#so far the boy is turning out to be another chester

[omegawizardposting]

I've mentioned once or twice that there are some stray cats at my aunt's work she's been taking care of: two females and a male. Of course, none are fixed.

Well, one of the females, a calico she very creatively calls Cali, had a litter of four a while back. After a tropical storm, two of the kittens disappeared. We hope that someone found them and took them home.

That just left the little ginger and his sister, another calico. Cali has always been friendly. She comes in the office and lounges around. It seems her kittens inherited her chill demeanor, because they've started spending most of their time in the office, right beside my aunt's desk, laying on her coat.

All this time, she's been insisting she's too old for another cat. After her old boy passed, she said she was done with pets. It hurts too much to lose them, and she's in her seventies. She's worried about something happening to her and leaving them alone.

Tonight my ma tells me, "So did your aunt tell you she's taking those two kittens?"

You cannot imagine how smug I am right now. As soon as I saw her doting on those little gremlins, I knew she'd cave. Me and her are both extreme cat people. Without a cat in our lives, we just aren't happy.

One of her coworkers wants to take the remaining eight strays, so we'll see how that pans out, but we have two new family members. I know Chester and Walter will be looking out for them.

I'll update y'all with names. I'm gonna suggest a few to her once I meet the kittens in person, because we are NOT calling the girl Cali Junior.

[not-5-rats]

Gonna throw this here and run far far away

I made a bug :DD

(been putting this off for...a while...a very long while)

( @willowve01 , @aspenm00n , @rozeliyawashereyall sorry for bothering you all!)

Caution! Rambling Past This Point! Turn Back!!!

CW!!! : Talk of Death, Insanity, Struggles with Grief, Abuse!!

Chester Markins (Chez) [He/Him] -

He's on the quieter side but he's a darling, he's careful of the people around him, making sure to listen and be as polite as he can be, whether that's holding doors, helping people with bags or even backing up if they needed space.

He was raised to believe everyone deserves kindness (although he grew to believe not EVERYone deserved kindness)

He comes from a very large family, 5 siblings (1 twin brother, 2 younger sisters, 1 older sister, 1 older brother), they all lived together with their parents (though his older sister has now moved out)

The house was quite crowded and the children struggled to get along at points, but they still loved each other. They would do anything for one another

His parents had always been there for him, and all their other children. People often assumed, given the number of children they had, that their parents would show some favouritism or struggle to care for them all but this was never the case. They were always there for whatever child needed them, even ones that weren't their own! For a while their oldest sons best friend lived in their house because he was going through a rough patch with his parents! They were always there for anyone that needed them, doesn't matter if they were family or complete stranger, in their minds everyone deserved help

Chesters parents raised him and his siblings not to think lowly of any creature, no matter their species so he grew up with no hard feelings towards half-bloods...why did that change? We'll get to that! /// Chesters life, for the most part, was uneventful. His family never really struggled for money, sure there was some bullying when he was a kid but none of it really affected him, his siblings all stayed friends, he had it pretty good!...up to a point

The problem arose with his twin brother, Milo. Milo was an adventurous young boy, didn't know when to quite, when to turn back. He often got in trouble as a young boy, but never trouble serious enough that his parents/siblings couldn't bale him out.

Milo and Chester were close, super close. Sure they got on with all their siblings (Chester more so than Milo, due to his wild nature) but their connection was deeper than anyone else's. Chester spent so much of his time keeping Milo out of trouble or saving his ass from the consequences of his actions that they ended up not only brothers but good friends.

Chester didn't really have an opinion on the 'monsters' that were said to live in the swamps, away from the village. Milo, however, had such an intense interest in them. His one goal in life was to go out to the swamps and find them, not to harm them, he just wanted to meet them!

So one day, when he was about 15, Milo packed a bag and snuck out in the middle of the night to go search for the creatures. Only one person wad awake at the time, Chester. He asked Milo where he was going and he was honest about it, he told Chester that he was going to venture deep into the swamps to try and find the creatures that live there! Chester wasn't up for the idea, even if there weren't creatures out there there would still be dangers and Milo wasn't always the most careful, he would definitely get injured! So he told Milo to stay, it wasn't a good idea for him to go alone but Milo argued. He said he was old enough to go on his own, that Chester never believed in him and that a good brother would support him. Eventually Chester gave in, he hugged his brother, told him to be safe and make sure to be home soon

In the morning when people woke up nobody was that worried about him, he disappeared all the time and always returned home within a couple of days...but that didn't happen this time

Days turned to weeks and there was no sight of Milo, the rest of the family was begging to get worried and asked around town to see if anyone knew where the boy may be but alas nobody had any ideas...expect Chester. One day he copied his brothers actions and made his way to the swamps, at the very edge however is where he found it...Milos head, his body nowhere in sight. It was clear from the markings that the head had been chewed off, not cut or slashed, chewed.

Chesters mind froze when he saw it, he fell to the ground and held the head in his hands, staring into his brothers lifeless eyes, like pebbles in his skull. He kneeled there for ages, just trying to think of what could have happened. The answer finally came to him, hitting him like a knife to the heart. Milo had found what he was looking for, he had found those creatures...no those monsters, and they had done this to him. That was the conclusion he came to

He felt empty as he bundled up his brothers head and returned home, he waited until the youngest two had gone to bed before confronting the rest of his family about what he found

They were all as broken as him, he explained what he believed to have happened and whilst most of then agreed it was the most likely thing to have happened their Mother couldn't believe it. She refused to belive it. Not that the monsters killed her son, but that her son was dead. She began to spiral, she would keep the decomposing head near her at all times and talk to it as though it was alive, she began to neglect her other children as she became trapped in her grief. She isolated herself, only talking to the head, asking it how its day was, what adventures it'd been on recently, all the things she used to ask Milo when he was alive

This broke the family, their father tried to talk to their mother, to pull her out of it but nothing helped and he ended up getting enraged about the whole situation. This anger he took out on his wife and older kids, he would have gotten to the youngest two but all of the older kids agreed to protect them the best they could.

The siblings knew even if the situation was awful, even though they really wanted to get angry at each other, they wanted to fight...they couldn't. At this point they only had each other. Word had spread of their brothers death and their mother's reaction so people labeled the whole family as crazy, nobody would even look at them when they were out in the streets.

This made Chester develop a hatred for the creatures that lived out there, they had caused this, they're the reason his brother was dead, the reason his family was falling apart

So he became a hunter, to stop these monsters from ruining any other families

He barely talks to his siblings any more, they tried to stay connected but he began to dedicate his entire existence to his career. Pushing himself to his physical and mental limits at all times to stop anyone else from suffering the same fate as his brother

...but his brothers fate wasn't what he thought...his brother didn't die at the hands of a 'monster' but at the hands of-

(Alot of that probably doesn't make much sense I'm sorry, I'm just very excited 😭)

Child List:

Youngest Sister - Daisy

2nd Youngest Sister - Fran

Twin #1 - Chester (Chez/Chezzie)

Twin #2 - Milo

Oldest Sister - Audrey

Oldest Brother - Felix

[dyed-red]

I voted for priest Sam hair! Not only because it was the correct choice, but, hey, bribery! So for a mini Dickey, a choice between outsider POV of the boys being weird about each other or late seasons domestic!Winchesters? If neither of those work for you, write something you like 😁

I love that my bribery accomplished nothing, because everyone taking me up on the offer is someone who was already going to (or already had) vote for the correct choice anyway :D truly net zero impact on the poll, which is likely for the best.

and ahh, i do love both outsider PoV and domestic!chesters, so this is good. and in my typical fashion, my answer is:

Set after 12x11, "Regarding Dean".

They're very beautiful boys is the thing. Well, not the thing, but certainly part of it. Rowena thinks that anyone would be hard-pressed to judge her somewhat embarrassing lack of self-preservation in this regard, if they too got to experience the full effect of Sam Winchester imperious gaze or Dean's intermittently roguish and boyish smiles.

That or, like so many before her, she truly just did contract Winchester Derangement Syndrome. Oh well.

She'd wanted to skirt out of town quickly, after helping fix up Dean's memory. It would be the prudent thing to do. But it was also an opportunity, one that might not drop into her lap quite so easily again anytime soon, to get a read on the brothers without being observed herself. One had to wonder how they did it, held the world together with duck tape and a can-do attitude, considering how ordinary and brutish they'd seemed at first.

Well. Maybe not entirely brutish. Sam's command of Latin and spellwork had always intrigued her. But that was neither here nor there, and he wasn't accomplished enough a spellcrafter to see through the glamour that she wove around herself -- an angling and aging of the face, a darkening and straightening of the hair, a thinning of the lips and tinting to the eyes. Enough that, with an outfit passably dull, she could opposite to them in the pub where they made their way for dinner and rest before they'd set out in the morning. A quiet place on the outskirts of town, locals trudging work boots in and tired or sore from the day. Sam and Dean fit right in. They seemed to fit in most anywhere they went.

Better chameleons than even her glamour could afford her. A few hundred years and Rowena wasn't sure she'd perfected the art of invisibility as well as two men gorgeous enough to be on magazine covers. That was something.

She'd followed them in, waited across the parking lot, and wondered if Dean had injured himself somehow on the day's misadventures. She didn't recall anything, not much action except for at the end there, otherwise just Sam pasting sticky notes to objects and Dean becoming cuter and more bearable by the minute. She didn't recall anything, but Sam's hand never strayed from Dean's back as they made their way across the lot, and Dean never shrugged it off.

By the time she slipped inside, found herself a stool at a table with a view of their booth, they were seated across from one another. She'd never noticed, never bothered to, how far their legs stretched under a table, tangled up into each other's foot-space. At her height, not an issue she had frequently. But Sam was leaned back, fingers on the table, leg, ankle jostling against Dean's calf underneath it. He looked relaxed, and something in Rowena's chest eased at seeing it.

The curse was properly fixed then. Of course she wouldn't wait around in town just to be sure, she wasn't their minder and anyway she'd been certain it was fixed before they parted ways. Still though, confirmation never rankled.

Dean looked around and Rowena turned her gaze to the bland offerings on the menu and in her peripheral she heard his voice, not the words, and then Sam's laughter, loud and startled for a moment then quieter.

When she glanced over, Dean was grinning, leaned in, and Sam's face was so fond her own stomach felt a little gurgly, as if caterpillars (never butterflies) might take up residence.

There was a motion, quick dart, and Sam's hand was on Dean's. Overtop, maybe on his wrist. Rowena's caterpillars turned to lead -- waited with bated breath as their waitress came over and they separated, expressions shifting quick like guilty schoolboy -- and then burst forth into winged insects instead, fluttering around her insides. She bit the inside of her cheek, eyes alight, and ignored the moths taking up residence inside of her.

Well, that was something then.

It wasn't all that scandalous, that kind of sin. Proscribed by the law of every place and time, but something you saw a time or twenty if you lived long enough. It wasn't as if she hadn't suspected. Her imaginings had been more brutal though, more teeth gnashing end-of-world anger with each other, clinging and messy and mad with it. Hand touches across the tables and -- the memory surfaced from earlier in the day -- delighted grins over the potential for a front row seat to some 'live skinemax', that hadn't been what she'd conjured up.

And oh, to be the live entertainer with Sam, to have pleasure made into a show for Dean's affections. Too bad Sam had to be so focused on fixing his brother, they could have had some real fun that afternoon. She certainly wouldn't have complained.

She ordered something herself, a salad and, because life was short, two types of dessert to follow. If there was some thing cold-blooded American capitalism had done right, it was egregiously portioned and delectably indulgent desserts.

The brothers ate, and laughed, and sighed across their bench from each other, seeming weary but well. Ordinary, but far from it. Their legs tangled deeper into each other's space. Dean's fingers drummed an absent pattern, no doubt from one of those rock bands he liked, and Sam nudged him with his leg and directed him to where some dart boards were setup. They brushed shoulders and elbowed each other, were close enough for her to catch snatches of their conversation. Teasing, mostly. Challenging, boyish one-upmanship. Flirting, quite obviously, when Sam's voice dropped to growl something in Dean's ear she couldn't catch, the tone of which had her stomach swooping anyway.

They left not long after, when her second dessert arrived. A little flavourless, in comparison. She left without bothering to finish, left town that night without dawdling any longer. The boys were good, and were comforting each other, and they owed her one. The rest was between them.

[persephones-journey]

HMMMM.... ALL OF THEM? #11, 12 & 13 😈

Here you go. I hope it lives up to what you wanted

Finan turned and looked at Aisling as she rode beside him. She was wrapped in her blue velvet cloak, sullen and quiet. He sighed. He reached out to take her hand but she moved her horse away.

She would not even look at him.

A far cry from the girl who, five days before, was kissing him so recklessly in a dim hallway.

Aisling giggled and moaned into his mouth as he pinned her to cold stone wall. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her body against his. His hands grabbed her ass through her dress and tugged her closer kissing her over and over.

“I missed ya,” he breathed out as he kissed along her jaw and neck.

He knew if they were caught, he was risking everything. She was a ward of the King, her brothers exiled away and their lands torn away.

She was meant for more than him, a lowly foreign exiled prince who was penniless.

And yet, all she wanted was him.

“I missed you more,” she answered as she hummed as he sucked on her neck and collarbone.

“There's the village Osferth spoke of,” she said softly.

Finan looked ahead. Sure enough, the village rose up ahead of them. Osferth, Aisling's close friend and a monk had not been wrong. He was back with Sihtric, another warrior fixing the broken carriage wheel. Finan had not wanted Aisling to be out in the open too long, least someone get the idea to kidnap her.

Or bed her.

Which is all you have been thinking about, Finan thought as they rode up to the inn.

