving to the both of you, which is almost instantaneously reciprocated by John.

"And her?" You ask, head nudging towards the woman.

"Her...That's Rose. You should meet her, you would like her, but who doesn't..." His chuckle fades out and you at how his attention was fully directed to her. A sinking feeling told you that you should have backed off from the married man, but it disappeared when John pointed out her partner, with gritted teeth.

Your hands are gripping the pages at this point, as you recall memories from the diary from his point of view.

You turn the page to the next entry, dreading the words.

19th December 2020

Thought me and Rose would go back to the pub for another drink for the holidays, but she's going back to his place. Seems they're taking the next steps with meeting the families.

Soap's annoyed at how I'm 'ghosting' the girl I met at the pub, I'm once again unfamiliar with the lingo, I'm not Simon?? She's nice but, not sure I see anything further than a friendship. Gaz and him are picking out an outfit for me, she wants to meet up for bowling apparently. I just want to be with Rose...

Clenching your fist, you shut the diary and toss it aside, feeling all kinds of emotions. Upset that John had never truly looked at you the way you'd looked at him. The way he never wanted you, like you wanted him.

Every time you'd seen him online on Whatsapp, but still hadn't opened your messages, he was ghosting you? Sure after a while of being friends, his behaviour gradually changed, accompanied with rapid texts, but you felt like this relationship was built on lies.

Did he even want to go bowling with you that day? Did you win because he purposely let you, because he was bored and wanted to go home, be with Rose instead? When he asked you to be his girlfriend, did he ask you with Rose in mind?

The ding of the oven stopped your trail of thoughts, so many questions swirling around your head. You walk out of the study, slamming the door behind you, the combined mess of dust and cobwebs remaining untouched.

The glass name plate falls to the ground, the edge shattering, with shards of clear glass laying dangerously on the wooden floor.

A couple of hours go by and the doorknob rattles at 8:45 P.M. on the dot. John was never late when he had to come home to you.

He reaches base at 7:30, drives exacting an hour to your shared home, after making a quick pit stop at the florists within 10 minutes to give you a freshly scented bouquet of red roses.

Roses. So that's why he'd give them you every time...

He makes sure to leave him 5 minutes of spare time, which was designated to flipping open a small metal notebook you'd gifted him, and writing his thoughts down. And once those 5 minutes were up, he places the notepad back into his jacket pocket and practically runs towards the front door.

"Dove, I'm home!" He exclaimed, gently placing his belonging on the floor, before walking into the living floor, where you sat on the sofa with your legs and arms crossed. (MY BITCH POSE IS NASTY)

"Sweetheart, you didn't run up to me at the door, you alright love?" He sits next to you, his calloused and freshly bruised arms rubbing your knee.

The silence was deafening and you couldn't find it in yourself to look at him after all you've read.

He takes it as a cue to continue, "I got you some roses, baby. Your favourite-"

"When did I say they were my favourite?"

John blinks at the interruption, "I mean, you don't like them? It's tradition to bring the same red roses for you every time I'm back..."

"And when did I say I liked them? Are they my favourite? Or are they her favourite?" You shift towards him, anger evident in your voice.

"Her? Who? Sweetheart, what's going on?"

"I mean, come on man, you like floral shit that much that now you're making me wear it?"

"You...don't like floral scents? Did you want tulips instead, baby?"

Your eyebrows are furrowed in annoyance by his confusion.

"It doesn't matter if I wanted tulips, John, it's the fact that YOU like roses. In fact you've like Roses this entire time! Don't act like you like tulips 'cos you don't- to be honest I don't think you ever have!" You rant, handing running through your hair.

"I mean I like both honey, roses are just, um, prettier?" He sounds like he's asking you rather than telling you.

"Of course roses are prettier to you- that's all that you're fucking used to you. It's always roses, roses, roses. You're so obsessed with fucking roses, you never gave tulips a bloody chance!"

"Are we still talking about flowers-"

"And when you do give tulips a chance, you're still thinking about roses- how red they are, how pretty they are, how they need to be watered every 5 fucking minutes, even then there's already someone to water those damn. Red. Roses."

"I- I mean I like tulips too, baby-"

"No. You don't. No, you don't. Tulips are just the safest options for you, cos someone already plucked out those fucking roses. Cos roses don't want you."

You're standing up now, and John's attempts to speak are futile with every sentence you shout.

"No. In fact, roses has never wanted you, roses look better with someone else, and ol' poor John has no more roses, so he goes and waters some unwanted tulips instead!"

John stands up, towering over your shaking frame, his hands come up to stroke your biceps, but he's pushed away.

"I mean, did John ever even like tulips? Or was he faking it cos he never got roses? Was tulips just the safe option? Does John still want roses after all the years tulips have been there for him?"

You left out a pained cry, you didn't even notice the tears leaking out of your eyes.

"Does John even like tulips? Does John even love tulips?"

His hands wipe your tears away, and he brings you into his chest, and you don't attempt to push him away this time.

"Does you even love me, John?" You break down into his arms, letting him carrying you into the bedroom, where he places you gently on the bed, while you hiccup through your uneven sobs. He smells the stench of wine through your shaking breath, whilst stroking your hair, and you slowly fall into a deep slumber with your head pressed against his still uniform-clad chest.

The clock hits midnight and John gets up, trying not to wake you up, grabbing his sweats from the drawer and walking to the bathroom across the hall, in order to not wake you up, from what looked like a well-needed rest.

As he trudges out of the bedroom and through the corridor, the reflection of the broken glass catches his eyes and he squints in the darkness, squatting down to pick a small shard. As he lifts the remains of the nameplate, hooking it back to the door, he steps over the mess into the study to retrieve a dust pan and brush.

Flicking the lights on, he's met with what looks like a scene from the reality TV show - Hoarders. So starts cleaning quickly, picking up the duster and bunching up the paperwork from the floor, the pot of pens that had seemed to be knocked down, the diary he'd used to write in...hold on-

Picking up the diary, John flicks through the entries, the book naturally opening to the last open slide.

He begins reading the last entry.

19th December 2020

Thought me and Rose would go back to the pub for another drink for the holidays, but she's going back to his place. Seems they're taking the next steps with meeting the families.

Soap's annoyed at how I'm 'ghosting' the girl I met at the pub....

"Oh...my tulip, I've never loved roses as much as I loved you." He mumbles to himself, whilst simultaneously cringing at his previously written words, immediately throwing the book back on the floor.

It's past breakfast when you wake up, throat and eyes painfully dry from last night's crying session, forcing yourself to drag yourself to the bathroom. You've forgotten that John had come home last night, as your met with a familiar empty bed.

After brushing your teeth and washing your face, you walk downstairs, being face to face with the naked back of Captain John Price.

The smell of chocolate pancakes waft towards your nose, as you look around the kitchen, the room garnished with a variety of different flowered bouquets, with so many variations of plants.

Bundles of dahlias and lotuses, orchids and lilies, carnations and irises, roses and tulips.

John turns to your footsteps, smiling at his perfect woman.

"Baby, good mornin'" He greets you, placing a single rose into your hair, and pecking your forehead warmly.

"John, listen about last night-"

"It was the old diary, wasn't it?" he asks.

You nod, ashamed for your abrupt behaviour yesterday. John lifts your chin up, resting his forehead against yours.

"Rose never taught me how to love like you did."

"John, you don-" His pointer finger is pressed against your lips.

"Reading those words from the past, I can see how it may have painted a different picture of my feelings. But let me assure you, my love, that you are the one I adore with all my heart."

Your stroke his face, heart warming to his words.

"Every rose I brought home was a symbol of my love for you, not because it was her favorite, but because it reminded me of the beauty and grace that you bring into my life. And those tulips, they represent the new beginnings and the fresh start that we share together.

My love for you is unwavering and unconditional. You are my tulip, my true love, and I vow to cherish and adore you for all eternity. Please forgive me for any pain or doubt my past words may have caused."

"John..."

He hands you his notepad from from his back pocket, beckoning you to open it.

You look at the first entry.

19th February 2021

I mentioned how I journal sometimes to her, and she bought me a new notepad, it's cute how she calls it a diary. Things are looking good. Bowling's our thing, I let her win because seeing her smile means I've won too. I'm asking her out tonight, Soap cried real tears when I told him.

You turn the page.

20th July 2021

Our 6 month anniversary. Took her to a field of roses and tulips, though nothing compares to her beauty.

The next one.

17th September 2021

I seldom think of Rose, I have my tulip on my mind now. Rose retired, and the team celebrated last night. She hugged me and thanked me for being a good captain. She also acknowledged my previous feelings for her. Man that was uncomfortable, but I reassured her I'm with my tulip now. I love my tulip.

I've always preferred tulips anyway.

And the next.

5th July 2022

Our 500 day anniversary. I want to propose.

17th September 2022

She said yes!! She may be my fiance, but I've already started calling her my wife, not legally yet at least...illegally?

28rd December 2023

We married 30th November. The day we met. Xmas was amazing, I can't see myself with anyone but her. I'm getting deployed tomorrow though.

You look at the most recent entry, dated last night.

16th February 2024

Missed the valentines day with my missus. Hope these roses are enough, though I wanted to get something better. Tulips for my tulip. They ran out haha. Missed my girl, missed her like I've never missed someone before. Soap's right, deployment suck.

Tears welled up in your eyes, not from pain or doubt this time, but from overwhelming joy and love for the man standing before you.

"I'm sorry, John," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. "I didn't mean to doubt your love."

He smiled, a genuine and heartfelt smile that reached his eyes, pulling you into a warm embrace. "No need for apologies, my tulip. Thank you for teaching me how to love."

And in that moment, amidst the scent of chocolate pancakes and fresh flowers, it felt like you love story was just beginning, filled with trust, forgiveness, and a deep, unwavering love for each other.

That should not have taken me 2 days to complete what in the world. Also if i was tulip, that old diary is going straight into a fire! Barbecue anyone? <3 Quick Notes: I head-cannoned Rose to look like Sergeant Calhoun from Fix-it-Felix lolololol woman crush fr i get u john boy I've decided to start a tag list! -> lemme know you're interested to be tagged in my future posts! tags -> @lilliumrorum

[elusivedew]

💌 | Cubitum eamus ?

✧ synopsis ⤐ it takes you 2 years from the minute you meet spencer to confess how much you like him, and it all happens on a random wednesday night.

✧ contains ⤐ friends to lovers but they both know what's up, s3 spencer who's been through a handful of shit, brief mention of alcohol consumption on two occasions!!suggestive themes but no straight up smut, spencer reid experiences happiness for once, reader is his only hope in life, reader wants him real bad and he knows. My spencer reid debut yay! Title translates to "will you go to bed with me?" w.c ~ 9.2k

Working at the BAU is not an easy job. In fact, Spencer thinks, working at any unit in the FBI is the closest thing you'll ever get to hell on earth. This feeling of agitation and exhaustion seems to aggravate every time he's working on a particularly draining case. Not only does the content of the cases get into his head often, and sometimes into his dreams, but he's also been directly harmed by the criminals they’re chasing. How can you remain completely objective about something when you become a victim too?

Over the few years he's worked in the BAU, he's received more harm than he ever expected. Drug addiction was not something he had in his five-year plan when he first joined the FBI. It's not something anyone who works in law enforcement expects, really. 

Needless to say, he's tired. The kind of fatigue that makes you bedridden for days. 

He also happens to be alone on a Tuesday night in the middle of June. 

The latest case he worked on took a little over two weeks to wrap up, an unsub that likes to take his time and has such a disorganized MO that it was almost impossible to see the patterns. All the physical and mental work completely knocked everyone off their feet, except for him. His colleagues all went home and passed out of exhaustion, and he’s still up. 

Spencer can't sleep. He's too busy thinking. 

It's something he does a lot, for his job, for himself, for the duration of his whole life. The gears have been turning in his head since his very first word, the minute ‘mama’ was out of his baby mouth, he’d been tasked with the weight of the whole fucking universe. The price of knowing so much from a young age has cost him a lot. And tonight, it specifically costs him his peace, his right to pass out after a long day of work. 

And he'd love, more than anything, to have an off button somewhere inside. But because that hasn't been invented yet, and his nervous system feels like it's on fire, he's still up by the time it's 10 pm. It’s not late, objectively, but he’s been home for more than three hours now. He tried a lot of sleep remedies— herbal tea, audiobooks, aroma therapy, hell, even exercising to tire himself out, but all of them failed. And now he's just left with sore muscles and an even more tired brain. 

By the time it's 11 pm, he's lying on his couch, feeling like death. His head is pounding with the feeling of an oncoming migraine, and he knows that he’s in for a particularly long night.

That's when his phone rings, and because he’s so alert and so sensitive to stimuli at the moment, he almost kicks it off the coffee table. But he doesn’t do that, because he’s still a little sane despite everything.

Instead, he reaches over and checks the contact name, and his whole face lights up. He feels absolutely ridiculous for not making this call first, because his nervous system is now very much alive— and not in a way that makes him feel like an overheating microwave, no, this is a good thing. And good things don’t happen to him often. He runs his hand through his hair, a nervous habit, and picks up the call. 

Suddenly being awake doesn't feel so bad. 

“Agent Reid.”

Your voice comes through the phone like a cool breeze of air during the grueling heat of June. He finds himself relaxing a little, releasing tension he didn't know he had in his muscles when he was so distracted just a few minutes before.

“I'm begging you to stop calling me that.” 