Aisling dismounted from her horse and stood beside him as he did the same. He handed the reins to a stable boy and pressed his hand on Aisling's lower back leading towards the inn. He felt everyone's eyes on them.

He didn't like it but they had little choice.

He pushed open the door to the inn and walked inside. He heard the laughter of the drunkards gathered around the fire. Aisling tensed beside him but she said nothing. He lead her towards the back of the room where he saw the owner pouring ale.

“Do you have any rooms available?” he asked softly.

“Aye,” the man said. “One left, but I am a god fearing establishment here and will not let ya have it to bed ya mistress,” he nodded towards Aisling.

“I am his wife, good sir,” she answered pointedly. “We are also god fearing people,” she added with a sneer.

Finan's heart pounded hard in his chest. His wife? Aisling? If only. He saw the owner huff and look at Finan. Finan dug in his pocket pulled out some coins. The owner produced a key and Finan took it as the owner took the coin. He took Aisling's hand then and pulled her down the short hall towards the stairs.

They climbed them quietly and to the second floor. Finan saw their room, it was at the end of the hall and the door was opened. He walked down with Aisling following him. He stepped into the room first. It was not much but it was clean and dry.

Aisling walked into the room and Finan wasted no time in closing the door and locking it. He turned and saw her pulling off her cloak and tossing it aside. She turned and looked at him, her simple travelling gown, a beautiful shade of navy blue. His eyes looked at her cleavage as she pulled off her French hood and tossed it aside.

“I will need help getting out of my dress,” she whispered softly.

“Of course,” Finan whispered. She turned her back to him and he walked over to her. “We should not have left Ealhswith with Sihtric and Osferth,” he said as she pulled her hair over her shoulder. Ealhswith was Aisling's lady maid and close friend.

She snorted. “Ealhswith is in love with Sihtric,” she answered. “I do not believe she was going anywhere without him.”

Finan frowned as he slowly pulled on the ties of her dress. “Does Sihtric know?”

She nodded. “He does,” she glanced over her shoulder at him, “he wishes to ask the King permission to marry her.”

Finan's fingers shook. He was reminded then of why they were in this village. They were riding to bring Aisling from London to Chester where she would marry Lord Aethelred, Duke of Chester.

He would lose her.

“Finan?” she whispered.

He let his hands drop. He placed them at her waist. He leaned in closer and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. He felt her lean back against him.

“I,” he paused, “I do not wish to be here,” he said.

Silence.

“Do you believe I wish to be here either?” she asked her voice soft.

He closed his eyes. “I want,” he stopped. He could not say it. To speak it would be treason. She was the ward of the King. She was promised to another.

He opened his eyes when Aisling turned around in his arms. He looked down at her as she pressed her hands to his plain tunic. Her ocean blue eyes looked into his; into his soul.

“Tell me exactly what you want,” she whispered her voice so low Finan barely heard her over the sounds coming from below.

He leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers. His hands moved from her waist to her back. He began pulling more on the ties there. His brown eyes never left her ocean blue ones.

“I want to make you mine,” he breathed out.

He expected Aisling to be angry, to pull away from him. Instead, she stepped closer. She began to slowly undo the buttons on his tunic. Her eyes never left his and he saw his own desire reflected in them.

She wanted for him as much as he wanted her.

“Do it,” she whispered as she pressed her lips closer to his. “Make me yours,” she added. She pressed her body hard against his, closer than she had ever done it before. “Please, mark me,” she breathed out her lips pressing against his, “mark me as yours.”

Finan kissed her. Hard and deep. His hands pulled her dress from her shoulders, pulling the ties out. It fell around her feet in a crumpled pile. He wrapped an arm around her and picked her up. He kicked her dress aside and carried her to the bed. He moved his lips from hers and nuzzled his face in her neck. He nipped on her skin there, loving how she moaned and pressed her body against his. He shrugged off his tunic leaving him only in his thin white shirt. He felt Aisling's fingers pull on the ties as his own fingers went to work freeing her of her stays.

“I love ya,” he breathed out into her skin. His hands pulled her stays apart and tossed them aside. He sucked on her pulse point, biting it. He pulled away to see that the skin there was already red, he looked at her face. He saw her eyes on him. “I love ya, Aisling,” he whispered again.

Her eyes filled with tears. “I love you,” she whispered. “I do not wish to be apart from you, Finan. I do not wish to have some other man as my husband. I want you.”

He smiled. He knew it was madness; love induced madness. But he smiled anyway at the thought of her loving him. He pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside. He pulled her close, feeling the softness of her line shift against his skin. He kissed her again, slower, deeper. He felt her hands on his chest. Her fingers stroking his chest hair and pressing into his skin.

Her touch was divine against his skin; her hands warm and soft. He moaned and pressed his forehead against hers. He reached up and played with the strings holding her shift closed as he felt her hands run down his chest to his stomach and his trousers. He felt her pop the first button.

“I want ya as my wife,” he whispered to her. “I want to marry ya and bed ya every night.”

He felt her pop another button. “Let's run away together,” she whispered suddenly. “Bed me tonight, make me yours, and tomorrow, let us go. Find a priest who will marry us.”

Finan groaned but his fingers pulled the string to her shift and watched as it come undone. “It's madness, Aisling,” he whispered as he watched her shift fall open and slip from her shoulders.

“Then let us be mad together,” she whispered as she popped open the last button on his trousers.

He watched as she stepped back and pulled her shift completely off. She kicked off her shoes and stood there, naked but for her stockings. He watched as she sat on the bed, completely unfazed with being naked in front of him. She leaned back on her elbows and smiled at him. He leaned down and rid himself of his boots. He pushed his trousers down then and kicked them aside, leaving him in his hose. He pulled those down as well and tossed them aside.

He looked at Aisling, meeting her eyes as she took in his naked form. His cock, hard and standing upright. She bit her bottom lip and nodded.

“You look like a Greek god,” she answered as he walked towards her.

He watched as she opened her legs, spreading them wider so he could step in between them. He did not know if she meant to do it, but it gave him a look at her cunt. He saw that it was wet, glistening, and so perfect. The rust red hair on it matched her hair on her head and he found himself falling to his knees.

He was going to worship her.

“And ya,” he whispered as he placed his hands on her thighs, “ya are a goddess,” he added. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her calf, then behind her knee. “Venus reborn,” he muttered into her skin as he kissed higher.

She chuckled. “I am not,” she whispered.

Finan turned and repeated the kisses on her other leg. He let his hands move closer to her cunt, his fingers and lips loving the feel of her soft skin against them. He had ached for this. He had dreamed of having her naked beneath him.

He had dreamed of making her his.

“Ya're,” he breathed out as his fingers reached her cunt. He let them gently play with her wetness. She sighed and moaned. He looked up at her face. She met his eyes and he smiled. “Ya are my goddess,” he whispered.

Before she could answer, he buried his face in her cunt. She gasped as he licked her folds, tasting her sweetness. She moaned and he felt her fingers in his hair, tugging on it. He let his tongue part her folds and lick around her entrance, drinking her juices from their source. He held her thighs when she wrapped her legs around his head. His nose rubbed up and down against that pleasure nub and he heard her breathing turn more into huffs and puffs. His fingers dug into her thighs as he moved his mouth up to her nub.

“Finan,” she breathed out as his tongue lapped against her nub, over and over.

He was no stranger to pleasuring women. He had his fair share of women in his bed since he was a young man. He knew how to make women come. The only question was to find out what made Aisling come and come hard.

He moved so his mouth was completely covering her nub. He began to suck on it, his tongue swirling around it every once and a while. He felt her legs tighten around his head as they began to shake and tremble. His fingers dug into her thighs more and he knew that he would leave behind bruises but he didn't care. His cock ached and precum dripped from its tip begging him to be buried in her.

He moved one hand from her thigh and rubbed his fingers along her entrance, getting them wet before he slid one inside of her. She was so tight and warm. He almost came right there. She gripped his hair tighter and tugged on it. He did not stop. He slowly slipped another finger in her, scissoring her entrance, stretching her. She moaned and arched her hips.

“Finan,” she moaned his name and he felt her clench around his fingers.

He turned his fingers and crooked them, pressing them into the pleasure spot he knew was inside of her cunt. She moaned deeply and he had to press a hand on her stomach to hold her down on the bed. She came, her whole body trembling and her back arching off the bed. He continued to suck and swirl around her nub over and over. He felt her trembling being to slow and stop. Her breathing slowed and sounded normal. He continued to stretch her with his fingers slowly sliding a third one in, both loving and hating how tight she was.

“Finan,” she cried. He pulled his mouth from her nub and kissed up her stomach and between her breasts as she seemed to begin to sob.

“Shh,” he whispered as he turned and took one of her nipples in his mouth. He let his tongue swirl around her nipple as she huffed. He pulled his mouth from her nipple and turned to move to the other one. “Take slow breaths, my love,” he whispered as he took her other nipple in his mouth doing the same to that one as he had to the other one.

“I,” she took a slow breath, “that was too much,” she whispered.

He smiled against her skin. He pulled his mouth away from her nipple and kissed up her chest to her neck. He nipped and sucked on the bruise forming there. He turned and finally pressed a kiss to her lips, his fingers moving in and out of her, stretching her as his cock ached and twitched.

“That was nothing,” he whispered pulling his lips away from hers. “It gets better.”

She looked at him, her ocean blue eyes filled with desire and tears. “Are you going to make me yours now?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “If ya want me to,” he stated.

She was quiet. He knew that it was asking a lot. If she let him claim her, and they did not get married, she would forever be tainted. He could and probably would walk away without consequence. But not her. She nodded, finally.

“I want you to,” she whispered as she pressed a hand to his cheek. “I would rather have you, someone I love and trust, take my maidenhead then some one else who will not care about me or my discomfort.”

Finan kissed her again. He stood and slowly pulled his fingers from her. He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her. He placed her in the middle of the bed and he climbed over her. He went on his knees in between her legs and pulled her closer so his cock rested on her mound. Her legs were on either side of his hips and he gently rubbed them.

“I love ya,” he whispered softly.

“And I love you,” she answered.

He took his cock in hand and slowly moved it, rubbing the tip up and down her folds, getting it wet. He made sure to rub it around her nub looking up at her face. She let her head fall back and he saw her grip the blankets in her hand. He slowly moved his tip down and pressed it into her entrance. He moved so slowly, gently pressing more and more into her. She gasped and let his thumbs rub circles in her thighs.

“Are ya all right?” he asked softly.

She nodded. “It just,” she opened her eyes and looked at him, “it feels both odd and perfect at the same time.”

He leaned down and kissed her, feeling her heat surround his cock. He was holding on so hard not to come. He needed to show her how pleasurable it could be, the joining of two people in love. He did not want to disappoint her.

“Can I keep going?” he asked his lips still against her.

“Please,” she breathed out her fingers gripping his arms.

He nodded. He pressed his forehead against hers and slowly pressed into her more. He moved slowly until he glanced down and saw he was almost completely inside of her. He thrusted his hips and filled her completely. She gasped and dug her nails into his arms. He held himself still waiting. He kissed her nose and her cheeks. She nodded, telling him she was all right. He kissed her again and slowly pulled his cock from her, dragging it out.

“Oh,” she gasped as he did.

“I promise ya, ya will not regret this,” he whispered against her lips.

He thrusted into her again. Her legs came up and wrapped around his waist. He smiled against her lips and he did it again; dragging his cock and thrusting it back in. He did it over and over. She moaned and gasped as her finger nails raked down his chest.

He moved his face and nuzzled it in her neck as he pressed his forehead to her shoulder. He felt her clenching around him, telling him she was close to coming. He continued his pace of dragging his cock from her and thrusting it back in. He loved the sounds she made; the moans, the sighs, her whimpers. He also loved the sound of his cock sliding into her wet cunt.

“Please, please,” she begged as she raked her nails down his back.

“Shh,” he whispered as his hands gripped her thighs. “Soon,” he promised.

She clenched around him, tighter and he knew she was so close. He moved one hand between them. It only took a couple swipes of his fingers on her nub before she came, crashing into the pleasure. She moaned his name, it echoing loudly in the room. She clamped down on his cock and he did not move. He grunted and moaned and couldn't stop himself. He came as her cunt squeezed his cock harder. He filled her with his seed.

He let his body fall over hers, feeling her body tremble as she held him tighter and tighter. He grabbed her thighs and let his fingers rub her skin as his own body twitched as he finished emptying his seed into her. He kissed her neck and sucked on it.

Moments passed. He held her tight, not wanted to leave her. She held him just as tight.

“I will not lose you,” she whispered into the quiet of the room.

“And I will not lose ya,” he answered.

***

Finan looked at Sihtric and Osferth. He expected them to arrest him right there. Hell, perhaps even kill him. Aisling stood off to the side with Ealhswith.

They stood at a crossroads. One road would lead them to Chester. The other road, it would them to Northumbria, where Aisling's brothers were.

Where she could be free and he could marry her.

“Do you love him?” Osferth asked as he turned and looked at Aisling.

Finan looked at Aisling. It had been two days since he had taken her, made her his, marked her. They stole many moments since, and she had other marks on her skin. He did as well.

She looked at Osferth. “I do,” she whispered. “I do not want to be Lord Aethelred's wife. I do not wish to be a duchess,” she looked at Finan, “I wish to be Finan's wife. Even if it means I will have nothing. I will at least have him.”

Finan felt tears come to his eyes. He nodded. He looked at Sihtric. Sihtric looked at him. “What are we waiting for?” he asked. “We are wasting daylight.”

He smiled. Aisling ran over to him and jumped in his arms. He grabbed her and held her tight kissing her deeply.