“Aww, why not? I like feeling like your boss,” you're smiling on the other end, he can hear it, “what's his name again? Aaron?” 

He rubs his temple with a smile he can't fight off, “That's agent Hotchner to you.” 

You laugh and he feels proud of himself for eliciting such a pleasant sound out of you. He's immediately thinking of other ways to get that sound out again. If Morgan could see him now, he'd never let him hear the end of it. 

The good thing about you and Spencer is that no one knows. Not his colleagues, not your friends, not your families. That's the good thing, you get to keep this precious thing between the two of you. The bad thing is that you're not really together. You're not even romantically involved, you've never uttered the four-letter L-word around each other (like or love, both), and you don't even really flirt with each other. 

To put it into simple words, you and Spencer are just friends. 

But friends who relieve each other's stress nonetheless, and god knows Spencer needs that right now. 

“You're back from your recent trip, right?” You ask, audibly crunching on something. It sounds like you're also lying on your couch, he wonders if you were going through something similar when you decided to pick up the phone and call.

“Yeah, thank god.” 

“I take it that it wasn't a very good one then? I mean, none of them are good but, I'm guessing some are worse than others.” 

Spencer sighs, “You guess correctly.” 

“How are you feeling?” Your voice is softer when you ask, concerned, and even though he doesn't like to make you worry, your well-intended question is a very welcome sentiment. He’s almost relieved knowing that there's someone who'll always ask, someone who'll always notice. 

“Not very good. Tired.” It's a short answer, but he knows you understand. You've understood him for a very long time now, nearly two years of knowing each other. 

“It sounds like you had a very long day.” A very long month. “Why didn't you try to catch some Zs?” 

The way you phrase it makes him snort, and he knows you're proud of yourself for that one. “I can't, me and the Zs never had a very good relationship. Trust me, if I could turn my brain off, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.” 

You hum, “Do you wanna talk about it? I could give you some very valuable, life-changing insight, maybe you'll be able to go to sleep after.” 

He smiles, “I've actually had enough of this case, I'd like to talk about something else.” 

“Oh, I can definitely do that. Tell me, what did you have for breakfast?” 

Breakfast is a terrible topic, meals in general, because you know that he misses a lot of his meals when he's on the job. You always lecture him for it, berating him for being so skinny at his big age, but it's always underlined by concern. He knows you worry about him, he wouldn't blame you. 

“Not much…” He trails off, knowing you'll catch on. 

“Oh honey, I know your eating and sleeping habits are fucked, but can't you at least lie to me?” 

The way you call him honey should not be making his stomach turn like that. 

“I could never lie to you.” 

“You literally just did.” 

You both laugh and he's so, so glad you called. If he didn't think you were asleep he'd have called you first. 

“Okay well, I didn't ask that question to find out something I already know. I asked because remember that café we were constantly visiting before you went on this trip? They finally brought the chocolate chip cookies back.” 

The chocolate chip cookies case (the quadruple c) is a very vital issue in your relationship with Spencer. Because for weeks, the both of you have been visiting that place close to your apartment, hoping to get some chocolate chip cookies, only to be met by raisins. It was a very devastating experience for both of you, having to settle for something else on the menu every time. But now it’s okay! The chocolate chip cookies are back. 

Spencer is so glad he's done with his silly criminal case so he can focus on the real problems at hand.

“And I was thinking, if you're not too tired tomorrow, should we have breakfast together?” 

It's sweet, it's earnest, it's you.

It's such a characteristic gesture, asking him to have breakfast with you after particularly draining cases, checking on him as soon as you can tell he's home, and sounding so sweet and concerned over the phone when you know he's feeling down. It’s the small, thoughtful actions coming from you that have helped him keep it together so far. 

And the feelings that thought brings out in him lead him to realize, in those few seconds, that he liked you much more than he planned on. Not that he ever planned to like you in the first place, but he thought it was a small crush that would eventually go away, it’s happened before with the pretty women he befriends, and he didn’t think this time would be different. 

But it was, and now he’s totally screwed because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say no to you. 

“Absolutely, I can't wait to have those chocolate cookies again.” 

You're ecstatic over his response, your tone picking up about 3 octaves when you jump to discussing the other plans you have this week. Your favorite artist is releasing an album soon, your favorite game is finally available at the video game store, the finale of that show you've been talking to him about is airing in two days, and it seems like your life is full of positive sequences.

The juxtaposition between what he sees at work and the enthusiasm you bring into his life almost gives him a headache, but it could very well be sleep deprivation. He wonders if all the misfortunes that have happened to him are the evil equivalents of the things you brought into his life. 

But if all the bad things that have happened to him and around him got compensated by you, he doesn't find it such a bad tradeoff. Because meeting you on a random Monday night and somehow catching your attention enough for you to leave him your number— even when he was so frazzled by the need for coffee so he could grind out some paperwork before his deadline— it feels like he used up all his luck on that fateful encounter.

And having someone he could always meet up with, outside of work, has been very grounding. 

You talk his ears off for the rest of the night, rambling about one thing or the other until his eyelids get heavy again, and he feels tired enough to sleep. You tell him that's been your plan all along and wish him a good night. 

Later, when he’s under the covers of his bed, drifting off to sleep, for a few minutes his brain isn't aggravating him with the thoughts that have been haunting him all day. For a few minutes, all he can think about is you.

He is so fucked.

Emily Prentiss is a very smart agent. 

She’s been told that ever since she was a little girl, and though it was often complimentary, people sucking up to her mom and whatnot, it was never a complete lie. She grew up thirsty for knowledge, mastering everything she could get her hands on, and even as an adult with a grown up job, she continues to excel at what she does

But then, if she's so smart, why the hell can she not figure out why Spencer Reid is so giddy while doing his paperwork? 

It may have to do with the fact that it's Spencer, and that kid has always been a little perplexing to her. He's bright and brilliant, but she could never truly understand how his mind works. But, at the same time, there's such a thing as habits, and Spencer is not typically so smiley while doing paperwork. No one is smiley while doing paperwork in this line of work, because it makes you relive the nightmares. For goodness’s sake, this is the behavioral analysis unit, and Spencer is behaving weirdly. 

It seems like she isn’t the only agent at the office who noticed the peculiarity. Agent Morgan stands behind her, his third cup of coffee in his hand, squinting at the young doctor. They observe him like a wild animal in his natural habitat; had they not been so tired from all the work, they would’ve been picking on him by now.

When Emily feels her presence behind him, she turns around, and they exchange a mutual look of understanding. They've never seen Reid act like that in the time that they’ve worked together, and they know one thing that they've never seen him experience during that time either. 

They realize it at the same time, and Morgan nearly drops his coffee. 

Spencer Reid is in love.

There have been many misfortunes in the 25 years that you've been on this earth, and you're convinced that a lot of them have been aimed at you. You're the only person who has ever suffered that much during your whole life, it's a known fact. It's a fact that you like to remind Spencer of, to make him feel better about his work, and when he laughs at it, you remind him that people called Jesus a liar too.

You've been through a lot of suffering, but the task of getting dressed before Spencer knocks on your door in approximately ten minutes may just be the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

He thinks that just because he has a day off, he could pressure you into a sudden— very much unplanned— date? He thinks that shooting you a text to get dressed so you can go to the record store and then have dinner only twenty minutes before you're supposed to do the aforementioned activities is allowed? He's absolutely right, and you hate him for it. 

Not that it's really a date, you know you and Spencer have never crossed that line, but it feels like it. Especially if he's making you feel like a teenage girl high on hormones having her very first crush. Her very first date. The particular action you're thinking about has to be kept to yourself, just so you don't jinx it. 

You really shouldn't be thinking about that when you still haven't figured out which outfit to wear. More thinking about clothes, less thinking about boys. Specifically one boy. 

It takes all your willpower and energy to finish getting ready in those ten minutes. You settle for your most comfortable pair of jeans and a white button-down with a vest over it, and for good measure, you throw your coat on— the long beige-brown trench coat that makes you feel like you're Sherlock Holmes about to solve a crime. You realize that it's very fitting for an outing with a profiler, he's kind of like Sherlock Holmes if you think about it. 

It's fall now, and it's much more chilly. You hope your precious profiler brought his own coat because, as much as you care for him, you won't be lending him yours.

When he rings your doorbell, you're finishing up and tossing the rest of the necessities into your bag. You make him wait for a minute, to avoid seeming eager, and then make your way to the door.

The minute you lay your eyes on him, you feel sick to your stomach.

Spencer Reid is beautiful, this is a fact that you've known ever since you met. He pulls off the dorky yet hot look so well, with that stupid smile of his when he talks like a smartass. And you're reminded of this every time you see him, the fact that he's so adorable that it physically hurts to keep your hands off him all the time. Tonight is no different, he's dressed in a dark button-down with a brown vest over it, covered by a beige coat that contrasts the dark colors beautifully. It takes you a couple seconds to realize you're wearing similar outfits, almost like a matching couple.

“Copycat.” You accuse, fighting off a smile with warm cheeks. He grins in retaliation, “Hello to you too.”

God, he’s beautiful. In the dim light of your apartment's entrance, you catch the gleam of his eyes. They're warm, earthy, and familiar, you don't think you'd ever stop staring at his eyes if you had the chance to do it without looking crazy. His eyelashes are unfairly long, and his light brown hair forms waves around his face like a frame around an artwork. He always tucks a few stray strands behind his ear, and you always mess it up for him– which is something you do for two reasons, you like annoying him, and you desperately want to touch his hair. It’s just simply unfair for him to be born that beautiful. 

He seems to notice you staring because his cheeks are a little pink, and he has a little bashful smile on his face. “Ready to go?” He scans your form like the little detective he is, “Looks like you could get ready in 20 minutes after all.” 

Now you remember why you were so annoyed at him, good looks be damned. 

“Oh shut up, never do that again.” 

“Or what? You'll cuss me over text messages again? How will I ever live with that.” 

His shy smile is replaced with a smug grin, and you hate to admit it, but it's one of your favorite looks on him. Because Spencer isn't always able to genuinely smile like that, he's usually stressed about one thing or the other; and knowing him, he's always reliving some terrible event that happened in the past two years, and sometimes even further back in time. So while his amusement comes at your expense, you'd rather see him smiling like this all the time. 

“God, you're so mean to me.” 

Even though you mean to sound stern, you can't hide your smile. 

You pick up your keys from the hanger by the door and toss them into your handbag, he follows your movements with his eyes, “that's not true. I'm always so nice to you, sometimes a little too nice.” 

You lock your door behind you and give him a fake offended look, “You could never be too nice to me. Let's go, agent Reid. We've got a long night ahead of us.” 

Then you're strutting ahead of him, motioning for him to follow you like a helpless little intern. Even though he rolls his eyes and laughs in disbelief, he ends up following you anyway.

‘Albert’s records’ has been your favorite record store since you moved into your apartment in Quantico— and not only because you’ve met Albert, the sweetest little old man to ever exist, but also because Spencer always looks mystified inside the store. It’s like something about vintage things just makes him tick. 

You're checking out vinyls that are selling for discounted prices, old pieces of famous artists and commonly known albums, while he's looking at the posters on the walls, admiring the artistic work of the rustic-looking store. He’s always trailing behind you, and you don't mind because it makes you feel safe and cared for. You didn't know being trailed by an FBI agent could feel so comforting. 

Your eyes catch on a certain record, and you turn around, “Hey, Spencer.” 

He stops eyeing the posters on the wall and turns to you, hair falling over his shoulders adorably. 

“What do you think of this?” 

You're holding a classic black Billy Joel vinyl in your hand, careful not to hold it too tightly. It's his 1977 release of The Stranger, an album you're not too familiar with. You've only listened to Vienna and a few other songs. Spencer eyes the cover carefully like it triggers a memory deep inside his brain. You're expecting him to go on a tangent about Billy Joel and 70s music, but you're instead met by a very sentimental response. 

“My mom loved that one.” 

He's quiet, using that careful but lost tone of voice, and you worry that you accidentally triggered something unpleasant. You knew Spencer had a complicated relationship with his parents, namely his mother. On the rare occasion where he had a few too many drinks, he spilled a lot more than he intended to. Drunk Spencer was always so painfully honest and you admired how easily his filter would come off a few drinks in, but you never wanted him to feel embarrassed by it. On those particularly emotional nights— after he calls you to pick him up because he's too drunk to drive— you would listen to him ramble the whole drive to your apartment, force him to stay over so you can take care of his pounding headache in the morning, and hold him until he passes out on your couch like a partying college student. 

Something he’s never been before.

Those incidents have led you to know more about Spencer than he ever thought he could share, and one of those sensitive topics just happens to be his mom. It's not an uncomfortable topic, you've talked about it before when he's not too drunk to realize what's going on. Even though it was hard for him at first, talking about it became easier the more he shared, you understood more and more things without him telling you. 

And because you’ve talked about it, you're not scared of his response when you ask with a lighthearted smile, “is that a bad thing?” 

That seems to bring him back to earth, and he gives you a reassuring smile, “No, not at all, just brought me back to some memories I'd honestly forgotten about.” 

You hold the record to your chest, almost certain that you're going to buy it now, “Well would you like to make some new memories in relation to this record?” 

Would you like to come to my apartment and listen to it with me?

“Yeah, I'd love to.” He smiles in a way that makes you feel a little lightheaded, knowing he's comfortable sharing this much of himself with you. It's so intimate, knowing that in this public store, you're still sharing private moments that no one else knows about.