“We need to stop at the very first church we find,” Ealhswith said. “I will not have my lady with child before she is married.”

Sihtric and Osferth laughed while Aisling blushed. Finan pulled away and kissed her cheeks, where they were getting red.

“Should I tell her ya may already be carrying my babe?” he teased.

She smacked his cheek. “Do not,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, holding her tight and close.

He would marry her.

He would make her his.

And after, they would deal with the problems that came. As long as they were together, he did not care about the rest.

[terrorbitch]

          hello everyone! i am not able to do a lot of replies for the next few hours but i do have some wants/needs as far as plots go for my muses. so please like this post if you’re interested in any pairings/plots under the cut and i’ll message you and we can plot and eventually get some starters out.

rose (natalia dyer) needs to be super duper corrupted, tbh. whether it be an older person or just someone her age that turns her into like, a nymphomaniac or even a murder or something wild. i want to write her sm but it should be something dark or depraved.

mckenna (grace van patten), scout (madelaine petsch) & tatum (minka kella) wants to dom some guy (strap or not lmao). that’s it.

ghostface plots. i have a few muses i can throw into it! harvey (jon bernthal) or max (jacob elordi) but i’d also be down for the opposite and throw one of my girls at them.

i miss using crosby (oliver jackson cohen) so maybe a corrupt super hero or another villain trying to take over and they eventually become a power couple? orrr we could have a thing where he sort of takes on an apprentice and he has a soft spot for her? or like, a little silly hero who is getting fucked up by other villains and he randomly has a heart, saves her, and begrudgingly becomes a good guy!

i have sooo many h*rry p*tter muses! pls write some shit with them.

give my pretty boys some milfs. specifically mikey (paul mescal), walter (jeremy allen white), gunner (kj apa), ferg (logan lerman) & bear (mason gooding).

age gaps in general. i will give you my milfs for anyone.

gimme a priest who ends up fucking one of my innocent gals.

let’s do a multi muse plot except its your muse dating all 3 of the van cortlant sisters (mia healey, samara weaving, grace van patten) with or without knowing.

a plot where one of our muses is a ghost who can walk and be “there” in the house that they were killed/died in, but they can’t leave it. so the live muse finds themselves a recluse, trying to get to know the ghost, falling in love w them, and doing fucking scary magic to potentially make them come alive again. evil undertones welcome, or just campy ghost stuff.

dads fucking the babysitter, full stop.

give jackson (chris evans) or dax (oscar isaac) or chester (pedro pascal) or harvey (jon bernthal) threesome threads w pretty girls/women.

[briamichellewrites]

9

For context: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ian_Watkins_(Lostprophets_singer)

Ian Watkins. Linkin Park and Bria did not like him. They could not understand why. There was something fundamentally wrong with him. They were touring with him and his band, Lost Prophets. So far, they have not had any issues with him. At the same time, they were careful not to leave Bria alone with him. She had no objections to having them follow her around because she did not feel safe. They had no idea he was a paedophile or had underage girls "hanging out" with him in an inappropriate manner.

They performed a few shows alongside him and his band. Bria was accidentally left alone by the tour buses while on a stop in Cardiff, Wales. Joe had just left to retrieve his phone. He was not supposed to be gone longer than a minute. Ian spotted her alone and saw an opportunity. She was concentrating on her phone with her head bowed. As Mike and Rob approached, he appeared behind her.

They noticed him approaching her from behind and grabbing her buttocks. She let out a loud scream. She turned around and began punching and kicking him before they could respond. She landed elbow strikes, palm strikes, and groin kicks. The other guys showed up to the fight. Brad pulled her away from him.

As they escorted her away from him, he caught his breath. They boarded their tour bus, where she began crying. Why was she crying? She was so furious! Dave asked, "What the hell happened?" Mike and Rob described what Ian had done. She reacted after being sexually assaulted. They enquired about Joe's current location. He admitted that he left her alone.

"We will talk about that later," Brad replied.

He responded with a nod.

"Bria, we are extremely proud of you for standing up for yourself. How are you doing?"

"I will be okay. I do not want to file charges against him. I just do not want to see him again.”

"We will honour that decision. How did you learn to fight?”

"My father taught me. It was just in case I needed it. He did not want me to have to rely on a man to help me. No offence."

They were not offended at all. They would never have thought she was capable of fighting. She gave them yet another reason not to mess with her. Chester wrapped his arm around her shoulders while she wiped away her tears. Though they were upset that Joe had left her alone, they decided to be gentle with him. He had probably already started beating himself up. While the boys stayed with her, Mike and Brad summoned him outside.

Mike made it clear that they would not be punishing him. He nodded and apologised. What happened? He assumed it would only take a minute to retrieve his phone. She should have gone with him. Outside, Ian's bandmate came over to see how Bria was doing. He found out what happened from Ian. Mike explained that she was upset, which was understandable. He nodded and apologised on behalf of the entire band for his actions. They thanked him before he left.

Ian sustained minor injuries, but his pride was shattered. He was beaten up by a girl. The band hoped she would not press charges against him for assault. He was evaluated and found to be fit to perform. They saw her getting off the bus. She appeared to have been crying because her face was red. They prohibited him from approaching her.

Joe hugged her and apologised for not being there. She responded by placing her head against his chest. He placed his arm around her shoulders. Yes, he was punishing himself for walking away. They would have to discuss it later because they needed to start preparing for the concert.

“Hi, my name is Doctor Johnson. What brings you in today?”

The emergency room was very busy. Henry was moving between patients as quickly and efficiently as possible. He appeared to be working beyond his normal hours. He did not mind because he did not have anything to return home to. His therapist encouraged him to get a dog as a companion. Loneliness was one of the primary causes of depression. He was researching various breeds and what he could afford.

A dog would help him get out of the house and stay active. They were also helpful for trauma recovery. He wrote a letter to the girl who assaulted him as a way to clear his mind. In the letter, he explained what she had done to him and how it had affected him. Despite his many accomplishments in the army, he felt emasculated. It did not matter that she would been drinking. Alcohol did not give her the authority to touch him without his consent.

He had no idea at the time that what had happened to him was sexual assault. He kept the secret for years, and it gradually overtook his life.

Words cannot express how much you have changed my life. I was 16 years old. I do not want anyone else to go through what I did. Nobody, not even you. I am not sure where you are, but I hope to never see you again. I fell into a deep depression after you assaulted me. I did not realise men could be assaulted. I did not even realise it was assault until I joined the army. You have no idea how many nights I spent imagining you touching me. I was terrified of you entering my room and touching me while I was sleeping.

Since graduating from high school, I have joined the army. I got married and had a daughter. She is 19 years old now. My ex-wife and I taught her about consent, and I shared my experience with her. She is stronger than I will ever be. I never want her to experience what I went through.

You got drunk. You touched me. You followed me into the bathroom. You had me cornered. The assault only came to an end when Kenny arrived. I can only imagine what else you might have done to me. I am gradually coming to terms with everything you did. I pushed it down for a long time. But I can not go on pretending it never happened. I survived several tours in the army.

Others have died, but I have survived. But I am not as strong as I thought I was. The army does not teach you how to survive sexual assault. I was taught that I should not touch a woman. As a result, I found it impossible to defend myself. I could not push you away from me. As I continue to replay everything, I feel anger that I have never felt before. It is because of you. Maybe one day I will recover from my trauma and you will no longer affect me. Until then, I consider myself a work in progress.

Bria played her set in front of another enthusiastic audience. She moved around the stage as her backing band played behind her. Linkin Park was watching her from behind the scenes. The fans adored her! In the middle of her set, she sang Evanescence's "My Immortal." It was hauntingly beautiful. The crowd sang along with her. She was supposed to perform in front of a large audience on stage.

After the events of the day, they were relieved to have a distraction. Brad had a videographer record her so she could show her parents and George her performance. She thanked the audience for their support at the end of her performance. She then presented Linkin Park. Backstage, Joe embraced her. Before he went on stage, they kissed and said "I love you." She pulled up a chair and sat down after retrieving her camera. It was her turn to cheer them on.

@zoeykaytesmom @feelingsofaithless @alina-dixon

[bornredheadedme-blog]

Getting Old

I suspect that I am living the karmic realization of my mother, just as she did hers. She was 8 years old when her mother developed strep throat and asphyxiated because in 1928, they didn't have penicillin yet. At the time, my grandparents were separated. My grandfather, Chester, was unable to find work in Chicago. He was a Linotype engineer and the machines were few and far between locally. He was finally able to find a place in Lynn, Massachusetts and once there, sent for his wife and child.

Grandmother's family didn't think Chester was good enough for Mildred and went to great lengths to convince her that she should stay in Chicago and give up on her marriage. Within a year, Mildred contracted strep throat and died and exactly one month later, Chester married Helena. Chester immediately sent for his daughter, and received letters from his mother-in-law, Ida, begging him not to take his daughter. Ida, then 62, had given birth to 4 children, now one was dead and the others grown adults. So rather than allowing Chester and daughter to live together as a family, Ida selfishly wanted to keep her granddaughter.

Chester relented. It would be another 10 years before Chester's daughter would visit he and his wife and their new baby in Massachusetts. By that time, Marjorie, his daughter was 19 and had graduated from a private high school at age 16 and was already accepted into nursing school. At age 16, Marjorie was simply too young to be a working nurse and withdrew from the program. Instead, she went to secretarial school, the only real alternative for women.

Helena was already caring for her 3 year-old son, Byron, and found the intrusion of a 19 year-old stepdaughter so egregious that after threatening Chester with leaving him, she packed up Byron and left in the night. Chester packed his daughter up and sent her back to Chicago to appease his wife. He wasn't about to lose another child.

Marjorie is my mother, my namesake, and I was the 3rd attempt for a son. My parents were stuck with 3 girls. Suzy, the eldest, was curvy from birth, and behaved impulsively, which was a constant irritant to my father, Clyde. Since Suzy was conceived when he returned from his stint in the Army, he was suspicious that she might not be his child. The fact that she looked like Marjorie didn't help. When their 2nd child was born, Terry, she looked just like Clyde, which provided further proof to him that Suzy was not his.

Four years later, I was born and looked just like my mother. Clyde was now completely confused, but he had already spent 7 years believing that Suzy was not his child that he never connected with her. The distance between them never diminished. Terry, a petite blond little who had a lazy eye (as I also did), wore glasses from age 5, and was the favorite of both parents. Then, Terry developed a painful hip/leg and since it was during the polio scare, she was admitted to Contagious Diseases Hospital in Chicago.

I am unable to locate where it was in the 1950s, but I remember my parents parking along a side street behind (?) the building and Suzy and I waiting in the car while they visited Terry. At some point, Clyde would come by and ask what flavor ice cream we wanted. He would return later, bringing cones for both Suzy and me. Once a boy patient on one of the upper floors talked to us and threw empty syringes down to us. We were easily entertained.

Turned out, Terry didn't have polio, but an infection in her hip socket. She later would tell us that she was diagnosed with shallow hip sockets, a "fact" which allowed her to blame her fragile body for all sorts of chore avoidance. It also permitted my mother to openly favor Terry over Suzy and me and we both knew it our whole lives.

Consequently I never actually felt close to my mother. When she found a lump in her breast, I was the one who came and sat with her one Saturday night when she was so convinced that the biopsy she had was malignant (it wasn't). I did so because I felt sorry that she had convinced herself that we were lying to her to prevent her from knowing that she was dying. This was probably the most obvious session I ever had as a therapist (prior to attending college) and she needed to vent her fears. I helped her understand that while other family members might try to protect her, I was the upstart who would never lie to her about something so serious. She survived but still turned to Terry when she wanted something.

And so it continued, Terry was the one, the precious child my mother favored over all others. When my mother's house was so overwhelmingly full of crap, and the hoarding became a dangerous situation, I was the one to organize and spearhead the cleanup while my parents vacationed in Canada with my great aunt. But Terry was a small part of it so the credit was hers. We used a trash compactor and hundreds of plastic garbage bags and filled the front yard. We ended up calling the waste disposal company to send an empty truck. We filled that one and kept going.

Eventually we emptied the house of garbage, including whole sets of cookware that were never washed after use (or emptied). We emptied the fridge of the gross disgusting unrecognizable nasties that reeked every time we opened it. We scraped the built up grease from the stove and eventually cleared and scrubbed the 50s red Formica countertops that hadn't seen the light of day for at least a decade or two. We found the floor.

We rolled up the rug in the master bedroom. We actually had to scrape the rug in that room. The house was built on a crawl space which was not vented. there was no moisture barrier between the wood floor and the humid crawl space, and the room had been filled with old magazines, household documents, clothing and all of this compacted the carpet causing it to disintegrate as we tried to remove it.

When my parents came home, Terry was the one they thanked, and at that moment, I stopped caring. It took them just a week to begin to fill the house again. We convinced them that living in Texas was a better idea than traveling back and forth. We rented the house to a young guy who actually fixed some things. Half the house had been without power for some time and it turned out that when the new next-door neighbors were building their house, they asked if they could plug into my parents' house. The old electrical system of the house was controlled by 4 fuses. Two of them blew but the neighbor never said anything. All my parents knew was they lost half the electrical in the house.

So Kevin, the guy who rented the place immediately spotted that. He also got rid of the 20 year-old grape jelly in the utility room. When we moved into the house in 1956, my parents planted grape vines. Within a couple of years, we had tons of concord grapes and I remember my grandma coming out and she cooked down the grapes and helped my mom make the jelly. They used paraffin with a string embedded in it as a lid. I wonder what the shelf life would be for those. I wasn't about to try any to find out.

The jars were stored on shelves in the utility room, which also contained the wringer washer and rinse tub which never seemed to be empty. My mother didn't believe in completing any task. Once, I heard her comment that she didn't clean house because no one had ever taught her how. I asked, "Then who taught me?" I think I confused her. I know she appreciated what we did with the house, but it took some time for her to realize that the bulk of the work was my doing. She and my dad spent the rest of the summer at my house and left their house to Kevin.

They went back to Texas at the end of the summer and spent the next couple of summers with me or traveling to visit friends. They went to Michigan and my dad didn't want to have to stop often on the road so he neglected to take his lasix which caused him to go into congestive heart failure. He was literally drowning in his own fluid. That turned into his last hospitalization. He had always said that he never wanted to be kept alive by machines. My mother was told that if his heart could be allowed to rest, he could survive this episode. So she allowed them to insert a pacemaker. When he woke up, he removed that pacemaker (painful to say the least) and told me that I was to tell everyone that he needed to "do this" himself. Later I realized that he was telling me goodbye. Finally, he was allowed to go peacefully on his own terms.

My mother put the house on the market. She had no reason to keep it without him. A young couple made an offer of $64,000 with 8% interest if my mother would hold the paper. Since it was considered a "handyman special" she really didn't have much choice. They got a house that needed a roof and various other repairs sitting on 3/4 of an acre in a great suburb of Chicago and my mother no longer had to worry about upkeep. They got a great deal. Today that little house is valued at over $300,000.

My mother returned to Texas, and traded her 5th wheel for a park model. She now had a two bedroom trailer to fill up and needed to get crackin'. A few years later, she was notified that there was an apartment available in the senior complex a few blocks from her beloved Terry and she was instantly ready to come back to Illinois. The problem was that she had continued her hoarding ways with the new park model and it was a disaster. Terry had to pay a cleaning company to clear out and sanitize the trailer so she could sell it. This was in the late 90s and the cost was $1200. The average housecleaner charged around $30 to clean 4 rooms. By the time they were done, the floors needed to be replaced among other repairs. She worked fast.

It's not that I don't understand how getting old affects my ability to do chores. I sit in a lightweight chair (wicker) to vacuum. I have a shop stool with wheels to do dishes and clean in the kitchen. My bedroom isn't as neat as it used to be and I need help to make my bed, but I try as much as I can. She didn't have the interest in finding ways to get things done.

She moved up north to be with her beloved Terry, and it took her about 2 years to fail a housing authority inspection. A social worker came and tried to work with her, and she explained that she had daughters but they wouldn't/couldn't help. She explained to the social worker that her one daughter who lived 4 blocks away weighed over 300 pounds and had trouble getting around and then told her I was too busy to help. She also told her that she was taking medication that made it nearly impossible to carry a trash bag out to the dumpster 25 feet from her front door.

I was at my internship (working on my masters degree in social work) when the social worker called me to inform me that she was considering making a report for elder abuse. I paused for a moment and then asked her if my mother told her what I did. She said my mother told her I was in school and too busy to help her. I told her that I was studying to be a social worker and then told her the entire truth; that Terry weighed about 120 and had no problem getting around; that sister Suzy was morbidly obese but lived more than an hour away and was unable to physically help, and that no matter how much I tried to help, as fast as I removed, my mother filled in.

I explained that this was the fourth time my mother would receive help to clean up her mess and frankly I was tired of the extra effort needed and her lying about her circumstance to authority figures. I told her that I would talk to my sister and we would do the best we could to intervene.

I found a huge pot of "osso buco" sitting on her stove, and learned that she had made it a week before and had been eating it for several days. She couldn't fit the large pot in the fridge so it just say on the stove. She must have had the constitution of iron man that she didn't get food poisoning during that time. It took me several hours to clean the bathroom and another few hours to clean her kitchen. My frustrations grew steadily and I finally asked her why she had 32 coffee mugs in her cabinet. "In case someone stops by for coffee." I pointed out that there was no place to sit because all of her chairs and sofa were full of crap. I packed up all but 4 cups and got rid of the outdated food stuff in her cabinets. She complained the entire time that I was wasting her food. It took a week and she was able to move back, after we cleaned up the spilled birdseed by her patio door. That way we were able to close the door and stop the mice and "vermin" from coming in to feast.

We eventually realized that my mother couldn't live by herself and Terry was in no condition to take her in. Terry's diabetes had taken it's toll and she had been struggling with having "mini-strokes." So I explained to my mother that she would be moving in with her less favorite daughter but there would be rules. I moved her into a first floor apartment with me and cleaned up every week so she could see me do it. I came home one day to her "clean" dishes in the dish drainer and that had a thin layer of grease. When I rewashed them, she questioned why, I told her that they were dusty and I just rinsed them. I bought a portable dishwasher that evening.

I've spent so many hours trying to figure out what I have done in a former life to warrant being the daughter of this woman. I was the 'son" they wanted, but I didn't reap any benefit for that. I spent my life feeling like I was never enough no matter what I did. I questioned everything, even when my brain told me I did well. I understand the concept of the "Imposter Syndrome" and can see how my feeling like second best contributed to that.

[maxwell-grant]

Red of Overly Sarcastic Productions once said :"If you can imagine your Batman comforting a shared child, then congratulations, you're righting Batman. If not, you're just writing the Punisher in a funny hat". This got me wondering: could the Shadow comfort a scared child?

Could he? You forget who was there to lift young Bruce to his feet at his first brush with death (sadly far from his last).

But it's an interesting question to pose still, because children were straight up not in the pulps, not in any I've read, and I can't recall any episodes of the radio show that feature them much (there's gotta be at least a few, because they had everything in that show). The most interaction I think The Shadow's ever had with children (from comics that I can discuss here, because Marshall Rogers' "Harold Goes to Washington" is way, way too much for me to go into right now, and the less I talk about some other DC comics, the better) is in the Street & Smith comics.

There's Jerry from the Devil Kyoti arc, a kid who was traumatized by an encounter with the villain who Sayre's looking after and who ends up having some kind of hidden power that allows him to see The Shadow and defeat the villain. There was a blonde Jerry who showed up later in the Monstradamus arc, but he isn't a kid so much as he's diet Jimmy Olsen or a replacement for Harry, but he had weird eyesight-based powers and a familiarity with The Shadow, so I assume it's the same character.

There was also Donald Jordan - Shadow Jr, and okay, I may have to talk more about this weird little failed experiment some other time, but the basic gist of it is that The Shadow had a friend in Tibet named Harry Jordan (and someday I'm also gonna write about the weird prevalence and significance of the name "Harry" in The Shadow's mythos in and out of universe) who was murdered, leaving his son orphaned and with nowhere to go. And, I'll admit that I have a real weakness for The Shadow calling people "son", which he does a lot in this story.

And as you can expect, it then turns out that the kid's also learned how to cloud minds and has basically the same powers The Shadow has in these comics, and they solve the mystery of his dad's murder together, and yeah, you can absolutely tell that they are setting up this kid to be The Shadow's Robin. Although, interestingly, they don't have The Shadow actually recruit the kid, instead it's Jordan who asks The Shadow if he can go with him and join his mission, and Cranston even states he's going to have to "earn" his way

"Must I stay here, sir? It will always remind me of dad - I'd like to devote my life to your fight against evil and evil doers!

Now, "Shadow Jr's" career was incredibly short-lived, it only lasted for about two other issues, and I have no idea what happened in his final appearence called "Snake Eyes" in Shadow Comics #77, I cannot find that issue anywhere and I really want to. But the one other solo story of his I've read was...well, I think it kinda illustrates why the idea of The Shadow having a Robin was doomed from the start.

...Yeah. Even The Shadow at his most sanitized and family friendly is still The Shadow, and there's no room for children in his network, obviously he shouldn't and wouldn't have children be in those positions or make decisions expected from grown-ups who have already had encounters with death and danger, why would anyone do that-

The only instance I can think of The Shadow interacting with a child in the pulps was during The Prince of Evil, when he has to rescue a young boy from Stark's thugs.

Cranston, dazed, tried to stagger to his feet. Before he could do so, the thug had picked up the limp figure of the boy and was darting out into the street. There was a scream of horror from pedestrians.

A heavy truck was racing at top speed along the avenue. Straight into the path of the truck, the thug threw the senseless boy!

The driver of the truck jammed on the brakes. But it was too late to halt the heavy vehicle. The broad-tired wheels rolled toward the limp head of the lad on the pavement.

An instant before it could crush out his life, Lamont Cranston dived headlong into the path of destruction. His shoulder struck the boy, rolling him toward the curb. A quick wriggle, and Cranston swerved aside from the grinding death that loomed over him.

He picked up the boy. One glance and he knew there was no time to lose. The attempted killer had leaped into a waiting sedan and had already made his escape.

The boy was all Cranston could see or think about. Brass knuckles had fractured his skull. He had suffered a concussion of the brain. A glance at his bluish lips and the fixed glaze of his staring eyes told Cranston that unless the boy was operated on immediately, he would die.

A leap, Cranston was in his car. He laid the boy gently on the seat beside him, then headed the car toward the nearest hospital. Traffic lights were ignored.

The boy was taken to an emergency operating room and a skilled surgeon went to work. When it was over, Cranston asked only one question: "Will the child live?"

"Hard to say. We'll do our best."

"Spare no expense. Put him in a private room. Engage day and night nurses."

Cranston's face was pale. He knew that he himself was indirectly responsible for the boy's attack. A supercriminal had made a prompt answer to Cranston's message over Jackson's telephone. That telephone must have been tapped. The attempt to kill the boy was a vicious warning for Lamont Cranston to mind his own business about the Harmon family. It was a follow-up of the attack on Jackson's dog.

Cranston felt a surge of hot anger. He kept it under control while he answered routine police questions. He told all he knew - which was nothing.

He had only one angry thought. He intended to drive straight to the office of David Chester. He'd get the truth out of the sleek Chester, if he had to batter him with vengeful fists!

Cranston was actually halfway to Chester's office before common sense returned to him. He realized he had lost his sense of balance. He was behaving exactly as the crooks wanted. He was playing their game, not his!

He parked, and the hot rage drained slowly from him. He stopped thinking about the limp figure of a young lad on a white operating table.

This is definitely because Tinsley writes the character differently than Gibson, but I actually cannot think of another occasion where we got to read about The Shadow actively wanting to hit someone with his fists. It's very, very rare to read about The Shadow actually getting mad in the first place in such an undignified way. And I think with this passage, you'll start to notice a pattern.

The problem isn't that The Shadow cannot interact with kids or that he can't comfort them, he does it to his agents and adults he wants to help just fine, he knows how to address people in their language, or any language. The problem is, The Shadow is constantly surrounded by danger everywhere he goes, because he is The Shadow. He can be any number of things at any number of occasions, but usually, when The Shadow shows up, it's usually because people are going to die, and people are going to kill, and it's his job to address that and work the scales.

Children should not be anywhere near this, and if The Shadow's interacting with a child, it usually means that some grave danger or tragedy fell upon them, and he's here to either prevent greater tragedy or address the fall-out, and he'd be the first to agree that neither of these options should be happening at all. It doesn't mean he's not gonna do what's right and give life and limb to protect them, but, it shouldn't be up to the Boogeyman to look after them in the first place. Maybe it shouldn't be up to the Boogeyman to protect us.

But then again, as I mentioned when I talked about my own reasons for liking The Shadow so much, there are many kids who would like nothing more than to have the Boogeyman by their side to protect them. There's comfort in knowing that the scariest man in the room is unconditionally there to protect you, and that is the comfort that The Shadow gives best. Not as Cranston, not under a friendly face, but as what he is.

Due to a lack of scenes from the pulps or satisfying scenes from elsewhere, I will instead be pulling one from a fan story written by Kimberly-Murphy Smith, editor and writer of The Hot Cornerm where The Shadow rescues a child who was kidnapped for blackmail. I couldn't care less that it's fanfic, and if you do, come back in 20 or so years after The Shadow's been made public domain and it's gonna be just as official as anything licensed (on my “to write about” list: how fickle the separation between “official�� and “fanfic” is, and the many times it plainly didn’t exist). There’s aspects of her writing I don’t care for, but I really like this scene and I do think The Shadow’s more gentle interactions with people are necessary to getting the character.

Annabelle.

She stopped crying for a minute. "Who's there?" she said, her voice choked.

A friend. Your mommy and daddy sent me to pick you up.

"Mommy? Mommy's here?"

Sh-h-h. Annabelle felt a gloved hand gently stroking her hair. She's waiting for you at home. So, we need to hurry up and leave.

"'kay." She looked around. "Where are you?"

It's kind of hard to see me. It's dark in here, plus you've been crying so much your eyes probably hurt.

"Yeah."

Don't be afraid. I'm here to help.

"'kay."

The implicit trust of children was simply amazing at times. Adults trembled in fear of The Shadow's wrath, but children somehow seemed to understand that he was there to help them, even if they couldn't see him.

Sit up, Annabelle. I'm going to pick you up. Be very quiet.

One hand took each of her arms and guided them around a neck she could not see. "Why are you wearin' a blanket?" she asked as the fabric of his cloak brushed against her shoulders.

Sometimes I get cold at night.

"Even in the summer?"

Even in the summer. He gently stroked her cheek and wiped away her tears. Now, you need to be very quiet so those bad men in the next room don't hear us. I'll bet you're tired.

She nodded.

He rocked her on his arms, projecting a very gentle hypnotic relaxation into her with his powers as he did. You probably didn't get your nap, either. Poor thing. Lean on my shoulder and go to sleep. And when you wake up, you'll be back with Mommy and Daddy.

She yawned, then snuggled against his shoulder and went to sleep.