You’re about to go back to checking out vinyls, trying to conceal the giddy feeling bubbling in your chest, when a high-pitched voice intrudes on the moment you were having with Spencer. 

“Oh my god.” 

You both turn to look at the source of the voice and when you look to Spencer to see what this is about, he looks like he recognizes the source. He looks terrified. Your gaze falls on two blonde girls, one gaping at the sight of you, and the other being the source of the dramatic reaction that broke through the silence a few minutes ago.

Her blonde hair is styled in waves and she's wearing such a colorful, creative ensemble that you're mesmerized by the intricate details of her outfit. The hair clips, the makeup, the platforms that she's wearing, you wanted to talk to this girl so bad. 

And it seems like you're in luck today, because she's immediately rushing to your side with wide mesmerized eyes.

“Wonderboy, you've been hiding her from us for how long exactly?” 

You're guessing “wonderboy” is Spencer since she seems to be his friend and your chest feels warm knowing his friends nickname him such cute things. Spencer deserves to be known for all his good traits after all, and he sure as hell is your boy of wonder. 

“Garcia, please, I'm begging you to act normal about this right now.” He mutters, trying his best to keep this conversation quiet.

She shakes her head, “This is the most normal I can act about you hiding a girl from us.” Then she turns to you again, extending her arm for you to shake. You eagerly extend yours back. “Penelope Garcia, tech analyst at the FBI, and genius boy's co-worker. Oh and, your source for any dirt you want on genius Reid over here.” 

That explains how someone like her is in Spencer's social circle, but it doesn't explain how someone so bubbly could work at such a gloomy unit. Working for the government when she should be at the club? It's a crime to you. 

“They're keeping a gem like you in a dark, creepy room to dig up information for them?” 

You honestly didn't know you could commit such flattery and Spencer is looking at you in disbelief, but she giggles at your poorly concealed flirting and you feel proud of yourself. 

“Oh, wonder boy, how did you ever snag a wonderful girl like her.” 

Spencer is blushing so hard at this point you could probably fry an egg on his face. You're introducing yourself to Penelope, filling her in on your occupation, when the other blonde introduces herself as Jennifer Jareau, JJ for short, and she's even more excited to meet you. 

She's also heavily pregnant, and you hope that she's currently on maternity leave. 

“We were looking for more records that this little guy here could listen to, it's incredibly engaging to include him in our vinyl pick-out process.” JJ rubs her stomach as she explains and you're so fascinated by the idea of childbearing and birth for a few seconds that you almost forget that it's terrifying. 

“What about you guys?” Penelope jumps in, eager to put Spencer on the spot again. 

“Oh we, uh,” Spencer's eyes shift between you and the two girls, like he's surrounded and begging you for help, “we're just checking out the vinyls on sale.” 

“Yeah, I was honestly waiting for these discounts because I'm not selling a kidney for some records, you know?” You step in, hoping to take some heat off Spencer, because the poor boy looks like he’s about to combust.

You're also well aware that the two girls in front of you think you and Spencer are dating, but they haven't said it out loud and Spencer hasn't attempted to correct their assumptions, so why would you be the one to ruin their fun? You'll let them think you're on a date. 

“Oh that's so true,” Penelope nods in understanding, “it's like I just want to listen to music, you know?” 

You nod in understanding, you do know. 

And you also know that you're absolutely going to adore Penelope Garcia and JJ and everyone that you meet who’s involved in Spencer's life. Even though this meetup is so completely unplanned and coincidental, it makes you excited knowing you can prod Spencer about more details now, talking about work in a way that doesn't concern the cases. You’d kill for some office gossip that doesn’t involve yourself.

“Oh, Morgan is going to lose it when he hears about this,” JJ says, almost talking to herself. 

Penelope jumps to add more wood to the forest fire, “Oh my God, remember what he said to Emily? He was right.” That catches Spencer's attention, “what did he say to Emily?” 

“He said that you're all giggly at work because you're in love.” Penelope answers without missing a beat, and she says it so casually, as if she didn't basically strip Spencer naked right in front of you. 

You’re subtly stealing glances at him from the corner of your eye, suppressing a smile at the way he blushes deeply and looks at the ground as if he wants it to swallow him whole right now. Something tells you you're absolutely going to love Penelope and he's going to pay the price for that relationship. 

“Spencer is giggling at work?” You ask, like she just told you he joined a cult.

Penelope nods eagerly, “Oh yeah, I've never seen someone look so cheerful while doing paperwork, every time I'm out of my office for a coffee refill he's just there giggling to himself like he's hearing voices. Except the voices turned out to just be a pretty girl, which I have to say,” she puts her hand over her heart dramatically, “I’m so glad it did.” 

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut, the shame overwhelming him, “I'm begging you to stop talking.” 

Penelope and JJ are giggling, enjoying torturing him like this for your pleasure, and you’re close to joining them, but you choose to stay loyal to Spencer— if only to make sure he doesn’t get a migraine from all this embarrassment. But you're also just giddy, knowing Spencer cannot conceal his infatuation with you to save his life. Despite all the hints here and there that he definitely likes you, and all the discreet touching and staring at your lips when you talk —something you know he can't tell you noticed— the way he doesn't deny any of what's being said tells you that you're, at the very least, a person of interest. 

A person of Spencer's interest. Your smile is getting harder and harder to hide.

“Okay, okay, lovebirds, we'll leave you alone now. But trust me, you haven't heard the end of this, once Derek finds out, oh Spencer Reid, you might never want to step foot in that building ever again.” You nod eagerly, excited to hear more about how they’ll taunt him later on. They give you their rushed goodbyes as Penelope guides JJ outside the store, you can hear her quietly complain about leaving empty-handed when she came all the way, but your mind is someplace else, neurons buzzing with ideas of how to torment Spencer now that you’re alone again.

You turn to look at him, no longer holding back your smile, “so…” 

He immediately puts a finger to your lips, “Don't start.” 

You reach for his hand to move it away, giggling like a schoolgirl, “you're fawning over me at work? Oh my God, Spence, I didn't know you were that far gone, baby.” You hold onto his hand, as a way to restrain him, but also because you just want to hold his hand. 

“I was not fawning, they made it all sound so much worse than it actually was.” You raise your eyebrows at him and he continues, looking more flustered. “I was smiling, can I not smile to myself anymore?” 

You absentmindedly lace your fingers with his, bringing your joint hands to your chest like something precious, “You're smiling like a lovesick fool about me at work, Spencer, you're so fucked.” 

Your amusement is so palpable, and your cheeks hurt from smiling, but there’s also something else there.

Something you haven’t fully experienced before, not its rawness and neediness. Something that you can tell will grow in your chest until it fully conquers your whole body and claims your mind. You don't know what you'll call it yet, but it's something a lot like love. 

“Alright alright, I get it. It's National Embarrassing Spencer day, let's buy this record and get out of here. We have a dinner to get to.” 

The weight of his hand in yours almost made you forget you were still holding the record, handling it so carelessly just to bring him closer. You realize you're drunk on affection, and eager to have more of his attention for the rest of the night. When he doesn't make a move to remove his hand from your hold, only dragging you behind him to check out, you feel like there will be a lot of new developments tonight.

The rest of the night goes as well as you would imagine.

Despite your incessant teasing, you have plenty of conversations that aren't centered around embarrassing Spencer and enjoying it. You sip wine together while he tells you about the letters he's been sending his mom; apparently, he's started telling her about you. While you're surprised he's only just doing it now, he confesses that he wanted to wait until he was sure you'd stay before he made such a decision. Unfortunately, with his line of work, he's right to be worried about things like that, but you stayed anyway, and now his mom knows about you. 

And you have her favorite record in a plastic bag that you carry on the way home. 

When his car pulls up to your building, you're hesitant to get out. You don't feel like the night is over yet. It was lovely and unforgettable, meeting his friends, learning about his mom, and having a very nice dinner together, but you feel like there's still one more topic that needs to be discussed. 

When you don't make a move to get out of the car yet, he calls out your name in concern. You turn to look at him and your gaze is so intense he's almost intimidated.

“Is everything okay?” 

You nod absentmindedly, too lost in trying to figure out what's missing from such a wonderful night. 

“Well, we're here. This is your apartment, you know?” You can tell that's not the sentence he aimed for, but you're aware that Spencer stumbles over his words when he's nervous. You don't fault him for it. 

You give him a genuine smile, “Yeah, I know.” 

Then you're moving to unlock the car door, the newly bought record in your hand, and you get one leg out of the car before you realize exactly what this night is missing. 

“Spencer?” You turn to him, he's already looking at you. 

“Yes?” 

Slowly, carefully, you ask, “would you like to come upstairs?” 

Your apartment is somewhere that he's only seen while extremely drunk, hammered out of his mind. You realize that this is the first time you invite him up when he's actually well enough to walk on his own, and you also realize that it means something to you. You hope it also means something to him. 

“Uh, yeah, sure? If you want me to walk you to your door, I'll definitely do that.” He's picking at the leather covering the wheel, cheeks slightly flushed like they’d been earlier. Multiple times during the night, you note how he’s always glowing red around you like a pulsating organ. Is it the slight chill of the weather or the heat behind your eyes? You hope it’s the latter. 

“I think you know what you want.” 

You weren't sure if he knew, but knowing Spencer, a line like that will trigger him into thinking about it so hard that he'll actually figure it out. You watch the gears turn in his head but he still looks confused, you hope that by the time you get to your door, he'll realize what you're talking about. 

“I'm not sure, but I'll figure it out.” You give him one last smile before you exit the car. 

True to his word, Spencer walks you up to your door after parking his car somewhere close. When you reach the apartment, as you dig for your keys in your purse, he stands next to you, looking a little lost because he clearly didn’t expect this. He fiddles with the ends of his vest while observing you. 

You unlock your door and get inside, leaving it open so he can follow you. You drop your purse on your dining table and lay the record down next to it, watching from the corner of your eye as he steps into your apartment cautiously, like he's stepping over booby traps. 

The door locks and you can't escape the conversation any longer. You also can't bear seeing him so lost, because god blessed him with eyes that make him look like a sad baby deer all the time. And every time he uses them on you, you immediately cave, because letting him suffer feels like letting a baby animal die.

“Spence.” You call, sultry and slow.

If you catch the way he slightly jumps at your voice, you don’t react.

“Yes?” He’s quiet, worried.

You lean back against your table, a relaxed smile on your face, “you know why I brought you here, right?”  

He swallows, tucking his hair behind his ear. “A woman inviting her date up to her apartment could lead to a variety of things, but most commonly it leads to either sexual intercourse or murder.” His cheeks heat up at the words ‘sexual intercourse’ and you want to eat him alive. “And I'm kind of hoping you didn't invite me up here to kill me.” 

You raise an eyebrow, the desire to tease him so strong and unforgiving, “So you hope I'll have sex with you then?” 

That really gets him. His whole face goes red— blood rushing down his neck and up to his ears. He opens his mouth to say something, but he can't. Instead, he just opens and closes it a couple of times, unable to articulate anything. If you were in a different situation, you'd have called him a fish, but you also realize something very critical: he doesn’t deny your previous statement.

“Spencer,” you call his whole name this time, voice low and heavy with something that alarms him further. “Can you come here, please?” 

He hesitantly leaves his spot, taking slow, careful steps to your side. He stands at a considerable distance, making sure he gives you your personal space. If he’d done this at any other time, you’d have been fawning over how considerate he is, but right now you want him as close as possible, personal space be damned. 

Feeling particularly brash, you reach out and pull him closer by a fistful of his shirt. He’s startled, but he lets you move him closer as if he were a rag doll, now you're barely a few inches away from him. Your hand moves to his neck, feeling the warmth that spread there a few minutes ago, the warmth that you caused. If it feels like it's getting warmer under your touch, you don't comment on it. 

It's the first time you've touched him this much, this intimately, and it feels like you've been missing out for the past two years. 

He watches you carefully, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to figure out what you're aiming for. This is probably how he acts at work, you think, staring at something until he’s able to break it open and decipher its message, will he decipher your message too?

You look up at him through long lashes, peering into his eyes, hoping to communicate something with your eyes before you can put it into words. You feel a certain need in your stomach, tying knots and constricting your airways— it's what you guess people would call butterflies. Right now, you'd call it absolutely torture. 

“Spencer.”

It's the third time you've called his name so far, and this time your noses are touching and you practically breathe his name onto his lips. This encourages him to put an arm around your waist and raise the other to cup your face affectionately. You lean into his touch, welcoming the reciprocation.

“I'm here,” his voice is low, more certain now, almost like he figured you out, “you can tell me.” 

You nearly melt in his hands now that he's using that self-assured voice. You love it when he's shy, but god do you adore it when he talks like he knows exactly what to do with you. The things you'd let him do to you would probably get you placed on a watch list, but you don't mind as long as he's the one watching. 

“You know what I want to say, don't you?” 

He blinks, the gold flakes in his eyes so striking when you're this close, “maybe I do, but I'd like to hear you say it.” 

He's in no place to be making such demands. He should be melting in your hands, not the other way around. You shouldn't be getting this weak at the knees just because he's using that stupid husky tone, sounding like he knows all your secrets. But, fuck, he absolutely knows all your secrets. He could probably read you like an open book— which you actually wouldn't mind at all because you've seen the way his hands stroke the pages when he's reading, and you'd love for those fingers to be all over you like they're all over those stupid books.

Your eyes glaze over with desire and you're getting impatient, while he watches you like he's studying your next move. Goddamn profilers and their dirty work. He should be getting dirty with you.

You mutter a quiet fuck and step back to separate your bodies; even though there's no place to go because the table is right there, you're at least not directly face to face anymore. His warm breath on your lips was driving you insane, and you brought him up here to talk, you needed to have this conversation. For your sanity. 

He gives you space, because he's always been so caring and so perceptive about what you need, and the gesture makes you want to bounce on him. You have to remind yourself that if you keep thinking with your lower regions, this will be a counterproductive night.

You realize you can't do this while standing up, so you hoist yourself up on the table, and wiggle around till you get comfortable. Your trench coat isn't bending to your will and it takes you some more shuffling to beat it down. You really should've taken it off when you stepped in through the door. 

The sound of Spencer's chuckle makes you realize that he's still here and he's very much observing your embarrassing fight with a trench coat. Your cheeks feel warm, but this is not the most shameful thing you've done tonight, and you're probably aiming to beat that record anyway. 

“Don't laugh at me,” you mutter, embarrassed but smiling. 

“Okay,” he laughs, “I won't.” 

“God, you're such a liar. Is everybody at the FBI full of lies?” 

He shrugs, “Depends on who you ask.” 

You laugh and you're so in awe at how all the stress leaves your body so easily when he's talking to you, it makes you wonder why the hell you can't just say it. One sentence, something he already knows, something anyone would probably know by observing you for five minutes, it should be easy. But as obvious as it is, you're also well aware that once you say it, it becomes real. And you can't escape It. You can't pretend like it's something casual between you if you get your heart broken, or if he feels like you're moving too fast. The minute those words are out of your mouth, you'll have to confront the reality of your situation. 

And you're scared. 

You're scared that once you say those words and it becomes a real living thing, you could actually lose Spencer. You could get into an argument later and it ruins everything between you, or he could fall out of love, or you could fall out of love. There are so many bad endings to a relationship and the possibilities make you hesitate. 

Spencer must've noticed that you're taking a while to speak, that you're too busy stressing out about it, because he comes close again (leaving enough space for the holy spirit this time) to gently hold your hand. It works like he intends it to. The skin-to-skin contact is grounding and you relax a little, wishing you could just melt into him and never have to go through any uncomfortable conversations.

But when you look up at him, and you're met with the familiar trustworthy eyes of the guy who has been your god-given solace for months now, you wonder how the hell you could ever rethink taking a chance on him. 

Even if the risk is terrifying and you're scared of ruining things, you know Spencer would be worth the try. Plus, fantasizing about a reality where it works out and you get married in a few years is actually much more fun than thinking about impending doom. 

You don't want the world to end before you tell Spencer the raw truth of your feelings, and not through subtle gestures or sneaky glances, you want him to hear the whole thing. 

You squeeze his hand for one final reassurance. He smiles and squeezes your hand back. 

“Spencer, I've got something very important to tell you.” 

Slow and stead. 

“I'm listening.” 

You lick your lips. 

“Okay well, remember how I told you a few months ago that there were currently no guys who were interested in me?” 

He nods.

“Well, I lied.” 

He raises his eyebrows, amused at the route you're taking, “oh yeah?” 

You nod, swallowing heavily, “Yeah, yes. There was this… guy at my job, he doesn't work there anymore because he got transferred because of ‘new chances’ or whatever, but he was working with me this time last year, you know? Anyways, he'd get really close to me whenever we were handling the same task, not in a sexual harassment way but in an ‘I have a crush on you’ way. And I realized that he was interested in me because he kept dropping hints and I'm, surprisingly, not that oblivious. I can tell when a guy likes me. He actually asked me out once to this new donut place near the office, but I declined because he has really bad table manners to be honest and, god I'm glad he's not working with us anymore because he'd hog all the coffee and we could barely find anything to drink by the end of the day— but that's not the only reason I rejected him, I actually rejected him because… because I couldn't imagine going out with anyone else who wasn't you, and I guess what I'm trying to say is- that's when I realized that I like you, Spencer. And I've liked you for almost a year now.” 

You're out of breath by the time it's all out, but incredibly relieved. You look up at Spencer and he has this amused twinkle in his eyes and a very dumb smug smirk on his face. Once you're fully and completely done with your little speech, the first thing he does is laugh.

You're so offended you immediately take your hand away from his and slap his chest, “Don't fucking laugh, I just confessed my feelings for you.” You hit him some more, but he won't stop laughing, “Spencer, this is so fucking rude, oh my god, just reject me like a lady if you're going to mock me like this.” 

He catches your hand before you land another weak punch on his arm, and you have very little time to react before he reaches forward, cupping your face with his other hand and joining your lips for a long-awaited kiss. 

You've fantasized about the way he kisses for a very long time. After you’d heard about his little make-out session with that actress in the pool, it took everything in your body to resist asking him to take you next. You've thought about kissing him nearly every night when you were falling asleep, he was even haunting some of your dreams like a fiend, kissing you like his life depended on it, only for you to wake up to the cruel, harsh reality of never having kissed Spencer Reid.

But that reality is different now. 

He uses both his hands to cup your face and angles your head just right to get as much contact as possible. He tastes like the wine you've been drinking all night and smells like cedar wood and sage. God, even when kissing you he has to smell like a perfect little herbal garden? You'd get mad at him if his lips moving against yours weren't melting away every ounce of sophistication you have in your body. 

You use the chance to be greedy and reach your hand into his hair, making sure to mess it up so that there’s proof that you were here, in his arms, kissing him. 

He's sweet with his kiss, despite knowing you both waited for it for so long, he doesn't push you to go further even though you'd love for him to. You'd let him take you on this table right now.

But the absolute worst thing about Spencer is that he's so respectful that he pulls away after a few seconds to watch for your reaction. He's flushed with desire and his eyes have gone dark in a way that you've only seen when he was really angry. You can tell that he's restraining himself to not make you uncomfortable. His eyes scan your face eagerly, his hands resting on either side of your face.

“God, you're so… ridiculous.” 

The comment is so unexpected that you laugh, and the sexual tension seems to ease into just… sexual existence. “Hey, what's that for? You're going to kiss a girl and then immediately insult her?” 

His smile mirrors yours, “my apologies, your highness. I have just never heard such a ridiculous confession in my life before.” 

You frown, lips curling into a pout, “not true, that actress in the pool had a ridiculous confession too.” She didn't, but you never fully got over her kissing Spencer before you could. 

“Oh yes, I'm sorry, I forget about any other woman when I'm with you.” Then he plants a quick kiss on your lips with a poorly concealed smile, and you can just tell that he's going to be doing that a lot to get away with whatever bullshit he's spewing. 

“You’re unbelievable, Spencer Reid.” 

Then you’re kissing him again, craving more of what he gave you during the first kiss. The desperation for contact has you pulling him closer by his collar, leaning into the kiss like you were starving before him. When he finally slips his tongue into your mouth, you moan so pathetically it makes his grip around you tighten, body drawing impossibly closer to yours.

You're kissing for such an extended period of time that you're dizzy from the lack of air when he pulls away, and you're greeted by that lovely shade of crimson on his face. You desperately want to find out just how red he can get and in what other places.

You're admiring his face, lost in the haze of the kiss, and chewing absentmindedly on your lips when you suddenly remember something very important. You draw back a little to shoot him a very serious look. 

“Hey, you never said you liked me back.” 

He laughs in disbelief, “do I have to?” 

You nod like a petulant child, seriously alarmed.

He playfully rolls his eyes, “alright, I like you too,” he kisses you, “I like you a lot actually.” 

You're satisfied with that answer, melting into his touch again, like a helpless pet. You admire the post-makeout look that adorns his face and makes him more beautiful than you could ever imagine, and he gazes at you with stars in his eyes. For a while, it feels like the universe belongs to the two of you and no one else. 

Until you remember how late it is and the fact that Spencer actually works tomorrow, then you're not that happy anymore. 

“What's wrong?” He asks, nose rubbing against yours as if you could ever focus on anything when he's that close. 

“You have work tomorrow, and it's very late…” 

He draws back from you, as if broken out of the trance by your words, “Oh no, you're right.” He's starting to move away when something inside you kicks in and suddenly your legs are flying to lock around his waist to secure him in place. He raises his eyebrows at you, amused and surprised.

“You can't do this.” 

You nod your head menacingly, “oh yes I can.” You know he could easily break out of your hold if he really wanted to, but the fact that he's entertaining your antics tells you that he's not very eager to leave either. 

“Angel, I have to go to work in the morning. Like an adult with responsibilities, you know?” 

If you were in your right mind, you'd be offended at that comment, but he's just kissed you senselessly and then called you ‘angel’ for the very first time. No one could blame you for not being very wise. 

“You can still go to work in the morning, you just... don't have to leave right now.” 

“You want me to stay? Here?” You nod. “My love, you don't even have a change of clothing that can fit me.” 

“Then sleep naked. I won't complain.” 

He laughs, “What about a toothbrush? You don't have an extra one for me.” 

“I change my toothbrush once every three months and I always buy extra, so I do actually have a completely sealed, never used before brush that you can use. It will be yours from now on.” 

He shakes his head in disbelief but you can tell he's starting to budge, your technique is working. 

Plus there's the unsaid promise that, if he stays, there will be a lot more kissing going on. 

“And you want me to go to work tomorrow in this same outfit?” 

“Mhm, we'll hang it and it will be just fine.” 

“I don't have my badge with me, I can't go to work without my badge.” 

You scoff. “Then wake up early and drive by your place, stop creating irrelevant problems, Spencer.” 

He’s in disbelief at your brazenness but seems to cave in anyway. “Fine, yeah, I'll stay.” 

You smile, very proud of yourself, “yes you will.” 

At this point, you're aware that your leg is still around his waist, and you're holding him in place like you took him hostage, but you honestly don't feel like letting him go just yet. Months of pining for him like a lovesick fool, you think you deserve to relish in the power you exert over him. He seems to notice the hunger for power in your eyes because he's coming closer again, placing his hands on either side of your thighs. 

“You have other plans for me tonight, don't you?” He's using that husky tone again and looking at you with glazed-over hazel eyes. Like a predator hunting its prey. 

You place your arms around his neck, back where they belong, “and if I do? Will you punish me, officer?” 

His warm breath fans over your lips and you're shaking to your core with anticipation, “I don't know, maybe I will.” 

Then he puts an end to all your antagonizing conversations that are distracting you from more important matters by bringing you in for another eager kiss. You take all of him in, the stubborn grip he has on your face, the teeth clashing when he shifts your positions, the low moan he releases when you pull on his hair — you take everything he gives you with eagerness and hunger. You could swallow him up whole right now if you could. 

When he pulls away to take a breath and you're confronted by his disheveled face once more, you realize that there are a lot of things you're going to do to him tonight. You realize that it’s going to be a good while before either of you goes to sleep.

[richiehugs]

Some of you might have been wondering what has happened to Giorgos and his updates.

On the one hand, I didn't have much free-time to organize. On the other hand, there was really nothing to give you an update about. But here is a little update with some more "successfull" screenshots.

So, he reached his peak of 95 kilos / 210 or so pounds in mid May. But, he was planning to do a trip to the monastery on the Athos Peninsula. He had the trip on the last days of May, walking for hours under the scarching Greek sun, with little food and no alcohol near. Looks like he rapidly lost 5 kilos / 10-12 pounds, reaching his "ideal" weight of 90 kilos / 200 pounds. The first four pictures are from early June, around this weight.

Then, he found himself a new job and passion - construction. That's right, he started to work at his father's housing company, building houses and apartements with his two hands. He also had to move to Athens, but he keeps visiting home back to his village on the Peloponnese. Pictures 5-6 are from this time, late June-early July. New environment, without mama's cooking, and the little time to eat made him lose another 5 kilos / 10 pounds, falling back to 85 kilos / 188-190 pounds. Then he vanished from socials (I thought he had a love affair, but he stayed single whatever happened).

The last four screens are rather recent (mid July). He seems to have accomodated to the new environment, seems to have figured things out, and I'm positive he got confident enough to "care about his body" some more. He is allegedly still 85 kilos, he looks kinda proud of his weight loss (he brags about him to anyone calling him fatty - 10 kilos in less than two month is still quite impressive - I'm afraid he gets too cocky about it and will keep up "dieting"), but he still won't give up on the belly.

To be honest, his ten kilo weight loss hardly shows. Of course, that belly would look a lot softer and a lot more like Giorgos, but he still has a lot of it. He has finally found himself a passion, and hopefully it's just a question of time till the late-night gyro-runs start to show. It's also the middle of the hottest summer ever recorded in Greece, and don't forget that he is a physical worker now - I actually find it surprising he didn't go lower than where he is now, and that he is still looking out of shape. Somehow his muscles don't seem to develop, maybe because of the inappropriate diet he is following.

And you know what this means? Instability. He has no balance. His body knows that it can't go lower and has to keep storing the amount of bodyfat he is having. And I'm counting on that as soon as summer is over, his hunger will grow (as people are bilogically installed to craving less energy during the summer and more in the winter). As we know him, he won't probably be able to hold himself back, especially during the holidays. You remember how he ballooned up to 95 kilos before Christmas? And he didn't even care.

Anyway, this might mean less updates until something interesting happens (e.g. no more constructions for a while / going back to a sedentary lifestyle, getting homemade meals, probably a girlfriend who can cook for him?). I still have some "material" to post if anyone is interested but it would take some time and patience to make it publishable.