The Shadow sighed with relief. Now to get past the men out front. He gently pulled the pistol out of its holster under his left arm and slipped it into the belted waist of his overcoat within easy reach, then secured his grip on Annabelle and draped his cloak over her.

She clutched the edge of his cloak in her hand like a security blanket and snuggled against his shoulder again.

(Art by Jill Thompson)

[jetaime-jespere]

I Was Enchanted To Meet You

This is a long time in the works, and a gift to my dear friend @cmhotchniss-blog, who sent me her idea of how Aaron and Emily met. Most of the ideas are hers, and I am forever grateful she let me connect some of the dots. 💓

"I’d like to think this is how we were supposed to meet. For a brief moment in time, that’s all. To steer one another in the right direction, if you will.”

One night for Aaron and Emily has a lasting impact on them both, twenty-four years later.

A mess of metal is what’s left behind on a dusky stretch of Route 66. Shattered glass sparkles like diamonds along the wet asphalt in the darkening sky as night meets the last moments of the day. Smoke curls and hisses around the mangled frame of the SUV, the stillness of the air a juxtaposition to the chaos that wraps around them - a slew of first responders, a few ominous rumbles of thunder, the mounting traffic on the other side of the highway. It’s a cacophony of sounds and sirens, shrill and relentless, that bring them all back to the reality that it can’t get much worse than this.

Read the rest below or on ao3!

There’s shouting - so much shouting - the frantic and panicked voices from the normally imperturbable team as one of their own is pulled from the passenger seat, limp and unresponsive. It only took seconds for things to go horribly wrong. Accidents were never supposed to happen, and yet here they were, helplessly surrounding a team of paramedics who were just a little too quiet in their intense focus, their faces stretched a little too thin, a little too grey, as they bent over Emily.

Her speech is slurred; her eyes flutter and blink weakly as they fight to keep her conscious and alert, rattling off blood pressure numbers with thinly veiled concern. They abruptly push JJ to the side, curtly demanding the need for more space to work, bark directions to the hospital, and start preparing to move her into the ambulance.

On the other side, a hand with a set of bitten down nails grapples for purchase at Dave’s shirt, fingers wrapping around the folds of expensive fabric to pull him closer in one last moment of semi lucidity. With a fading grasp Emily drags him down close enough to whisper something inaudible in his ear, words meant for only him to hear. The older man frowns, eyebrows furrowing with confusion as she falls unconscious, the last lick of light disappearing behind the trees.

____

“Dad, are you sleeping?”

Aaron’s eyes snap open a little too quickly, the bowl of popcorn nearly spilling into his lap when he jumps to attention. The voice, a familiar one, is insistent, as if it’s not the first time he’s said his name in the last few minutes. “No,” he says quickly and he’s not entirely sure who he’s reassuring. “No. I was just -”

“Let me guess,” Jack scoffs, taking a large handful from his own, much larger bowl of popcorn in his lap. “Just nodded off.”

“I’m paying attention,” Aaron attempts weakly as Jack laughs under his breath and shakes his head.

“I’ve heard that before.” His son reaches for the remote to rewind the last ten minutes of the scene he’d missed, still laughing. “This is what … the third week in a row?”  While he’s right, Jack doesn’t seem bothered. The years away have made him wise beyond his years, with a patience not often possessed by hormonal teenage boys who spend most of their time with a screen in their face. Aaron often thinks his son inherited the best of Haley - her patience, for starters. He resembles her too, and every now and then, looking at Jack is like looking into a window of the past. A past that could have been a fantasy, for now it seems like so far gone.

“Something like that,” Aaron mumbles. It’s true. In the four months they’ve lived in the quaint Philadelphia suburbs of Chester County, an idyllic place without the Main Line housing prices, adjustment has taken on a new meaning once again. Gone are the fake identities, the constant checking and double checking of doors and windows, the frequent looks over their shoulders, the unsettling notion that it might not end - that this might, unfairly, be their reality. He knows they’d go to the end of the earth to find Scratch - they’d done it before to find Foyet, then Doyle. They fought monsters before, but somehow, this was different.

There had been a finality in his decision to take Jack and go into Witsec. His final act to name Emily as Unit Chief was an easy one, and while it didn’t lessen the blow of the circumstances in which he and Jack left, in a flurry of panic, reminiscent of one his son experienced once before, it gave him a semblance of peace he wasn’t expecting. A little bit of reprieve, the ability to sever ties that may never be rebuilt, to no fault of their own. The cruel and unusual situation was one that they always risked with the nature of their work, one that was always a distant possibility.

In the quiet moments, he thinks of her. The what ifs and the whys. Everything between them that was said, and what never was. What he’s never told anyone is just how long he’s thought of her in one way or another, the one night they shared together, years ago, tucked neatly away in his mind to save for nights when he wondered just how things got to be this way.

“Come on, Dad,” Jack laughs. “At least try to make it through this movie. You said you wanted to see this one.”

With a hint of guilt as his obvious disinterest, Aaron sits up a bit straighter on the couch, grips the popcorn bowl in his hands, locking his eyes on the television. The plot of the movie is already lost on him, despite it being a topic of conversation for the last several days. “Just play the movie, Jack.” He stifles a yawn into his fist and valiantly attempts to focus his attention on the screen.

Aaron is dozing when he’s interrupted again; this time by his phone vibrating on the table. He doesn’t miss Jack’s eyes flickering over to the phone. “It’s just like old times,” he sighs. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

The name on the screen is the very last he expects to see at such an hour in the middle of the week. Aaron frowns, the phone cradled in his hands as the phone vibrates insistently. It’s the familiar push and pull of guilt he feels when his eyes shift between his son and the phone again, an unexpected window into a life he long left behind. The phone keeps ringing, immediately following the first unanswered call. Not a good sign, he thinks.

“Dad?”

“I need to take this, Jack,” Aaron says quickly. It’s late enough that this is anything but a casual phone call. The blanket is tossed aside and the popcorn already forgotten. He barely hears Jack’s half-hearted protest as the phone crackles static and then connects. The voice on the other end speaks first, his tone clouded with thinly veiled fear.

“Aaron.”

“Dave.” His tone is equally clipped, even and steady even as the phone is held tightly in his hand, waiting for whatever news is about to come.

“Aaron, you need to get to Prince William Medical Center as soon as you can.” It’s the urgency in Dave’s voice that unnerves him; it sets off every warning bell in his head. His normally unflappable, at times annoyingly rational friend sounds harried and exhausted, as if it’s already been the longest of nights, as if making this very phone call was a last resort. “It’s Emily.”

Emily .

The words reverberate through his head, the implications tear through his chest like a series of spears. He knew it wasn’t good, but he didn’t expect this. “What happened?” But years of experience and unbridled heartache have steeled his nerves, tested his resolve time and time again. He should be used to this by now - bad news that haunts those he loves. But the fear is like a vice, a cold stab that wraps itself around his mind and back again.

“There was an accident.” Dave begins. It’s been a few years since he’s seen him, but through the phone Aaron can see the lines on his forehead that have certainly deepened by now, perhaps a few have been added over time as the years add up.

“Accident? What kind of accident?”

He barely listens as Dave recounts the last few hours in excruciating detail. They were on a case - local - Reston - on their way back to Quantico. A poorly timed summer storm made visibility terrible, rendering driving nearly impossible. They were sideswept by another SUV, the impact sending them careening into the median on 66 just outside of Woodbridge. It sounds like anyone’s worst nightmare - airbags deployed, the windshield shattered upon impact, the entire hood a mangled mess of metal as the car careened to a stop, the threatening hiss of the engine.

But the totaled car was the very least of their problems.

“She’s in critical condition, Aaron,” Dave says carefully, as if it’s only part of the truth, as if somehow it’s even graver than this. “She’s unconscious.” It doesn’t sound good - her head hit the window on impact, the rest of Dave’s news confirms his worst fears - a likely head injury, the extent of which they don’t know.

It doesn’t make sense. It seems like some kind of sick, ill joke - a nightmare he’ll wake up from, only to find Jack having devoured both bowls of popcorn and the credits of the movie he never actually watched rolling. “What aren’t you telling me Dave?”

“I think you’d want to be here, Aaron. It … it could go either way at this point.” Dave’s voice is so heavy, something Aaron isn’t used to. His friend was typically the voice of reason, the one he went to for assurance when things seemed to be spiraling out of control - something he did many times over. And now the tables were turned to their side, a cruel twist of fate. It takes no convincing; he’s already reaching for his jacket on the hook by the door, grappling for an umbrella shoved unceremoniously in a closet somewhere closeby.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

…

“Mendoza is on his way.,” JJ says quietly as she rounds the corner with two cups of coffee in her hands. “ He just called me.”

“That might complicate things.” Dave wrings his hands and paces the tiny hallway. “Who told him?” He asks curiously. It hadn’t been long since Emily had shown up in his office one night, shoulders heavy as she relayed the news of their breakup. Dave is no stranger to the failures of love - having been thrice divorced himself. Sometimes timing was to blame, other times it was priorities. In their case it was commitment, or lack thereof, things fizzling out and hasty goodbyes, half-hearted assurances of keeping in touch, that one will call the other. Yet Dave isn’t exactly surprised to hear the news. Despite their challenges, Mendoza had been all but enamored with Emily, in awe of her at times. He wasn’t a stupid man; he wasn’t surprised when she didn’t follow him to Colorado. There was always something else that stood in her way. He just never knew exactly what.

“Word travels fast.”

“Aaron is on his way.” After a long pause, Dave scrapes a hand across his face, exhaustion bleeding through the cracks of age. “I just called him.”

JJ only nods and stares into Emily’s room with a pensive expression. “What do we tell them?”

“We tell them what we know. Hope for the best. That's all we can do.”

...

The storm takes the humidity with it, a soft chilly breeze spreading through the darkness. Aaron hurries through the hospital doors, charging past the triage nurse towards the elevators. He’s only vaguely aware of the other man that wedges himself past the doors just in the nick of time. He looks just as distracted as Aaron feels, eyes distant -worlds away - and lost in his own thoughts as he offers a quick smile, fists shoved in jacket pockets.

“What floor?” Aaron offers with a tight smile.

“The ICU.”

He nods and pushes just one button, indicating that they’re in fact going to the same place.

“I’m sorry.” The other man nods his head in solidarity, noticing the single illuminated circle on the panel, shuffles his feet, checks his watch and hangs his head. The phone in his pocket buzzes; he checks it with a resigned sigh. Aaron feels a touch of sympathy for him, wonders just what brings him there.

Except he doesn’t have to wonder much longer, because not only is Dave waiting when the doors open, but he clearly knows whoever Aaron just shared the elevator with. And judging by the way Dave’s eyebrows lift just enough at the sight of them both, practically side by side, something tells him there’s more to the story than just a simple coincidence.

“I see you’ve met?” Dave cocks his head to the side, scrubs his chin with his hand thoughtfully. “I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”

“What the hell happened?” The man beside Aaron demands, a little more forcefully this time.

“So you haven’t met.”

“What the hell is going on, Dave?” Aaron snaps first, his patience starting to wane. The last three hours of travel have already started to catch up with him. It’s been years since he’s had to channel his feelings into something more stoic and taciturn. It doesn’t return as easily this time. He tells himself it’s because of age and time, yet the nagging voice in his head says it’s something else entirely.

“Andrew Mendoza, meet Aaron Hotchner. The former chief of the BAU. Hotch, this is Andrew Mendoza. Mendoza was the Special Agent in Charge of DC’s Field Office. He consulted with the BAU on a few local cases about a year ago.”

“Was?” Aaron questions, quickly putting together what Dave doesn’t tell him about Andrew Mendoza. There’s only one reason why he’d be there - a reason he didn’t anticipate. He has to swallow the bitter pang of regret that rises in his throat. It shouldn’t exist at all, but a familiar feeling that has lingered just within his reach whenever he thought of Emily. The chances they never took, the timing that seemed to elude them for one reason or another. Time. It had never been on their side.

“The Denver Field Office offered me a promotion last month. My daughter and I are moving out to Colorado in a few weeks.”

“Congratulations,” Aaron says stiffly as he offers his hand. It’s obvious why he’s here - the same reason Aaron is. “I’ve heard good things about Denver.” There’s something about the news that satisfies him.

“I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.” Mendoza glances at Aaron, then Dave, then back at Aaron again. “But what the hell happened tonight?”

“JJ didn’t tell you?”

“Just that there was an accident.”

Dave presses his mouth into a thin line, relaying the story with such tact that Aaron knows it’s an abridged version, a slightly less terrible rendition of what happened back on the highway. “We were right outside of Woodbridge. On our way back from a case in Reston. Visibility was awful. It happened so fast. Emily must have hit her head on impact. She lost consciousness shortly after the ambulance arrived. They’re considering surgery to relieve the pressure in her brain.”

Dave pauses, letting the news sink in, taking a deep breath of his own to compose his frayed nerves. “There’s a chance of brain damage but they won’t know more until after she regains consciousness.” His gaze shifts between them both, gauging their reactions.

“When will that be?”

“There’s no easy way to tell. Could be hours after the surgery. Or days. She’s not breathing on her own. It’s going to be a while before we know anything.” He repeats the doctors’ words as calmly as he can. Dave’s typically unflappable demeanor is strained; the weariness laces through his voice.

“How did this happen?” It’s Mendoza who speaks up this time, clearly distraught and searching for words of his own. He almost looks embarrassed by his uncharacteristic show of emotion.

“It was an accident,” Dave repeats as calmly as he can, as if he’s practiced this speech in his head before giving it. “No one is to blame.”

The air seems to thicken around them, the reality setting in that while it’s already been a long night, it’s only just beginning.

“We’re here because of Emily. It’s a waiting game now, as long as it might be. May as well make yourselves comfortable. There’s a waiting room just down the hallway and a cafeteria on the sixth floor, if you want some coffee. It might eat a hole in your stomach, but it’s something.”

The room around him starts to spin. Aaron can’t remember the last conversation they had - something hasty by phone, he suspects, in the days of time differences and small talk. Never awkward, but something always lingering beneath the surface. Their conversations were all about what wasn’t said - subtext, layers of awareness only they possessed.

“One other thing,” Dave adds, as if on afterthought, a fleeting thought he nearly forgot, nothing more than a passing thought. “Before she lost consciousness, she was rambling incessantly about apple pie.” Dave adds, as if on afterthought, eyes narrowing in confusion. “The best apple pie in DC. Any idea what that could be about?”

Aaron stiffens, his jaw flexing at Dave’s seemingly innocuous mention in the midst of everything else. It’s been years since he’s last seen her and another fifteen since that night, one he’s never actually spoken of out loud. It could have been a lifetime ago, a distant memory. It feels so foreign at this point he could have dreamed it. Surely he misheard - there’s no way she’d be thinking of that. He pinches the bridge of his nose, stifles a yawn into his fist. It’s about to be a very long night. “Where is she? Is she in surgery yet?”

“Not yet. She’s just down the hall.” In the distance a monitor beeps then an alarm starts to go off, punctuated by the efficient scramble of nurses. It reminds him just how much he hates hospitals, and Aaron breathes a heavy sigh of relief when they don’t go into Emily’s room.

“You can see her, you know.” Dave offers gently, sensing the growing tension. “One visitor at a time.”

It’s somehow decided, without officially being decided out loud, that Aaron will go in first. Mendoza quietly mentions something about needing to call his daughter. Not for the first time this evening, Aaron is actually grateful Jack can hold his own at home for a little while, that they’re long past those years of constant check-ins. A simple text will do in a few hours’ time. And he steels his nerves with a few deep breaths before slipping into the room, the silence punctuated by the staccato beeping of monitors and a ventilator.

She’s like a ghost, translucent almost - amidst the machines and wires. He remembers a time, years ago, when the roles were reversed. Aaron wonders if she felt the same clench of fear in her gut, the awful feeling of helplessness that came along with being at someone’s bedside in a hospital. He wonders if she felt the same desperation clinging to every nerve in her body that things would be okay.

“Hey,” he says, sinking into the hard plastic chair at the side of the bed. “It’s been awhile.” Deep down he knows she won’t - can’t - respond. But there was a moment of hope - a tiny one - flimsy and built on nothing - that maybe she would move or something to indicate she heard him. There isn’t one.

Aaron swallows the rising lump in this throat, thick and pressing right down into his lungs. “I really need you to wake up, Emily.”

...

“When’s the big move?” Dave presses Mendoza gently, asking all the questions Emily never gave answers to. He folds his arms across his chest, unable to tear his gaze from the scene before him. From his place behind the window, he watches Aaron lower himself onto a chair on shaky legs, taking a few steadying breaths as he settles beside her. He rests a weary head on his fist.

“Two weeks. Keely wanted to finish her soccer season.” Mendoza crosses his arms over his chest as his eyes follow Dave’s.

Dave nods without really comprehending the words. “You’ll have to let us know when you’re both settled out there.”

“Yeah.”

Dave breaks an awkward silence. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you two.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t.” By now, Mendoza’s full attention is on the scene before them both, face solemn and stiff. “What’s the story between them?” His eyes narrow ever so slightly, shades of suspicion cloud his features and his shoulders tense. Years of profiling make Dave keenly aware of these subtle changes in his behavior. He’s questioning it .

Dave shrugs. “Friends? Colleagues?” By now, Aaron is brushing Emily’s arm with his thumb, and if he isn’t mistaken, swears he sees his lips moving too. “Anything else and your guess is as good as mine.”

It seems to smooth things over for a few moments, even as something else is planted in his mind. Something he never considered at all.

…

“Have you been to Boathouse Row yet?”

It’s an attempt to make small talk as they sit down; it doesn’t get past Aaron, who stays silent, completely ignoring the question.

“So what is it you’re not telling me?” Dave passes a flimsy styrofoam cup over the small table.

“Now might not be the best time, Dave,” Aaron retorts, rolling a tiny cup of creamer in his fingers.

“We’ve got nothing but time, Aaron. Surgeon says things could take hours. She might even be conscious immediately after. And you’re not driving back to Philly anytime soon.”

He has a point . “She was talking about when we first met.” He sighs heavily as he spins the cup around in his hands. “It was a long time ago.”

“At the BAU?” Dave knits his eyebrows in confusion.

Aaron rubs his eyes tiredly. By now any movement feels like effort, the space behind his eyes starting to throb with an oncoming headache and exhaustion. “Before that.”

“You mean you knew - “ Dave stops, his coffee ignored and interest piqued. “You two knew each other before?”

“We met years ago. Would be at least twenty now.” He’s too tired to do the math of exactly how long it’s been. “We met when I was working for her mother one summer in DC.”

“I certainly had no idea.”

“No one did. It never really came up.”

“By choice or on purpose?” Dave quips, his eyes just a touch brighter than they were moments before. He chuckles when Aaron just stares right back, the hint of a smile hidden in his eyes. “So what’s the story?”

His expression is wistful, as if he were dusting off a long held memory. “It was kind of an accident.”

__

Twenty-Four Years Ago

DC

Not for the first time that evening, Aaron checks his watch discreetly and sighs into his fist. It’s only eight-thirty; who knows how long this thing will last. It wasn’t that he agreed to this. It’s practically a rite of passage when working for an Ambassador, or so he’s been told -working one of the many extravagant parties and benefit dinners that were practically part of her job description. The ballroom is full of DC’s political elite - congressmen and senators, the Secretary of State and the Attorney General. Rumor had it the Vice President would be making an appearance. For that reason alone, security was heightened, every egress monitored, yet he’s never felt more invisible in a room full of people.

Aaron spots her accidentally, but something tells him she’s not trying to blend in. The tall figure on the opposite side of the room is entirely too young to be one of them , yet she mingles easily with a champagne flute between her fingers. She’s wearing an elegant black dress with a high neck and open back. It shows off delicate shoulder blades that jut out like wings when she moves. He isn’t the only one staring.

She’s the Ambassador’s daughter - Emily . Aaron has only heard of her from the others, her name being uttered in exasperation when one of the agents finds her breaking protocol yet again - sneaking out and in at all hours of the night, slipping an endless parade of friends past the entrance logs without proper verification. He’s never spoken a word to her; he knows almost nothing about her except that she’s a student at Yale, supposedly speaks multiple languages, and has a knack for causing trouble.

They haven’t spoken a word to each other, but her eyes meet his across the square in the middle of the room that is supposedly a dance floor. His mouth goes dry and he immediately looks away when Emily excuses herself from whatever conversation she’s immersed in, only to look back seconds later to find her sauntering directly towards him , effortlessly maneuvering through the crowd.

Aaron nods a polite hello, attempting to keep his expression neutral when she’s finally closed the gap between them both.

“You know,” Emily says with amusement, eyes flicking over him. “You could at least try not to look so miserable.”

“Who said anything about being miserable?”

“It’s practically part of the job requirements if you work for my mother. Besides, you’ve been wearing the same expression since this thing started.” When she catches his look of sheer bewilderment and mild annoyance, she laughs softly. “Trust me. I’ve been to enough of these things to know what I’m looking for.”

“Are you spying on me?” He glances around, wondering just where the Ambassador even is amidst a sea of black suits. He should be keeping a close eye, after all. He strains his neck a little, scanning the crowd purposefully until he sees the woman that strongly resembles the miniature version of her in front of him.

“No. I’m just observant.” Without missing a beat, Emily waves to someone - a Congressman Aaron immediately recognizes from the news - something about a scandal involving a rather young intern under a desk - but he hadn’t been paying too much attention to remember all the details. “He’s such a scumbag,” she adds quietly without any elaboration.

He senses her reticence immediately; he wonders just how she knows all of this, if he should push, if at all “Isn’t that part of their job description to a degree?”

“Some of them,” Emily mutters. “But he’s one of the worst.”

“So I’ve heard,” Aaron murmurs, tearing his eyes away from the crowd to get a better look at her. Up close she’s even more stunning, with sharp cheekbones and a perfectly symmetrical face, her smile wide and eyes like dark orbs. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

“I’ve seen you around. You’re the new guy.”

“New-ish. I started in March.” It comes out a bit more dejectedly than it should, but it’s hard to hide the disdain he feels for it all. Things have been far from easy over the last few months. It’s a mindless shuffle of one foot in front of the other, days that blend together similar to the ones before, with the slightest hope that a few more weeks of patience might wield a change.

“New to me.” She’s only been home for the summer a few weeks at most, so he can count on one hand the number of times he’s actually seen her. “So what’s your story?”

“My story?”

“You stick out like a sore thumb.” She cracks a grin at her own remark. “You’re too tense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Agent …”

“Hotchner,” he fills in quickly.

“Agent Hotchner, you certainly wouldn’t be the first security detail to use this as a stepping stone to a different career. You’re all just biding time until something better comes along.” She’s so matter of fact, so assured, it’s as if she’s had this very conversation with every other agent in the room at one point or another. “It’s usually the quiet ones. They have less to prove.”

“Are we that transparent?”

“Some of you. And I can’t say I blame you. This place surely isn’t a means to an end.”

“What does your mother think of your beliefs?”

“My mother knows exactly what I think of her career and everything that goes along with it. It’s what’s gotten us to this point, actually.”

“And what point might that be?” He’s only heard of some of the epic arguments between the two of them, the harshness of their voices reverberating around the Ambassador’s office or some ornately decorated living room. The bitter clashes of two strong wills, hidden behind the fact that just maybe they were more similar than different.

“A story for a different time,” Emily says smoothly. “Can’t exactly talk about it here.”

“You’re full of stories, aren’t you?” Aaron deduces but she isn’t even paying attention anymore as she scans the crowd. He can see the wheels start to turn in her head, the flicker of an idea materializing somewhere. She turns back, this time a grin stuck to her lips. “What?” He asks reluctantly.

“Let’s get out of here.” Emily bats her thickly lashed, heavily lined eyes. “This thing is going nowhere fast. Besides, you look like you could use a break. “How long have you been on?”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere,” she says casually with a wink as she plucks a champagne flute from a nearby tray, downing it quickly. “I probably shouldn’t drive, but you can.” It’s accompanied with a flippant toss of hair over her shoulder, an expectant purse of her lips.

It’s certainly not the smartest idea or the most prudent, but something tells him Emily could care less about prudence and image. “I could be suspended for unauthorized use of a government-issued vehicle.” Not to mention, having his boss’s daughter in said government vehicle with him, or completely leaving his assignment altogether. He remembers skimming over the terms of employment months ago, specifically the section about fraternization with members of the Ambassador’s Family.

“Who said anything about one of theirs?” She looks almost bored now, tapping her fingers against the empty flute. “That’s no fun anyway. They have trackers on them. For security purposes.” She forms air quotes with her fingers. “We wouldn’t get far.”

He’s about to ask her how she even possesses that knowledge when he feels her hand on his waist, dipping into the creases of his jacket like a lover would. It doesn’t phase her, and while normally his reflexes would spring into quick action, he’s glued into place.

“You have a car don’t you?” Emily unabashedly pats his pocket, feeling for keys.

He opens his mouth to object, but she’s too fast. She grins with satisfied smirk, a triumphant click of her tongue as he stiffens awkwardly when they jingle against her hand. “You aren’t a great liar, Agent Hotchner.”

“Aaron,” he says somewhat stiffly, resignedly. He’s doing his damn best to keep his eyes centered on the ballroom but it’s getting harder and harder to concentrate on the task at hand. The scent of perfume - something undoubtedly expensive - lingers and it makes him dizzy even if he hasn’t had a sip to drink. “And I didn’t lie.”

“Aaron.” His name rolls off her tongue thoughtfully. “Aaron,” she repeats, as if it’s the first time she’s ever heard it. “I never understood why there were two A’s. What do you do with the second one?”

His head spins to keep up with her, how her mind somehow bounces from one thought to the next with seemingly little direction. “Never gave it much thought myself, actually.” From the corner of his eye he catches one of the other agents giving him a quizzical, perhaps slightly jealous, eye roll. It’s a bad idea to entertain, but one he can’t ignore. Emily is staring at him, eyes sparkling, with the slightest touch of longing. Longing for what he isn’t sure, but whatever it is, it wouldn’t be found in the middle of the opulent ballroom.“What do you have in mind?”

“I’ve been told of a place not too far from here,” she begins slowly, a smile on her face at his gradual acquiesce. “A diner that supposedly has the best apple pie in DC.”

“Apple pie?” Just how much has she had to drink?

“I’m starving ,” she offers with a hand pressed to her flat stomach. Aaron’s eyes follow, lingering up and down on her narrow frame.

“They’re about to serve dinner,” He says lamely, shaking his head to ensure he heard her correctly. Waiters have started to circle the room with large serving trays balanced precariously above their heads, passing around the plates that he guesses must cost a few hundred dollars a head, maybe more. The crowds have thinned as more guests take their seats.

Emily shrugs with disinterest. “Once you’ve been to one of these things you’ve been to them all. Besides, this is when things start to get really insufferable.”

“Is that so?”

“Someone will start talking,” Emily drawls sardonically, surveying the crowd starting to take their seats at previously assigned tables - tables he could probably rattle off by name if asked. “Make some big speech promoting their campaign trying to get reelected or whatever. Then they all will. They love hearing themselves talk.”