[roosterbruiser]

blurb idea: everyone joking and asking Bradley how he's surviving bc he only has daughters but then you see Bradley at home painting nails, having a tea party, pretending to be at a fashion show, engaging in 5 different conversations. All that in one afternoon. And he's just so happy the entire time and can't wait to do it again 🥲

can be read as part of the Landslide universe :)

Rooster is a girl dad. it isn't even just his energy--it's a legitimate fact. first there was Olive, then there was Joni. the two of you thought for sure that the third was going to be a boy, not that it mattered either way--so imagine your surprise when you had Finch; your third daughter. and when the two of you agreed one more baby, not even in hopes of a son but just to complete your family, you were blessed with two more girls: Opal and June.

it was all the buzz around base, when Rooster came back from paternity leave a few months ago, everyone mockingly taking a knee when he entered the room like he was some sort of battle hero.

it's something Rooster is chided about relentlessly, even now. everyone falls you and your daughters the hens, calling all your get-togethers hen parties, asking how he survives the estrogen of it all. it gets especially brutal when his commander or a student points out the leftover glitter in his hair or the tutu someone snuck in his work duffel. there was also that one time he forget to take off his nail polish before work--boy, did the man have a heyday with that one.

Rooster takes it all in stride, though, happily wearing homemade ties to work and presenting scrawled drawings. he has hardly any elbow room on his desk because of all the frames that clog it.

it's a regular Wednesday in the middle of September as Rooster walks up the path to your front door, but it feels like the first day of summer to him. the sun is shining, the birds are singing, the flowers are blooming. and inside the house, he can hear the chaos that has been brewing all day: Olive trying to stop Joni from abusing the piano and failing, Finch following you around the house and asking you about caterpillars again, Opal babbling, June crying, your steady voice, the radio playing Born in the U.S.A again (no doubt at Olive's request), the dogs whining for dinner.

it's really music to his ears.

"daddy's home!" he hears you call as he stuffs his key in the lock.

and when he swings the door open, he's knee-deep in all of it. Olive, the oldest and the most coordinated, is dodging everyone to spring over to Rooster. she takes her spot on his left leg, hugging him to her body, immediately trying to tattle on Joni for abusing Grandpa Goose's piano. Finch makes it to him second, less-coordinated and not wearing anything except a diaper and one of his neckties, a toothy grin cutting her face as she reached up for her dad. and once he's holding her, patting Olive's head in greeting as he kisses Finch's ruddy cheeks, Joni has planted herself firmly on his other leg.

you're steadily making your way to him, too, the weight of the world slipping off your shoulders as he kisses all his girls hello.

"daddy said you're not supposed to smash the keys!" Olive insists, incredulous.

Joni screws up her face, sticking her tongue out at Olive.

"I wasn't!" she insists. "daddy, Olive's lying!"

"gotta be careful with the piano," he says, patting Olive's tawny hair, then Joni's. he can hardly hear their bickering above the blasting radio. "how many times has this song played today?" he asks with a grin.

Finch takes it upon herself to answer, having recently learned numbers. she stuffs her sticky hand in Rooster's face, holding up five fingers proudly.

"five?" he asks, eyebrows raised. he kisses her little palms and she giggles at the way his mustache tickles her skin. "you girls torturing your mama when I'm not here?"

"and Opal didn't nap today," you add with a deep heave, bouncing the twins on your hips as they each mouth your sleeves, blinking up at you with their daddy's big, brown eyes. "and June had a blowout, and Finch is a nudist. Joni tried to drink out of the dog's bowl again. and the dog got into your office and found your stash of Reese's, which you were hiding from me."

"sorry, baby," Rooster insists.

"after everything I've given you?" you tease, nodding to his armful of girls and yours. "I'm offended!"

"I think I helped a little," Rooster teases.

standing before him now, you smile despite yourself. Rooster's still grinning, leaning forward to press a kiss to your lips before taking the twins from you, holding them both with one arm. he hopes he can always hold all of his girls at once, even though he knows it's not something that will stick around forever.

"just a little," you tell him, stretching your taut body out now that your child-free.

"what about me?" Olive pouts, tugging your pant leg. "what did I do?" she asks.

always wanting to be involved.

"you, little miss, made me play Bruce Springsteen all day!" you tell her, bending at the hips to stroke her cheek.

she grins at that, nodding proudly.

"yeah, I did," she confirms, blinking up at Rooster. "I love Bruce Springsteen!"

"you're a weird little kid," Rooster tells her with a teasing grin. "who raised you?"

she grins up at him, one of her front teeth missing.

"you!" she confirms.

"got me there," Rooster sighs. "I love Bruce Springsteen, too!"

Opal and June are already pressing their gummy little mouths to Rooster's chest, taking fistfuls of his mustache and t-shirt. your arms feel decidedly empty for the first time today, which you always look forward to, but never thoroughly enjoy.

"time's the tea party?" Rooster asks, leaving lingering kisses to the top of the twin's heads as Finch picks through his hair a la baby monkey searching for bugs.

"now!" Joni insists, untying his shoe.

Olive's batting Joni's hands, trying to get her to quit it, and Joni is growling at Olive.

"no being feral," you warn the both of them, pointing an accusing finger at Joni. "let daddy at least get through the door before you growl, huh?"

"but mommy," Joni whines, throwing her head back dramatically. "I'm a puppy dog!"

"you're just Joni," Olive insists, lips pursed. "this is real life."

"hey," Rooster warns, glancing down at Olive. "who made you the pretend police?"

Olive doesn't have an answer, just looking up at her dad with slanted brows and parted lips. ever the most exasperated, serious older sister in the world.

"she's been really into realism today," you tell Rooster, crossing your arms over your chest. "Jake shouldn't have let her watch Life of Pi."

Rooster starts to walk forward with a great effort, grunting as he glides across the foyer with an extra hundred pounds of giggling weight.

as he trudges through the foyer with great effort, his shirt now wet with baby slobber and his curls mussed from grubby fingers and his shoelaces unties, you watch him affectionately. anyone in the world can look at him like this, with that grin splitting his lips and that laugh sitting in his throat, and know that this is what he's meant for.

"c'mon, mama," he calls to you, glancing over his shoulder. "can't be late for the tea party!"

"with real tea," Olive clarifies, shooting you a thumbs up. "but fake cucumber sandwiches!" then she shoots you a thumbs down for affect.

"m'coming," you sigh dreamily, locking the door. "chamomile or jasmine?"

[blueshistorysims]

June 1938, Henford-on-Bagley, England

The first immediate thought Byron had when he finished reading the letter was to call his sister. Exactly ten seconds later, the phone started ringing.

“Did Mama send you a letter?” 

He snorted. “Ironically, I was about to call and ask the same question.”

“Five years we have been estranged, and now she’s suddenly apologizing? She must be really dying.”

“Don’t be crude, Giselle.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t agree with me.”

He was quiet for a moment. “...I plan to go to Malvern Hills next weekend. I’ll go this Saturday so the kids don’t miss school. I want to make amends.”

“I don’t. Do you know how relieving it is not to have the burdening weight of your mother knowing she is disgusted and ashamed of you? You forgive too easily. Montgomery-”

“Giselle,” Byron warned. 

She huffed. 

“...I understand your feelings, but this may be the last time we ever see her. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Twenty, thirty years ago, she was just our mother, and I loved her. So did you.”

Giselle was silent, long enough for Byron to think she had hung up, but then she sighed heavily. “Alright. Fucking bastard. I’ll go. Alone,” she said bluntly and without another word, she hung up.

Byron set down the phone and walked out of his office to see Eleora walking into the library. She immediately noted his downcast expression and gave him a puzzled look.

“What is it?”

He sighed. “I was just on the phone with Giselle. We both got a letter from our mother.”

“Your mother? The one who’s ignored all your calls and letters since she learned you had homosexual leanings? That Rebecca Walsh?”

“I only have one mother, so yes.”

“What does she want?”

“She’s dying, and she wants to make amends.”

[cowgurrrl]

Hey June; could I ask for mother’s day in the Miller household? With Joel, Sarah, Ellie, and Sammy doing something nice to surprise you? Just all the kids and Joel being such a wife guy and showering his wife with love, I need it 🤍

Saph!! Thank you for the request 🩷Sorry this took literally forever but here it is!!

Hey Me, Hey Mama

Pairing: rockstar!joel miller x actress!reader

Summary: Mother’s Day [1.7k]

Warnings: fluff, brief mention of breastfeeding, talks of having another baby, Sam and Daisy being Hell Raisers

You hear the whispering outside your door before you can open your eyes. It sounds a lot like Joel and the girls having a hushed argument while Sam jiggles the door knob underneath their noses, his favorite thing to do since he's started walking. You smile and roll so your back is to the door and pretend to be asleep as quiet footsteps enter the room. Joel's side of the bed dips with his weight, and a gentle hand smoothes the hair out of your face a moment later. 

"Hey," he says gently, and you hum. "There's a surprise for you." You blink your eyes open to find Sam in Ellie's arms at the edge of your bed while Sarah carefully slides a tray full of breakfast on your bedside table. Eggs, bacon, a little bit of toast, and a huge Starbucks coffee with little cards tucked under the plate fill the tray, and you smile. 

"Happy Mother's Day." The girls say in unison as Sam babbles along, trying his best to keep up with his sisters. You turn to look at Joel and see a huge bouquet of flowers in his hands. 

"Happy Mother's Day." He echoes. You sit up, giving Sam enough reason to wiggle away from Ellie and into your bed. 

"Oh, thank you, guys," you say as Sam collapses into your chest with all his toddler weight, making himself laugh. "D'you guys make this all by yourselves?" 

"Dad helped," Sarah answers, and Ellie slaps her arm. "I mean, yes."

"One job," Joel mumbles under his breath next to you, and you laugh.

"Well, thank you to everyone who made this. It looks amazing." You say as you hold Sam with one hand and grab the food tray with the other. Sammy snuggles into your side, occasionally reaching for a piece of egg which you give him until he decides he's actually hungry and all but rips your shirt trying to nurse. Thankfully, neither the girls nor Joel gives you a second glance. After almost a full year of breastfeeding, they're used to it and really don't care when or how you feed Sam so long as he's not screaming. They fall right back into their conversation as they lay in between you and Joel in bed. 

For being as old as they are, the girls never miss an opportunity to crawl into bed with you and Joel like they're little kids again. You love it, especially since you didn't get to make those memories when the girls were little and press kisses to their foreheads whenever you feel like it. Joel observes the organized chaos quietly, snapping candid photos of you four every once in a while and relishing in the slow morning with his family. 

You finish your breakfast and open the cards from the girls and even one that Sam scribbled in. Ellie gives you a beautiful drawing of one of the pictures she took in the hospital after Sam was born, and Sarah writes a heartfelt message in your card that makes you cry. Sam, ever the cuddly boy, rests his head under your chin once he's done eating and sighs contentedly, making you feel like your heart could burst. Joel catches it and smiles at you over the kid's heads. 

At some point, Daisy comes crashing in and gets Sam all riled up and wanting to play. Ellie throws Sam over her shoulder and leaves the room with Daisy trailing closely behind, ready to run around the backyard like her life depends on it, and Sarah grabs the now empty tray to take it back downstairs. "We'll be down in just a second, okay?" Joel calls after them. 

"No funny business with our mom!" Ellie yells, making you choke on your laughter, and Joel's jaw drops.

"She's my wife!"

"Yeah, but she's my mom!"

"She's got a point," you chime in, and Joel rolls his eyes.

"Would y'all just go play or somethin'?" Joel says, and you can hear their laughter even after they close the door behind them. He huffs as he turns toward you, but you're still laughing at the whole encounter. He melts at the sight of the smile on your face and leans forward to kiss you. "Hi," he says against your lips.

"Hi," you say back, resting a hand on his chest and cuddling into his warmth. "Thank you for my breakfast."

"'M glad it wasn't a complete disaster."

"The coffee definitely helped." 

"Yeah, I figured it would," he breathes. "It's a miracle Ellie didn't burn down the house."

"She's learning." You say, and he nods, but the scarred look on his face tells you everything you need to know. You glance over his shoulder to get a better look at the flowers he brought you and smile when you recognize the petals. It's a bouquet of the kids' birth flowers. Granted, their birth flowers are pretty easy to remember considering how similar they all are. Sarah was born in July, making hers a waterlily, and Ellie and Sam were both born in May, making theirs a lily. There are lots of little filler flowers like Baby's Breath and some pretty ferns, but the lilies really stand out. Thank God you don't have cats. Joel catches you looking at them and chuckles.

"The florist thought I was fuckin' with her when I asked for that many lilies. Had to explain my whole idea to her." He says, and you laugh.  

"They're beautiful," you say. "But you really didn't have to do anything."

"I wanted to. You deserve to be celebrated," he says like you just said the most incredulous thing to him. "Plus, this is your first Mother's Day with Sammy. I wanted to make it special." You're about to argue that, technically, Sammy was there last Mother's Day, you were just pregnant, but you stop at the love-stricken look on his face. Who are you to argue when he's staring at you like that? You kiss him again.

"Thank you." You mumble, and he smiles.

"You haven't even gotten your big present yet." 