“Part of the job, I guess.” He stares, unsure of what to say next. Her attitude towards politics is the complete opposite of that of her mother. His interactions with his boss have been somewhat limited; he doubts if she even remembers his first name. Yet he’s seen the way Elizabeth Prentiss revels in a world seemingly dominated by men, a woman in a league of her own. He wonders just how much the Ambassador has sacrificed; wonders if her daughter might be amongst that list. It would certainly explain their tenuous relationship.

“So what do you say? Surely you don’t want to sit around listening to a bunch of old guys spout a bunch of half truths to line their pockets?” She seems unbothered yet again, almost amused by the sight in front of her - as if her premonition of how the night would go is coming true.

There’s nothing he wants less. “How do you suppose I get out of this? I’m still on the clock, you know.”

“I’ll leave that up to you.” Emily sets the champagne flute on a nearby serving tray and spins on her heel, sauntering back towards the center of the ballroom. “I’ll be outside of the South Gate when you figure it out.”

…

In the end, he makes up an excuse to leave. It’s not exactly convincing and the agent in charge doesn’t exactly believe him when he feigns an emergency - food poisoning. But Aaron has always had an exceptionally good poker face, grimacing just enough to make it look questionable, and the other agent curtly nods, grunting something about having enough security for the evening, and making up the hours later in the week. It falls on deaf ears - he’s already out the doors of the security office, a small grin playing at the corners of his lips as he strides across the asphalt driveways with his back toward the house.

Sure enough, Emily is waiting for him, finishing the rest of a cigarette when he pulls around to the South Gate. He keeps his taillights off; the less attention he draws to himself the better.

His car has seen better days, the leather seats worn smooth and the stereo outdated, the steering wheel permanently indented from the grip of his own two hands, scuff marks and faded carpets. But it’s well maintained, and Emily smiles appreciatively when he holds the passenger side door open, then explains how to adjust the seat, just in case . She doesn’t seem to notice at all, just unceremoniously tugs her long skirt out of the way of the door and kicks off her heels.

“Fucking things,” she grumbles. The heels are sharp as knives, ridiculously impractical yet Aaron can’t help but picture her wearing them in a dress much shorter than the one she currently has on. He shakes his head, reminding himself not to go there, because the reality is, she’s still his boss’s daughter, and if anyone were to see them, he’d most definitely be written up, maybe worse, for taking her off property without following protocol. But she’s close enough to touch, her arm a gentle weight against his own on the center console.

“So,” Aaron asks, his voice barely audible. He shifts the car into reverse, breath hitching when his knuckles brush against her hand. “Just where is this diner you speak so highly of?”

“Silver Spring.”

“I thought you said DC.”

“It’s close enough.” Emily tucks a long piece of hair behind her ear with a roll of her eyes. “Just trust me.”

It’s the way she says it that makes him wonder if she would do the same for him. Aaron grips the wheel in silence as the cool night air seeps through the open windows. He catches her shiver and is about to offer his jacket when she breaks the silence.

“Make a right up at the light, and then it’s a quick left.” Emily shifts in the passenger seat. Her fingers twitch as if she were still holding a cigarette between them; she tucks her hand against her cheek daintily. She’s very much aware the passenger side is nearly spotless - nothing to indicate someone sits there frequently. No wayward sunglasses or a forgotten piece of jewelry belonging to a significant other. She straightens the wrinkled fabric of her dress and lowers her eyes.She’d had him pegged wrong - certainly he’d had it all figured out, the well intended nature that comes along with a mostly idyllic existence. She imagined a naive wife or girlfriend completely enamored with him, both parties working to make ends meet for bigger and better things - not happiness, for one. That they had in spades. But maybe a white picket fence, a dog and a baby or two one day.

Instead, he seems lonely and guarded, a choice he was forced to make. Circumstances, maybe, she thinks as the traffic light ahead blinks from a glowing green to yellow, to red. It shines a little brighter than usual, a universal warning everyone should understand . It makes her shiver again.

“Here. Take my jacket” The red light gives him the chance to shrug out of the confines of his suit jacket, which he hands over. He palms the wheel a little tighter when she wraps herself into it, the fabric draping over her like a shield.

“This is the place?” Aaron studies the gaudy exterior of the diner, hard to miss and yet, the type of place you wouldn’t give a second thought. The fluorescent lighting nearly blinds him, and he’s somewhat surprised to see through the windows that multiple tables are full despite the late hour. He can hardly conceal his disbelief. “How’d you learn about this place?”

“Word gets around,” Emily says lightly as she slips her shoes back on, wincing slightly when she stands upright, nearly enveloped by his jacket. “I’ve learned not to judge a book by its cover. Maybe you should do the same.”

They find a booth in the back, tucked away from the clamor of the bustling kitchen and constant jingle of the doors. Again they’re left with nothing but silence, a few wayward glances, and two plastic coated menus between them. The haggard waitress only nods abruptly at their order - two black coffees, one with splenda and one without, one slice of apple pie, and two forks.

“You think she thinks we’re a couple?”

“I’m sure she has a lot more on her mind than us.” Aaron twists the paper straw wrapper between his fingers and studies her across the table. What he’s not expecting is to realize she’s doing the same thing - analyzing his body language with a degree of precision that matches his own, an expression that hides what she’s thinking. He wonders if she’s practiced it over time. She wears his jacket like a coat of armor yet she’s curious, the mundane quietness of the diner a stark contrast to their initial surroundings a short time ago.

“How does someone like you end up working for my mother?” Emily asks out of nowhere, direct and forward without an ounce of hesitation. It could be mistaken for an interrogation, he muses.

“Someone like me?”

“Decent. With manners. Not some macho guy with a little man complex or some baggage like that who gets off swinging his gun around.” She blows the straw wrapper across the table; it hits him square in the shoulder and stays here until he flicks it off. She doesn’t seem to notice as the waitress sets down their much anticipated order amidst a promise to come back with some cream for the coffee.

It’s his turn to laugh; he knows exactly what type she’s referring to. He could name more of them than he has fingers. “Trust me, it wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.”

Emily carves out a large bite of apple pie with her fork, eyes closing with delight as it disappears between her lips, along with a delicate moan. “This is so good.” She pushes the pie plate towards him. “So then what was it?”

“Bad timing, for starters.” Aaron stabs his fork into the jagged slice of pie, cuts off a bite for himself. His stomach growls; it’s been hours since the early dinner he’d scarfed down behind the wheel on his way back to work the shift he just abandoned. “You’re right,” he says around a mouthful of apple and pastry crust. “That’s really good.”

“Told you.” She proudly lifts her shoulders, momentarily triumphant before she digs in for another bite. But she also looks expectant, ready for an answer, even with another forkful of pie. He supposes he owes her one.

“I wanted to join the FBI,” Aaron begins slowly. It comes to him that she’s only the second person he’s ever told any of this to. He supposed talking about it would make it real, take it from a pipe dream to something that could irrevocably fail right in front of his own eyes.

“The big leagues, huh?” She waves her fork in a circle, and it takes a moment for him to realize she isn’t totally shocked. “I could see that, actually, now that you mention it. You have the poker face for it, at least.” Emily gives a little grin, one that meets her eyes. “But that didn’t happen?”

“Had the application filled out and everything. Was going to send it in.”

“So what happened?”

“My girlfriend … She didn’t like the idea. The recruitment process takes months and basic training even longer. Close to a year sometimes. Haley wanted me to do something a little more traditional. Wanted me home at 6 for dinner and around on the weekends.” He takes another bite of pie, partially to gather his thoughts, and to let Emily give her own.

“Girlfriend, huh?”

“Well.” The fork in his hand feels heavy all of a sudden; he sets it down with a clatter. “We’re taking a break right now.”

She takes in his words, chuckles a little bit. “I’m a little disappointed in myself. I definitely had you all wrong.”

“You keep saying that.” It’s more of a question than a statement, a curiosity he can’t contain.

“I took you as settled. Happy. With Haley. ” His girlfriend’s name rolls off her tongue; hearing it sounds strange, like she’s saying something she shouldn’t.

“I’m ... figuring things out. We’re figuring things out.”

“Do you love her? Does she love you?” Emily asks directly without hesitation. “If you do, there shouldn’t be much to figure out.”

He stiffens. “I don’t … not love her. But we want different things. At some point, you have to be honest with each other, right? When you can’t make it work, what do you do?”

“I’m definitely not the person to ask.” She laughs but there isn’t any humor in it, more of a resigned sadness if he looks close enough through the rough edges hidden by carefully curated appearance. “Relationships aren’t something I’ve had a ton of luck with.”

“Maybe you’re dating the wrong people.”

“Maybe.” She looks around the diner, rests her chin in her hands. “I’m pretty directionless myself at the moment, if it makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t, but thank you.” He takes a sip of coffee, more for something to do with his hands than a need for it. He wants to know more, wants to ask just what could possibly make her directionless. Someone who seemingly had it all.

“Sounds like we’re both lost.” There’s a dreamlike tone to her voice, as if they’re sharing a secret.

“We don’t have to be.”

“If I keep going at this rate, I’ll be a bored socialite by 30 throwing cocktail parties every night and getting drunk by the pool by day.”

“Who says?”

“No one has to say it. It’s … expected of me, I think?”

“Is that so?”

“I’m certainly not following in my mother’s footsteps into politics.” She scoffs. There’s contempt in her voice, for what he deduces is years of being put second, something she never asked for but received over and over again. “What else is there for me to do? Someone has to carry on the family tradition somehow.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Emily says, dragging her fork through some of the remaining bits of pie on the plate. She flicks a crumb into the air.  “I’ve never really had a home , you know. Most of my life has been spent overseas. Just staying in one place for a while would be nice.”

“I always wanted to get away.” Aaron laments. “From Manassas at least.”

“Well, that’s understandable. You aren’t missing much there, or so I’ve heard.” She stirs a spoon into her coffee to work in the mess of splenda packets she’s dumped in.

He watches the liquid swirl, her mezmirzation at it. Something comes to him - something he’s always wanted to know. “Is it true you speak four languages?”

Emily looks up from her coffee, temporarily distracted by his question. “Six, actually. French, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, Greek, and some Russian.” She ticks them off on her fingers nonchalantly as if she were counting inanimate objects.

He does a double take. “Six? I can barely handle English.”

“It’s always been easy for me. I just wish I knew what to do with it, you know?”

“When I applied, I remember seeing that the FBI needs linguists. People with language experience to work overseas.” He takes his own fork to the last remaining bits of the pie, watching her face carefully for a reaction. She’s almost unreadable; he can’t discern just what she’s thinking.

She laughs - not the reaction he expected. “You know, applying for the FBI would absolutely piss my mother off entirely. She would hate it if I did that. Kind of makes me want to do it.”

“She and Haley should meet. I’m sure they’d have lots to talk about.”

“You want to hear what I think?” Emily says after a few long moments, the coffee and the pie that once sat between them are now gone. “I think you should go for it. The FBI. Do it and don’t look back. And call your girlfriend. Let her talk, but tell her how you feel.”

“And?”

“If she comes back, then you know it’s meant to be.”

...

“Never even knew this place existed,” Aaron says, lingering at Emily’s elbow as they pick their way across the pebbled driveway of the diner. She’s a little unsteady on the heels now, not unsurprising given the late hour and the time they spent sitting down.

“Who knew a diner in the middle of Silver Spring Maryland would have such great pie?” Dangling from her wrist is a to-go bag with an extra slice of pie for the morning - the waitress had kindly given her one on the house - the leftovers from the day before.

“I thought New Jersey was the diner capital of the world,” Aaron muses. “New Jersey is all about their diners and traffic circles.”

“And Bruce Springsteen,” Emily adds pointedly. “He’s from New Jersey.”

“Him too.” Aaron laughs quietly. The tension in his shoulders mounts; he doesn’t want this to end. He wants to talk to her, wants to keep her there. But the moment feels final. Emily catches the wrist of the hand that reaches out to cup her cheek, wraps her fingers around it. “If things were different -” he starts quietly, looking almost embarrassed.

“I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to go, is it?” Emily leans into the weight of his calloused palm, into the touch of a man that isn’t her own. It feels foreign, like she’s taking something that isn’t hers. “I don’t think that’s in our cards, Aaron. Maybe in a different life.”

The ride back to DC is again silent, save for the crinkling of the paper bag in her lap. Aaron skips the main entrance and the long paved driveway, taking a shortcut around the massive property to the South Gate entrance. Emily side eyes him, looking slightly impressed. “Trying to remain inconspicuous?”

“I think that’s for the best.”

“I’d like to think this is how we were supposed to meet,” she offers as he pulls up to the outside of the South Gate. “For a brief moment in time, that’s all. To steer one another in the right direction, if you will.”

“Maybe.” He tells himself to pull away, curling it back around the steering wheel protectively. “Remember what I told you, Emily.” He watches her reach for her shoes, their moments together dwindling down to seconds. “Don’t live your life on the terms of someone else. Especially your mother. If our paths cross again and you’re a bored socialite throwing cocktail parties, we’ll have to talk.”

She loops some hair behind her ear, gives him a small smile. “If our paths cross again in ten years and you aren’t leading some FBI unit somewhere, I’ll have some words for you as well.” She draws a breath, carefully slips on her shoes. “Thank you for the pie, Aaron.” The creak of the passenger side door is the only thing he hears as she slips away like a ship in the night, not to turn back around.