"Joel-"

"Let me spoil you, please. You deserve it, and not just because you pushed Sam's big ass head out but because of how good of a mom you are to the girls." He cuts you off, and you sigh. He's not wrong, but still, motherhood doesn't feel like something to be spoiled over. It feels like something you just do, and hope everyone gets through life with the least amount of trauma. Even if you said this to Joel, he would argue and probably go on a long tangent about how important you are to the kids, and you'd probably cry. Stupid Libra, you think. Always making me emotional.

Before either of you can say anything else, he pulls a little box from his pocket and hands it to you. It's not dissimilar to the box your engagement ring hid in for months, and for a second, you think about joking that you're already married. But when you open it, a stunning cluster of gems gleams back at you. A ruby and two emeralds shining against a gold band to represent your three kids in order of their births. "I thought it'd be nice to have a reminder of them when you go back to work," Joel says, and you smile. How is he so fucking thoughtful? Carefully, you take the ring out of the box to look at it a little closer. The kid's initials are engraved inside the band as a little secret for you, but something near the gemstones catches your eye. 

"What's this?" You ask, pointing to the empty spot near Sam's birthstone.

"Oh, I asked the guy to leave a space, just in case." 

"In case what?" You know the answer. You just want to hear him say it. He blushes and fiddles with his wedding ring.

"In case we decide to have another baby." He says, and you smile. Sam will be one next week, flying through milestones like it's nothing. Sarah is in grad school, doing amazing things, and Ellie is getting ready to finish up her last few semesters of undergrad. Everyone's growing up too fast, and you've both been caught by the other looking at old pictures of the kids. Still, you haven't formally discussed the idea of having another baby until right now. You look down and turn the ring so the morning sun can hit the stones at different points before meeting Joel's eyes again.

"Another baby, huh?" You ask.

"Would it be the worst thing in the world if there was another Miller walkin' around?" 

"We may never sleep again," you say. "But no, I don't think it'd be a bad thing. I think it'd be pretty cool."

"Yeah?" He asks, and you nod, giddy smiles overtaking you two. You probably look crazy, but you can't care about it when your mind is running fast with images of Sam holding a baby, being a big brother, and teaching them things. Joel hovers over you, his chest pressing against yours, and you slide your hand into his hair. "You're serious?" He whispers.

"Yeah. Three was never my favorite number anyways." You shrug like you're talking about apples instead of humans, and he laughs. 

"Well, alright," he says. "Let's have another baby." Hearing the words out loud makes you giggle, but the sound is cut short when he kisses you. It's tender and sweet until it's not, his teeth grazing your bottom lip and swiping the pain away with his tongue. Your hand finds its way up Joel's shirt, your fingertips tracing the hard lines of muscle formed over years of playing sold-out shows. He's barely ducked his head to kiss down your neck and chest when a door slams from downstairs, and you hear the girls shouting about something.

"Dad! Sam took off his diaper, and Daisy won't drop it!" Ellie yells, and Joel groans into your skin.

"Just a minute!" 

"Now!" Ellie and Sarah scream at the same time. The sound of the faucet running, Sam screeching with laughter, and the girls yelling at Daisy fill the previously peaceful house, and Joel gives you a look. 

"It's all you, Dad." You say, and he sighs.

"Why me?"

"Because it's Mother's Day."

"That," he starts but can't come up with an argument. "Is true," he kisses you again before standing up and walking to the door. With a hand on the knob, he turns back around and points at you. "Don't go anywhere."

"Wouldn't dream of it, cowboy."

[botmilf]

The sparkling on Botmom's head is too cute, imagine a litter of them following her around the base, seeing her as a playmate. What would she do with the little bitlets? ^_^

OMG LIKE LITTLE DUCKLINGS LOL

Like imagine this video right but instead of ducklings it's Wyatt with a little group of Sparklings lol.

She'd seek out Ratchet's help when it comes to fueling time, and you better believe she calls June because at the very least she has experience with babies.

At first it's a whole ordeal, but once Team Prime gets in the swing of things, it becomes as if the Sparklings have been around the whole time.

Sooner or later they start referring to Wyatt as "mama/mom" (and this is mostly Miko's fault because she only ever calls Wyatt "Botmom") but Wyatt thinks it's cute so she doesn't mind being mama.

On her days off work, Wyatt integrates the Sparklings into her weight lifting routine. Sparklings are heftier than human babies, and so she lifts them as a replacement for barbells--which they LOVE and will keep them occupied for the entirety of her workout, which allows Ratchet a nice break.

There's one particular Sparkling that's really shy and will scream if anyone but Wyatt picks her up, which Ratchet surmises is because the Sparkling has possibly imprinted on her. It's a bit odd considering the fact that Wyatt isn't Cybertronian, but it's still possible. Usually Sparklings who have imprinted on someone (usually their creator/carrier or sire) will be ESPECIALLY clingy to that person during their first years to where they won't even let anyone else fuel them, let alone hold them. That being said, imprinting doesn't always occur even on a creator or sire and so the fact that it happened with Wyatt is crazy--and frustrating because when she's gone to work or has to leave the room for ANY reason, this particular Sparkling is inconsolable until she gets back.

Luckily, imprinting can be reversed, though not without some tampering with lines of code. It's not a painful process, nor is it traumatic. But it is a LONG process than takes months.

Eventually, the little Sparkling becomes more independent and social, and Wyatt can actually sleep without having a twenty-pound metal baby's helm laying against her boob all night.

One thing the Sparklings like to do is get into Wyatt's clothing drawer. Her shirts are so soft and they've never felt material like that before! It's cute...until one of them toddles into the main area of the silo waving her bra around and screaming triumphantly.

[dottiep]

Just Let Me Try

Fandom: Mean Girls (2024)

Pairing: Regina George/Janis Imi'ike

Chapter 12: Love the Light That Brings the Smile

Summary: June steps up; a trip gets planned; an award gets acknowledged.

While Regina was at school one day, June had some of her guy friends (all gay, of course, because June George loves her gays) come over in the morning and move the gym to the basement in preparation for the delivery that was coming.

June was glad that they could make use of some of the empty space in the large, fully finished basement. Once Regina’s dad moved out a few years ago, June had his (extra stupid) man cave dismantled. The treadmill and yoga gear were set up in one area with a larger section cleared for the delivery; she was able to give Regina a space of her own to recover in the best way possible.

She may have gone a little overboard on the Rogue Fitness website, and it may have been obvious that she was overcompensating, but she didn’t care; she wanted to finally be there for Regina. That afternoon, the delivery came, and the Rogue team set up the power rack, weights, bench, barbells — everything that Regina needed to regain her strength. June felt like a proud mama and couldn’t wait to show her daughter. 

Regina got home from school, and Janis was with her, unsurprisingly to June, which made her smile.

Read on AO3

[picky-and-corrupted-picky]

Hi there! I'm Picky Piggy!

And I'm Corrupted Picky Piggy.

I'm part of the Smiling Critters!

I'm part of the Smiling Psychopaths.

OG account: @dragonsgirl572

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This is Picky talking.

This is Picky doing something.

This is Corrupted Picky talking.

((This is Mod talking!))

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Go hang out with my friends!

DogDay - @that-sunny-pup

Kickin' - @the-cool-chicken

Bubba - @bubba-bubbaphant

Hoppy - @hoppyhopscotch1

Crafty - @the-crafty-unicorn

Bobby - @bobbybearhugs-blog

Catnap - @acat-foryournap and/or @catnaplovesnaptime

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I wouldn't call them friends, but...

Twisted!Bubba and Violent!Kickin - @smiling-psychopaths

Lovesick!Bobby - @protective-mama-bear

Emotionless!Crafty - @emotionless-craftycorn

Poison!Hoppy - @jumptothemoon

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RULES!

-I know this is a Picky blog, but please no weight-related jokes or anything similar to that. I'm struggling with weight-related issues.

-NO INAPPROPRIATE COMMENTS!!! I AM A MINOR!!!

-Please don't be too rude. Don't make fun of anyone, please.

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ALSO!

-> I do have marching band from around June-ish to to the beginning of November, so I won't update as often during those times.

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If ya wanna catch up with the lore, go to these links!

Evil Picky: Round One

How it started.

How it ended.

Evil Picky: Round Two

Picky meeting Twisted!Bubba for the first time!

Picky joining Twisted!Bubba.

Tag with CatNap!

CP talking to Picky in their shared mind.

Twisted!Bubba's successfully separates the Pickys!

Why are there two Pickys?

Evil(?) Picky: Round Three

Aren't you hungry, Picky?

What's wrong with Picky?

Just... one... bite...

She did it...!

CP finds out.

Realization.

CP confronts Picky.

The cabin.

Picky destroys her pendant.

Anu meets Picky.

Medic and Picky talk.

Picky's... death.

Extra:

Picky meeting Lola for the first time.

Blood...

Just a thought.

Hit by a rock?

Old universe?

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Doing this ask game!

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Love, Napoleon!: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Can’t Take My Eyes Off You

Rating: Mature, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Napoleon Solo x Black!OFC

Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

Word Count: 2.1K

Series Summary: Love letters can only do so much, sometimes you need a grand romantic gesture. This is the love story of Napoleon “Leon” Solo and Roberta “Bobbie” Collins.

Summary: Napoleon Solo becomes smitten with Roberta Collins after she moves into his apartment building. He helps her get settled in more ways than one.

Warnings: oral sex (f receiving), emotion winning over logic, mutual pining, updated with each chapter

A/N: Napoleon has me in a chokehold right now. Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best. 

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics (envelope), @saradika (hearts)

Support/Reblog banner by me

Series Masterlist

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June 1967

The first time she sets eyes on Napoleon Solo, she is walking up the stairs of her apartment building holding a moving box. The narrow walkway was just the right kind of tight for him to have to grab her hips to squeeze by, apologizing and offering a sly smirk as he made it around her. She swings around to give him an earful but misjudges the weight of the box in her arms and starts to fall into him. 

He nimbly catches the box in one arm as she lets go, wrapping the other arm around her waist. She is so shocked that she lingers a moment too long with her arms around his neck. She pushes off of him, fixing her dress.

“Need a little help, Miss…?” 

“Roberta. Roberta Collins,” she says, reaching out for her box, “And I’ll be fine, Sir.”

“You don’t need to call me Sir. I’m Napoleon Solo, I live just upstairs. It’s no trouble to help you get settled.” He put out his hand for her to shake instead of handing the box over.

She is surprised this man even wants to talk with her, let alone shake her hand. He didn’t seem to want anything more than to help, so she reached out her hand for him to shake. But Napoleon was always a few steps ahead. 

Holding her hand, he steps forward and kisses the back of her knuckles. “Nice to meet you, Roberta Collins.”

She can’t help the childish giggle that escapes her. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Solo.”

“Call me Napoleon. Or Leon, if anything.”

“I like Leon,” she grins, “Um, you can call me Bobbie if you want. My mama always hated that nickname but I always hated being called Roberta. Anyhow, I’m grown now and out on my own so I can choose what I get called.���

“Well then, Bobbie. Do you mind if I ask how old ‘grown’ is? Or is that impolite of me?”

Bobbie smirks and tilts her head at him. “It’s only impolite if a woman thinks herself to be old,” she takes the box from Napoleon’s arms, “How bout this, you tell me your age, and I’ll tell you mine.”

“Ah, tit for tat then. I’ll accept your terms. I’m 35 years old.”

“Damn, you’re old. Might as well be my grandpappy, Leon.” She starts to walk back up the narrow flight of steps.

“I do believe you said you’d tell me your age, Bobbie. What about your end of the deal?”

“I do believe you said you were offering to help me move in as well, Leon. I don’t think we ever decided which of these things would happen first. Besides, all you need to know is that I’m legal. So, let’s go with taking the boxes up first, then we can discuss giving me value by putting a number next to my name, huh?” With that, she swiftly turns and continues up the stairs, not bothering to wait for the man left winded by her words.

Arriving at her apartment, she takes the box into the kitchen and sets it down on the counter. By the time she makes it back to the living room, Napoleon is walking in with two boxes under his arms. He winks at her as he passes and takes the boxes into the bedroom. 

As Napoleon comes back out of the bedroom, he removes his vest. Unbuttoning his sleeves and pushing them up, he turns to Bobbie. “How can a single woman afford a fully-furnished apartment in this area? What are you, an heiress or something?”

“An heiress? That’ll be the day,” she laughs, admiring his muscular forearms, “No, my employer offered me residence after I agreed to move to the city for work.”

“Hm. Something tells me I have a few more boxes to haul up here before I learn what it is that you do. So, back to it then.” 

“Back to it then,” she agrees, motioning for Napoleon to exit first, “As soon as we are done, I’ll make sure you know exactly what you need to know, Leon.”

In no time at all, the rest of the boxes are in various rooms and the essentials are unpacked and put away. Napoleon and Bobbie are sitting on the couch, their legs crossed toward each other in a gesture of interest. 

She tells him of her work as an assistant to an executive in the advertising business. She talks about graduating with a Bachelor of Fine Art, originally hoping to be a curator in a museum but instead going into advertising after a stint as a copywriter. She mentions she has two older brothers back home with their own families, and her parents are retired. She also informs him that in two months, she will be turning 26. 

“So, you’re a Leo. That explains the fire in your veins and the strength in your confidence. As an Aries, I’m drawn to it. I also find it interesting that you agreed to take a job in a new place, it means you don’t mind a little adventure.”

“Is that your final assessment, Leon? Adventurous and confident being my winning character traits?”

“Well, that depends.”

“On what?” she asks, tilting her head at him.

“On how you answer the next question,” he muses, smoothing his hand down his leg.

“Are you going to keep me in suspense or-”

She is cut off by Napoleon’s lips connecting with hers. The chaste kiss lasts but a few seconds but the flame between the two fire signs is ignited. As he leans away, she leans forward to chase his lips before catching herself. 

“My question is,” he begins, raising his hand to wipe her bottom lip with his thumb, “Would you like me to kiss you again?”

Instead of answering, she gets up from the couch, standing in front of Napoleon as he turns to follow her movement. “Yes, I would like you to kiss me again,” she yelps as he pulls her down to sit down on his lap facing him, a leg on either side of his hips.

He smiles at her words, the heat coming off of her lower half telling him all he needs to know. He holds her chin between his thumb and first finger, pulling her closer. Slotting his mouth against hers, he drags his tongue along the seam of her plump lips. He is awarded entrance to her warm and inviting mouth to mingle their tongues. The precious moans escaping her as she undulates her hips against him are enough to make him melt but he holds on. 

Until she grinds into him in earnest, that is. He can’t stop the groan that tumbles from his mouth and into hers. She swallows it and tangles her fingers into his short locs. They fight for control of the kiss, neither one yielding until they both have to part to catch their breath. Napoleon is the first to speak. 

“Honesty.”

“What?” The look of confusion is painted across her features.

“The other character trait I like in a woman is honesty. And I could tell you were very honest with me just now. And I’d like to be honest with you, or at least as honest as I can be.” He pulls back, his ultramarine orbs boring into her umber ones. 

“Oh, my goodness. Are you married or something?” She questions, starting to back off of him before he shakes his head and holds her in place. 

“Not married to a person,” he grimaces, wiping a hand through his hair, “I’m sort of a workaholic,” he says, soft-pedaling how the CIA still has him by the balls, “I also can’t really tell you what I do, for your safety and mine. But it can be dangerous at times. And due to travel, sometimes you may not see me for days or weeks on end.”

“Why are you telling me this, Leon?” 

“I’m addicted to your kiss,” he admits, his thumb finding its place on her bottom lip again, “I refuse to let anyone else know the taste of it if I have a choice in the matter.” 

“And you think I’ll let you lay claim to me just like that? Gotta say I dig your confidence, Leon.”

“I have an assignment that I leave for tomorrow morning. I know we just met but I want you to wait for me.”

“Will you be able to call or write to me at least?”

“Calling may prove to be unsafe. But I don’t see why I can’t write to you. It’ll have to be addressed with a name other than mine. But you’ll know it’s me, I promise.”

“I assume you also can’t tell me where you’re going?”

“No, I can’t, Sweetness. But I promise I’ll write when I get settled and I will be as safe as I can be. I’ll have my team with me.”

“Any chicks on your team?” She inquires, trying to hide her jealousy. 

“Yeah, Gabby. But don’t worry, she and Ilya are an item and they’ve got my back. I would say there is no need to worry, but I can’t. I tend to be impulsive, as you can tell.”

“I guess I could hold space for you until you return. You better not be trying to give me the slip. I can be a little impulsive as well, you know? What happens if some other fella wants a shot at me and I’m all lonely missing you, huh?” she wonders aloud, crossing her arms across her chest.

“I can’t promise you won’t be lonely without me, but I can promise I can make waiting worth your while when I come back. If you’ll indulge me, that is.” Napoleon finishes, running the tips of his fingers up her thigh before stopping along the seam of her underwear.

“You think I’m going to sleep with you that easy, Leon? That might work on some other little chicken, but I ain’t giving it up that easy, Daddy.”

“I don’t expect you to sleep with me, and I wouldn’t force that on you either. No, what I’m offering is to simply get you off with my hands and mouth. No more, no less. Whaddaya say, Sweetness? Are you going to be a good girl and cum all over my fingers?” He lets one finger run over the gusset of her panties before she can even register that her body is saying ‘yes’. 

Her eyes are closing despite her urge to keep control. When they open, her pupils are blown wide. Fisting a hand through his hair, she pulls him forward and all but devours his lips in a punishing kiss. She pulls back and leans her forehead against his.

“Take me to my bedroom, Leon, and I’ll permit you to get me off,” she sighs, giving in to her desires, “And maybe, when you come back to me, I’ll repay the favor.”

He groans, grabbing her hips and standing up to let her wrap her legs around him. He carries her to her bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him. In short order, Napoleon has her crying out his name, begging him to take her to the moon and back again and again. When she begs him to take it further, he denies her. She pouts, whining that he has done this on purpose. He doesn’t deny it but doesn’t give in either.

After making out with her pussy for another hour, she begins to fall asleep and beckons him to cuddle with her. He debates staying with her a bit longer as she sleeps but decides he needs to leave before he refuses to go on his mission. That wouldn’t work out for anyone positively. He listens as her soft snores even out, moving her to lie on her pillow instead of his chest. He waits until she settles again before rising from the bed.

Finding a pen and a piece of paper, he writes a note to her and places it on her nightstand before leaving her to sleep off her post-orgasm haze. Despite his wish to have stayed up with her into the night, he is glad to have at least ignited in her a yearning to see him again. At least, that is what he hopes to have inspired. For now, he’ll just have to covet her from afar.

Bobbie,

I’m sorry I had to leave while you were sleeping. It seems my work was to your pleasure. And don’t worry, I enjoy it when I have such a vocal and passionate partner as yourself to work with.

As soon as I get settled, I’ll send you a little something to keep you company while I’m away. But for now, keep this note close by. Think of me, as I’ll be thinking of you.

P.S. I already miss you.

Love,

Napoleon!

Chapter 2

**Tag List**

@brattymum96 @ambinxe @avengersfan25 @kebabgirl67

@astheskycries @enchantedbytomandhenry

Let me know if you wanna be added and for what plz  😁

[General Fanfiction (Everything), Henry Fanfiction, August Walker, Bright Like The Moon]

[didasgomas]

Don't call me that

Day 29 of @augusnippets

Prompts: Singing/First words/Inside jokes

Trigger warnings : Heavily implied child neglect, religious abuse

Semi-important part of "In Mortality", an au of Cut Down The Altar (creator will be in the tags)

June 14th, 1896 - Messiah's Grove, Gold County, Iowa

The child was trying to speak, evident by the repeated noises it was making, attempting to form one clear word.

Brigid ignored the girl, like she tried to do every day, wanting to make sure God once more listened to her devoted prayers and oaths as a Bride of His Son, Jesus Christ. She wouldn't abandon the child, for that would make her unworthy of being a follower of the Virgin Mary, but in the virtue of honesty she admitted, that unlike the Queen of Heaven, in all of her divine grace, she simply could not bring herself to love the girl as a guardian.

Maybe if their father hadn't died so soon, Clarice wouldn't have done the mistake she had. Brigid might have been the second born, but she had taken after her father rather than her mother, and thus he placed in her with all his trust and confidence that she'd be the one to keep the family's honor afloat.

Brigid might have only been the younger daughter, but she felt that if she had insisted more, then her sister wouldn't have married a criminal. Their mother had been far too lenient about everything, so before joining St. Abigail's and vowing to follow always Jesus' word, she had desperately tried to convince Clarice that a man like Lawrence Delevan was a bad choice, and that she should wait for a better man to come into her life.

But evil was always tempting, alluring with a charm away from God, and in the end, Brigid could only take the Evangelical Counsels with a heavy weight in her consciousness that she hadn't tried hard enough to pull her older sister away from the path of sin.

And what had that brought? The girl behind her.

Born six years after Clarice's death, fathered by Lawrence and, from what she could understand her nephew Arthur had said, his hidden mistress that died giving birth to her changeling child.

Lawrence had died shortly after too, and not even having been married for an entire year, and with a business and a reputation to upkeep, Arthur had asked that she, his aunt, take the girl in and care for her in his and his wife's place.

She had wanted to refuse, but she knew from her sister's letters and from the few times she had spoken to him, that Arthur was a good man that tried his best, and in her everlasting commitment to family, Brigid accepted to raise the secret child.

"Ma- Mama!"

Both of these girl's parents were some of the worst kind of sinners, and Brigid merely kept her alive for God had commanded that one must always honor their family, but even if they weren't connected by blood, this child could never honor her legacy.

She was not this changeling's mother and she would not stand to be called that!

"Don't call me that, Serenity."

"Mama!"

"I said don't call me that!"

She would apologize to The Lord for her sudden burst of anger, but at least it had kept the girl from speaking that word again.

[perezhilton]

I’m taking notes! 🤣 All the Mama June details HERE!

[micallum]

normal day in the assy house in 20 years https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGJHhDLCH/

Okay, I have calmed down and I come bearing gifts (cursed gifts but gifts nonetheless):

I will not go 20 years into the future but I think a little less is enough, so picture this with me (sorry for the short fanfic - something came over me):

You are making dinner in your cute modest home somewhere in Monaco, life has been good; you married your long-time boyfriend Arthur almost 7 years ago, had a dog, and provided shelter to all neighborhood cats. You have managed to have 2 kids during the past 5 years, with a third (and hopefully last) one on the way you believed the family was clearly complete.

You hear a lot of noises coming from the living room, as you do most days when Arthur is home. He is a good dad, in fact, it surprised you that he is so present even when he spends so much time away for races. The man makes a conscious effort to be reliable, which you thank him for since the Leclerc gene is an inescapable truth and your two boys have it.

What is the Leclerc gene? WELL, the Leclerc boys are full of energy, very focused, and very independent. If only they wouldn't try to do things on their own the entire time. You have been called to school more than once. The first time, little Oli had made a mess with a tube of white paint because he wanted to cover some crayon artwork his friend made on the wall... A more recent event was when your youngest started a food fight during naptime - somehow.

So you are used to the mess and the noise. It still worries you how the 5 and 2-year-old boys are going to deal with their newborn brother.

You rub your belly at the idea, at least Oli has the experience of when Marc was born, but Marc? Baby Macky? No, he is going to lose his mind in June.

With the table set you call out for the boys, hoping Arthur will help. A couple of minutes go by and nobody walks into the dining room. You poke your head out the hallway and call for Arthur this time.

"Tutuuuuur!" You tip-toe in your yoga socks.

Oh, and there they are. Every boy is on a different piece of furniture. Arthur balances his weight between the coffee table and the armrest of the loveseat as he giggles. Oli hugs a pillar with his arms and legs as he screams "Papa, je tombe!" Macky simply yells and covers his face with his hands as he waits for Arthur on the other end of the loveseat.

"What are we doing?" You ask the three of them in French, and everyone stares back. "It's dinnertime, come on!"

"How is she doing it?" Oli asks, climbing the pillar with the agility of a monkey.

"Mama?"

"I told you!" Arthur turns his body and points a finger at you, "I married a witch!"

Macky gasps but reaches out to you, bright innocent eyes staring back. You roll your eyes but your feet move automatically toward your child, walking right past your husband. You grab the youngest boy and hold him on your hip, he rests his arm on your shoulder and plays with a strand of your hair in his other hand.

"Mama, are you a good witch?" He mumbles.

He is almost a copy of his father and his timid smile makes anyone's heart melt. His kindergarten teachers are proof of it, and you are not immune either.

"Am I a good witch?" You put a finger on your chin for a moment and watch Arthur get off the furniture and go pick up Oli, "Most days I am."

"I think that makes Daddy a wizard!" Oli chimes in.

Arthur laughs and blinks repeatedly. "I don't know about that..."

"Okay, you two..." Your eyes narrow at Arthur, "-you three need to go wash your hands."

"Can't you use magic to clean them?"

Arthur smiles at Oli and gives him a high five, though upon seeing your face, he puts him down and comes to grab Macky.

"We'll be right back," he whispers, taking a second to give you a quick peck on the cheek.

"Of course you will, food's getting cold and we're starving!"

You have picked up the habit of speaking about yourself in plural, a hand on your belly almost at all times now that the baby bump is bigger. Arthur always smiles and makes a little noise at the sight, tonight is no exception. He gives you a wink and runs off to the bathroom with a boy on each arm.

"Come on boys! Your brother's hungry!" You hear Arthur tell the kids.

"What brother?" Macky asks.

You turn on your heal, knowing that your husband's got it and will not say anything inappropriate to your children.

"I told you, Mama's a witch! She is making a baby in her belly!"

"WHAT?" Macky yells, "BUT I AM A BABY?!"

"ANOTHER ONE?!" Oli sounds less than thrilled, "We have this one!"

Arthur's laughter is loud across the house as he tries to calm the boys down.

"I promise you guys; this is the last one!" Arthur says, but you know he might not mean it.

The only reason you are pregnant again is that he convinced you to try for a baby girl, and you are sure he will try to talk you into it again in a couple of years... if you will give in is still uncertain, but you know there are few things you will deny him.

[whileiamdying]

Cass Elliot’s Death Spawned a Horrible Myth. She Deserves Better

The Mamas & the Papas singer was known for her wit, her voice and her skill as a connector. For 50 years, a rumor has overshadowed her legacy.

Michael Putland/Getty Images

By Lindsay Zoladz Published May 9, 2024 Updated May 18, 2024

Onstage with her group the Mamas & the Papas at the Monterey International Pop Festival in June 1967, Cass Elliot, the grand doyenne of the Laurel Canyon scene, bantered with the timing of a vaudeville comedian. “Somebody asked me today when I was going to have the baby, that’s funny,” she said, rolling her eyes. The unspoken punchline — if you could call it that — was that she had already given birth to a daughter six weeks earlier.

“One of the things that appeals to so many people about my mom is that there’s a certain level of triumph over adversity,” that daughter, Owen Elliot-Kugell, said over lunch at the Sunset Marquis Hotel in Los Angeles on a recent afternoon. “She had to prove herself over and over again.”

Elliot was a charismatic performer who exuded infectious joy and a magnificent vocalist with acting chops she did not live to fully explore. July 29 is the 50th anniversary of her untimely death at 32, a tragedy that still spurs unanswerable questions. Might Elliot, who was one of Johnny Carson’s most beloved substitutes, have become the first female late-night talk show host? Would she have achieved EGOT status?

Half a century after her death, her underdog appeal continues to inspire. Last year, “Make Your Own Kind of Music” — a relatively minor 1969 solo hit that has nonetheless had cultural staying power — became such a sensation on TikTok that “Saturday Night Live” spoofed it, in a hilariously over-the-top sketch in which the host Emma Stone plays a strangely clairvoyant record producer. “This song is gonna be everywhere, Mama,” she tells Elliot, played by Chloe Troast. “Then everybody’s gonna forget about it for a long, long time, but in about 40, 50 years, I think it’s gonna start showing up in a bunch of movies, because it’s a perfect song to go under a slow-mo montage where the main character snaps and goes on a rampage.”

Cass Elliot performing on her television special “Don’t Call Me Mama Anymore” in September 1973. After she went solo, she found it hard to shake her nickname.Credit...CBS Photo Archive, via Getty Images

“S.N.L.” didn’t make a single joke about Elliot’s weight — something that was unthinkable half a century ago. During the height of her fame, Elliot seemed to co-sign some of the jabs at her expense with a shrugging grin.

“No one’s getting fat except Mama Cass,” the Mamas & the Papas sang in tight harmony on the self-mythologizing 1967 hit “Creeque Alley.” After the infamously tumultuous group broke up a year later, Elliot was a frequent guest on “The Carol Burnett Show,” where she occasionally went for the cheap laugh. In an otherwise uproarious sketch about two prudish women browsing a store’s “dirty books” section, Elliot holds up a book titled “Eat and Lose Weight” and says, “I got as far as ‘Eat’ and then I didn’t understand the rest.”

“As she had learned early on, the best way to deal with an uncomfortable situation is with humor,” Elliot-Kugell, who has her mother’s cascading hair and dry wit, writes in her new memoir, “My Mama, Cass.” But, as she said over lunch, that doesn’t mean her mother was always laughing on the inside. “That pain had to go somewhere,” Elliot-Kugell told me. “When I think about some of the things that had allegedly been said to her during her lifetime, you can’t hear that over and over and not let it hurt.”

But of course, the most enduring joke at her expense was the one she didn’t live to tell, or to rebut. Have you heard the one about the ham sandwich?

For years, the origin of the story that Elliot died from choking on a ham sandwich — one of the cruelest and most persistent myths in rock ’n’ roll history — was largely unknown. Then in 2020, Elliot’s friend Sue Cameron, an entertainment journalist, admitted to publicizing it in her Hollywood Reporter obituary at the behest of Elliot’s manager Allan Carr, who did not want his client associated with drug use. (Elliot died of a heart attack, likely brought on by years of substance abuse and crash dieting.) But that cartoonish rumor — propagated in endless pop culture references, from “Austin Powers” to “Lost” — cast a tawdry light over Elliot’s legacy and still threatens to overshadow her mighty, underappreciated talent.

The Mamas & the Papas: Denny Doherty, Michelle Phillips, Elliot, Scott McKenzie (who joined a later version of the group) and John Phillips.Credit...Bentley Archive/Popperfoto, via Getty Images

ELLIOT’S SISTER, LEAH, coined a phrase for the strong, brassy way everyone in their family sang: “the Cohen Honk.”

Cass was born Ellen Naomi Cohen into a music-loving household in suburban Baltimore. Her stage name partly came from her father’s penchant for calling his spirited daughter “the mad Cassandra.” She was a precocious, uncommonly bright child who, in the years after World War II, liked to ask dinner guests what they thought about the “world situation.” In high school she was known for her bold, slightly unkempt personal style that flew in the face of 1950s decorum. According to her biographer Eddi Fiegel, Elliot sometimes wore “wild combinations of Bermuda shorts and high heels, with white gloves to cover her bitten-down nails.”

Many people in Elliot’s life trace her struggles with her weight to when she was 6 and went to stay with her grandparents while recovering from ringworm. They fed her well, as grandparents sometimes do, and she quickly became self-conscious about her size. By high school, she had been prescribed Dexedrine, an amphetamine then used as an appetite suppressant. “The thought that something is wrong with you is bad enough,” Elliot-Kugell writes, “but the idea that a pill or a drug might fix you can be even more dangerous.”

Still, Elliot showed remarkable self-belief. The book recounts her telling anyone who would listen “that one day she was going to become the most famous fat girl that ever lived.”

She struck a deal with her parents: If she moved to New York and didn’t find musical success in five years, she would come home and study a more respectable field, like medicine. She left home in late 1960; “California Dreamin’” was released in December 1965. She later told an interviewer: “I really just made it under the wire!”

Broadway was Elliot’s first love, but folk music was the style of the day. She brought her own distinctive flair to it in her early groups, the Big 3 and then the Mugwumps, which featured a Canadian tenor named Denny Doherty. After the Mugwumps’ split, Doherty fled to the Virgin Islands with his new friends John and Michelle Phillips to work on material for a yet-unnamed group. Elliot had sung with them casually while they were all hanging out — at least once when they were all on LSD — and she knew her voice was the missing piece in their sound.

But John, the bandleader, was brutishly reluctant. According to Scott G. Shea, a biographer of the Mamas & the Papas, Phillips “had a vision in his head” of “a group that not only sounded like an electrified Peter, Paul and Mary, but also looked like them.” Shea puts it bluntly: “Michelle was to be the centerpiece, and, in his mind, Cass was too fat to even be considered.”

The group projected a chumminess that was central to their appeal, but few people know how hard Elliot had to push to become part of the band. She showed up unannounced in the Virgin Islands hoping to ingratiate herself, but Phillips wouldn’t budge until an act of fate intervened. While walking down the St. Thomas alley that the Mamas & the Papas would later immortalize in song, debris from a construction site hit Elliot on the head and knocked her unconscious. John Phillips would later claim that Elliot’s concussion caused her vocal register to change, and it was another of those stories Elliot learned to repeat with a self-deprecating joke.

“The real story is that John didn’t like my mother’s look,” Elliot-Kugell writes. She believes “he made up the story about a fake increase in vocal range to justify his choice to finally add my mom to the band months later.”

Elliot went solo after the short-lived group’s demise, buoyed by the success of “Dream a Little Dream of Me,” a Mamas & the Papas single on which she sang lead. The final solo album she released, in 1973, had a pointed title: “Don’t Call Me Mama Anymore.” “The moniker of ‘Mama’ had always felt like a reference to her size — that is, ‘Big Mama’ — and she hated that,” Elliot-Kugell writes.

From left: Joni Mitchell, Elliot and Judy Collins at the Big Sur Folk Festival. Elliot became known as a connector in the Laurel Canyon scene.Credit...Sulfiati Magnuson, via Getty Images

Elliot remains an underrated heroine in the story of the Laurel Canyon scene, not only as a musician but also as an amiable hostess who knew how to link up like-minded people. Doherty liked to call her “the Puppeteer.”

In 1964, she introduced her friends John Sebastian and Zal Yanovsky; they became the Lovin’ Spoonful. When she heard that David Crosby and Stephen Stills had begun making music together, she suggested they add a high voice to the mix, and brought them Graham Nash. “I will give you a hundred dollars,” David Crosby told Elliot’s biographer, “if you can find a single person who says they hated Cass.”

But there was also something bittersweet about Elliot’s kinship with all these men. “I think part of the reason they all adored her is they weren’t threatened by her,” Elliot-Kugell said. “She knew more about these guys and had a relationship on a deeper level than some of their own wives or girlfriends had.” She added with a wry chuckle, “Did that mean she didn’t want to jump into bed with half of them? She probably did!”

Elliot’s unrequited love for her bandmate Doherty was perhaps the hardest to bear, especially after he and Michelle Phillips had an affair that nearly broke up the band before their first album was even released. Elliot had been smitten since the night they met, at a Greenwich Village bar where they each threatened to drink the other under the table, and eventually decided to drink … under the table. As he put it in his one-man show about the group’s history, “I knew she loved me, and I loved her too, but not like she wanted me to. She did weigh 300 pounds, and I wasn’t man enough to deal with that.”

The most difficult passages of “My Mama, Cass” are those in which Elliot-Kugell reckons with her mother’s persistent loneliness. “After the shows, when they’re screaming her name onstage and she’s bowing, she was the only one going back to the hotel by herself,” she said. “Everybody else had someone, and she didn’t.”

Elliot’s need for love and companionship is what drove her to the decision — relatively radical for a famous woman in the late 1960s — to become a single mother. When she learned she was pregnant at the height of the group’s success, after a brief fling with its touring bassist, she was defiant in her decision to raise the child on her own. “As it turned out,” Elliot-Kugell writes, wrenchingly, “my mom’s desire to have someone in her life who wasn’t going to up and leave her was what led to her desire for a child. It’s how I came to be.”

The Mamas & the Papas onstage in 1966. The group split two years later.Credit...Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images

WHEN I FINALLY got Sue Cameron on the phone, she was calling from the Atlantic Ocean, “somewhere between Bermuda and Portugal.” A journalist for more than 50 years who has published a book titled “Hollywood Secrets and Scandals,” she sometimes gives lectures on cruise ships. She was happy to reminisce about her old pal. “She had a big smile and this wide open face, very happy to see people,” Cameron said. “You just would immediately love her and want her to be your best friend.”

Cameron met Elliot when she interviewed the Mamas & the Papas in 1966; they realized they were neighbors and quickly became “sit-by-each-other’s-pool kind of friends.” Cameron has stories, like the one about the night they ran into Ann-Margret and Elliot delivered the perfect one-liner about her massive engagement ring (“I could skate on that”); or all the times Elliot would walk around with a credit card in her shoe because she didn’t like to carry a purse.

Her most painful memory is her final dinner with Elliot at Mr. Chow in the summer of 1974, before Elliot left for London. She’d never seen her friend so happy. “It was just a magical moment,” Cameron recalled. “It was just, like, the crescendo of her being. She’d had some TV specials, she was now going to go do a big nightclub act. Everything was fabulous.”

After a two-day stint of partying in London, Elliot told her friend Joe Croyle — a dancer in her show who was crashing with her at Harry Nilsson’s pad — that she was going to take a bath and turn in early because she was exhausted. Croyle figured she would be hungry too, so he fixed her a sandwich with ham, the only thing he could find in the fridge, along with some Coca-Cola. The ham sandwich, the cruelly cartoonish symbol that would come to define Elliot, was actually a gesture of care: a friend making her a meal she never got to enjoy.

Cameron heard about Elliot’s death in the newsroom of The Hollywood Reporter, where she was working at the time: “I kicked into professional mode and said, no one else is going to write that obit. I’m going to do it.” She tracked down Carr by phone in Nilsson’s apartment. “He could barely speak,” Cameron recalled. She asked what happened, and he said he didn’t know. “‘Oh, wait,’” she recalled him saying. “‘I see a half-eaten ham sandwich on the night stand. That’s good. You tell everybody that she choked on a ham sandwich, do you understand me?’”

“And I did it,” she added, “because I wanted to protect Cass.”

What was she protecting her from? “I was not aware of a lot of drugs,” she said. “I just wasn’t one of those people. And I had some suspicion around the time that she was going to London that she was on some sort of pills, but I didn’t really know anything.” In a split second, Carr and Cameron decided there was less shame in a woman ridiculed for her weight choking to death than there was in her having a drug problem. “What a terrible thing,” Cameron said, “but I was in too much of a state of shock to clean it up.”

She, too, is confounded by the story’s persistence. “Of all of the things I’ve done,” she said, “this ham sandwich has followed me my entire life.”

That story had long haunted Elliot-Kugell, too, though she felt some closure after Cameron privately divulged its origins to her when they met for lunch in 2000. Elliot-Kugell is cleareyed about what probably caused her mother’s death: “I mean, look. She was up for 48 hours, and she was at a party. Do the math.” But she doesn’t want to dwell on that. “The thing that was really important for me was that I didn’t want to write a salacious book,” she said.

In some sense, any memoir by a child of the Mamas & the Papas exists in the shadow of Mackenzie Phillips’s 2009 bombshell, “High on Arrival,” in which she accused her father John Phillips of sexual assault. But Elliot-Kugell’s memoir belongs on a different shelf entirely. It is a humanizing portrait of a woman whose legacy has, for far too long, been reduced to an outdated urban legend.

And it is a tale of an imperfect mother and a grieving daughter, of loss and long delayed catharsis. A few weeks before we spoke, Elliot-Kugell went to visit her mother’s grave. “It’s always weird when I go there, because I never know what to say,” she said. “But that day felt a little different because when I went up to the grave, I just said, ‘Hi.’ Like the way I would greet one of my cousins, or somebody who I know really well who I haven’t seen in a while.”

“I thought to myself, ‘Why, why why does it feel like this?’” she said.” All at once it dawned on her: “After going through this experience, I feel closer to her.”

Read by Lindsay Zoladz

Audio produced by Adrienne Hurst.