Aaron watches her disappear across the grass, blending into the deep blue of the early morning, the sky not quite awake but out of the depths of night. She’s a shadowy dark figure amidst the promise of a new day. The clock on the dashboard nears 6:00 AM. The little red numbers glow are a reminder of the inevitable crash that will most definitely come later on. He isn’t 20 anymore, after all. But when he drives away, there’s a sense of renewal, one he can’t explain, but deep down understands.

He hands in his resignation before he can work another shift, and he never does make up the time he promised. Three days after that, he mails a thick packet of papers in a standard manila envelope to the FBI Headquarters in Quantico.

A week after that, he takes out his phone and dials Haley’s number. About thirteen years later, his son comes into the world, wailing and screaming with healthy lungs and a head of dark hair. Haley is tired and beaming, his pride is obvious as the tiny bundle is placed in his arms.

They name the baby Jack.

In some ways, the stars aligned.

He’ll sometimes wonder if Emily’s did too.

…

Present Day

“Why didn’t things ever work out between the two of you?”

Dave’s voice brings him back to reality, out of the daydream he’s held so close to his heart for so many years. It’s jarring at first, a confusing limbo of then and now, past and present blending together for a few long moments. He glances around, the harsh overhead lights glaring bright, the low hum of hospital sounds reverberating through his ears. Along with it comes the reality of why he’s there, and the bitter rush of fear that floods his consciousness.

“Timing.” Aaron spins his now empty coffee cup in his hands. “Even after Haley and I got divorced, it was never the right time.”

“You’re going to blame timing ? That’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“I never wanted to take the risk.” It’s the closest thing he can think of as truth. They built a tentative friendship after a rocky start, something built on mutual respect. His divorce brought new challenges - co parenting amidst a ridiculously stressful career, supporting and leading his team. Emily had always been one to hold her own, a silent backbone of their team, a friend to all of them. He’d relied on her, never wanted to lose what they had in hopes of something else . Ian Doyle had taken her from them all; her return was tense and it didn’t take a profiler to understand that Quantico just wasn’t home to her anymore. He let her walk away, encompassed by a fragile shell of his own tentative happiness, and in the years after she went to London, there was a permanent hole in his heart that never quite mended itself again. “Maybe I should have.”

“Love is a choice, Aaron. It doesn’t just happen. You have to choose to make things work.” Dave leans back in his seat, checks his watch, an eyebrow arching just a bit. “I thought you would have known that by now.”

“You and Krystall made a choice?”

“We still do. Every day we have to choose to love each other. Some days it’s easy. Others, not so much. But you know the best part?”

“I think you’re going to tell me anyway, Dave.”

“It’s never not been worth it, Aaron.” There’s a subtle gleam in his eye that wasn’t there before. “Something tells me you might just feel the same, if you gave it a chance.” Dave fumbles for his phone, patting the pockets of his jeans and then that of his blazer before finally pulling the phone from his breast pocket. He flips it open, his eyes widening at whatever message lights up the tiny screen.

“What is it?” Aaron asks with baited breath.

Dave looks up from his phone. For the first time since all of this began, he looks full of hope. “Emily’s out of surgery.”

…

The surgeon is pleased with the outcome of Emily’s procedure, and the air around them seemingly lightens with each minute he explains the procedure, and its success. The three of them hang on every word he says, asking questions and seeking assurances.

“She should be awake within a few hours. We’ll know more then, but her brain activity is good, and her vitals are strong. Agent Prentiss got very lucky. I have patients who often have a very different outcome.”

The relief is palpable, as if the tension was cut with a knife as they all exchange optimistic smiles and tentative handshakes, while profusely thanking Emily’s surgeon. Aaron excuses himself to call Jack - something he should have done hours ago. “I’m not going far,” he reminds Dave, his words a warning of what to do if anything changes in the next few minutes.

“We’ll be right here.”

Mendoza is shrugging into his jacket and digging for his keys with a look of resignation on his face. He catches Dave’s sideways glance. “I think it’s time I head out, Dave. Please give Emily my best wishes on a quick recovery when she’s discharged.” There’s a change in his voice, one that wasn’t there earlier.

“You’re leaving?” Dave asks curiously. “You aren’t going to stay and see Emily? It shouldn’t be much longer before we can go in.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

Mendoza shakes his head, runs a hand over his scalp. “I learned something tonight. You know when it’s just not meant to be, but you can’t find the reason why?”

Dave nods, a glimmer of understanding appearing in his eyes. “I do. I know it very well, actually.”

“I think I found the why.” His eyes roam around before they finally land on Aaron and Dave’s do too. The phone is still pressed to his ear but he’s still staring right into Emily’s room, never once looking away, even as his mouth moves in conversation to Jack on the other end. “I tried to deny it, so did Emily. But I don’t think her heart ever belonged to me. I think it belonged to him.”

—

Emily finally wakes up a few hours later. Aaron and Dave wait outside the room as she’s tended to by a horde of surgeons and nurses, testing brain function and vital signs, spattering off medical terms with ease. It’s a language only they understand, one Aaron never wants to learn. But their voices are hopeful, they have smiles on their faces as they talk to Emily, assessing her cognition and running tests. She’s a little confused and extremely tired, but awake and alert . Dave is just as relieved to see things appear normal; they’re both very aware of just how lucky they got.

Eventually, they’re finally allowed to see her.

“Do you mind if I … “ Aaron trails off, except he doesn’t need to finish the question.

“Go, Aaron. I take it you have some things you want to get off your chest,” Dave quips. “I’m going to call the others and give them an update. They’ve been waiting awhile.” He departs with a pat of encouragement on the back, a shared moment between them.

Moments later, he’s back in her room, at her side on the same uncomfortable chair from earlier. Her eyes flicker open once again, widening almost impossibly when she sees him. Years of unanswered questions are written on her face in seconds, a shared history fraught with more than what most people experience in a lifetime. But there’s something oddly content there too, as if she woke up from a dream that has somehow materialized in front of her.

“Hey,” Aaron says softly, reaching out with a nervous hand to touch her for the first time in years . He dodges wires and IV lines, finds her fingers with his own and gives a gentle squeeze. “You’re up.”

“You’re here?” Emily blinks with confusion, still making sense of just how she got there in the first place. “But I thought you were .. you and Jack are in Philadelphia. What are you doing here?”

“Of course I’m here,” he says soothingly, ignoring her question. They can talk about that later. “How are you feeling?”

Emily gives a wry grin, slightly distorted and weak, but there. “They asked me who the President of the United States was.”

It’s his turn to smirk. “What did you tell them?”

“To ask me after 45 leaves the Oval Office,” she says without hesitation. “I think I made at least two of them laugh.” But then something comes over her face, the reality of it all setting in. “You came all this way,” she croaks, throat raw from the intubation tube. “How did you know about all of this?”

“You were there for me, remember?” He’s not only talking about Foyet, but all the years she spent at his side. The years they spent doing a dance around one another,  their steps never quite aligning. This time feels like a second chance he never thought he’d get, one he can’t mess up.

“That was a lifetime ago, Aaron. So much has happened since then.” Emily tries to sit upright, pushes herself up about halfway before exhaustion overtakes her. She grumbles in frustration; he shouldn’t smile but he does. It means the Emily he knows, the Emily he fell in love with years ago is somewhere in there.

“Take it easy,” he soothes, adjusting the pillows so she’s more vertical than horizontal. He uses the opportunity to press a kiss against her forehead. He touches his own to hers and murmurs, “That’s something I should have done a long time ago.”

A smile spreads across her face, just as brilliant as the night he met her. She remembers it all, just as well as he does. “Funny how it always seems to take one of us dying to figure things out.”

“What are you talking about?” It’s a morbid thought, one he can’t entertain for long because despite his question, there’s an element of truth to it. He brushes some hair from her eyes and tucks it behind her ear. It’s matted in his fingers and dirty yet he doesn’t even notice. His heart swells, the hand in her hair trails down to her cheek, a thumb against the blush that spreads there. “And by the way, that’s not funny.”

“I’m saying maybe after I get out of this place,” she gestures to the mess of monitors and wires and tubes, “You can ask me out on a date. Finally.”

“Anywhere,” Aaron agrees. He would go anywhere, if it meant he could be with her.

“I know a place in Silver Spring. Supposedly they have the best apple pie in DC.”

[callmeelle22]

Blue Dream VIII

Pairing: Iris West x Barry Alen

Rating: E

Chapter Word Count: 9, 182

Summary: A series of sporadic dates between Iris and Barry turn into something more, a story in its own making.

Chapter I: Primetime

Chapter II: It's Cool

Chapter III: Anything

Chapter IV: Comfortable

Chapter V: The Way

Chapter VI: Say Yes

Chapter VII: Brave

Chapter VIII: Blue Dream; Her eyes close and she lets herself lie in the feeling: opens a space for him to stay as he slides his tongue against hers; lets the feel of his mouth on her pull her from the dream she swears she’s been living since she first laid eyes on him; stencils the same story back onto him, plotting out a scene that only ends after forever comes and goes. She lets the kiss say what she can’t yet, reminds herself that he’s talking with it too, that he’s telling her what she’d seen in his eyes yesterday, and in his touch the week before, and in the curve of his smiles weeks before that. (Read below or on AO3 linked on the chapter title.)

Chapter IX: He Loves Me

We were coastin' on the coast when you opened my eyes

Made me notice where the ocean was holding the sky, right

I was blinded, your smile shining behind those green eyes

The horizon so enticing, please, say you'll be mine

The second Friday in the month of November finds Iris at home as she usually is, tucked into her living room sofa, a large glass of wine on the coffee table in front of her, right next to a loaded pipe.

This week in particular has been grueling, though in the best way. Her classes are going swimmingly, so much so that she might be able to skip the final in her multimedia journalism course; but that means she has to stay on top of every single assignment, making sure everything she turns in is up to par. Not only that, Her segment on Good Morning, Central City is in less than a week, and with the television promotions for it, there has been an increase in traffic on her blog, an increase in comments on her posts, an increase in stories in her inbox waiting to be told. It’s mind-boggling, and Iris finds herself so giddy, she doesn’t always know what to do with it.

Some of it she channels into Barry. Since opening up to one another after Barry’s visit to his dad, everything about them has been more: more exciting, more passionate, more intimate. Iris can honestly say that she’s never been fucked as well as Barry fucks her, and she can’t decide if that’s just because apparently nothing turns her on more than Barry sliding thick and slow into her and muttering, ‘yes, take all of me, baby; good, good girl,’ or if she feels the way she feels because it’s him, because he is a dream of a man, some fantasy she must have conjured up in a daydream she doesn’t remember having. She finds herself always wanting him: the heavy fullness of him, and the way he smiles at her every time he sees her after they’ve been separated for even minutes; the whispered words of ardor, and how his eyes always track her movements, watching and observing and cataloging; the feel of him lean and long and hard on top of her, and the attention with which he listens to her, validates her.

And when she thinks she needs even a moment from that, there is her Friday night ritual. She’s already showered and dressed in a silk nightgown, this one in a deep purple color with thin straps and an open back. She takes a sip of her wine as she scrolls through her phone looking for a song; she chooses one, don’t wake me up ‘cause i’m in love with all that you are, and then she settles into the sofa corner, pipe in hand. Lighting up, she inhales, and releases.

She is full and high when her phone rings sometime around midnight.

Movements slow, she grabs her phone from where she’d tossed it on the table next to the half-empty carton of pad thai. Barry’s name flashes on the screen over the picture taken of them at Wally’s birthday party. Her smile is easy and so is the absurd little flutter in her belly.

(But high Iris will concede that, while she figures she should be past this stage now, this jittery, nervous stage, she’s not at all ashamed that it is still how she feels, because there is something so delightful about being with someone who gives you butterflies, even as time keeps passing).

Her stomach dips as she brings the phone to her ear. “Hello.”

“Hey, baby.” The sound of his voice, a little bit deeper than normal, a little bit slower than normal, makes her stomach tighten even more.

“Hi, Bear.”

It’s then that she notices the sound in the background, music and loud voices. She thinks she hears someone saying, “Barry, are you talking to your girlfriend?” but then Barry hushes them and comes back onto the line.

“What are you doing, beautiful?”

“What I’m always doing on Friday nights.”

“Getting high in those sexy pajamas you like wearing?”

Iris laughs softly, noting the effect of his voice on her, how even over the phone and even when he’s apparently surrounded by people, it travels, quiet and steady, over her skin.

“Are you drunk, Barry?”

“A little bit,” he says, “mostly tired though.”

Iris shifts on the sofa, snuggling deeper into the couch. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know. At some bar with Cisco and Chester. We were only supposed to grab food and a couple beers but then they had some sort of two for one special happening, and Chester and Cisco are degenerates, so here we are.”

Iris shakes her head at that, and there’s a short pause before Barry speaks again.

“I miss you.”

“You saw me yesterday.” The part of Iris that wants to appear less affected by him is glad that he can’t see the grin that lights her eyes as her cheeks warm, as she bites her bottom lip. “And we talked this morning.”

“Hmmm,” Barry hums. “Tell me you miss me.”

“What if I don’t?” Her taunt is quiet, like the whisper of her hands on her own body, trailing along her thighs at the hem of her nightgown.

There’s another pause and the sound behind lowers a little, becomes duller. Her own music comes to her attention again, you make me see the truth in things, i think that you are, the remedy for everything, it seems that you are, the truth itself ‘cause nothing else can take me so far, and it makes her shiver from the truth of it.

“I wouldn’t believe it,” Barry tells her, finally. “Yeah, I saw you yesterday, but I had you shaking on top of me.”

“Faking it,” she quips back and Barry lets out a small bark of laughter.

“Tell me you miss me, Iris.”

She licks her lips slowly, thinking of last night when she had seen him, the encounter he’s talking about, when he’d had her climb into his lap after dinner at her small little dining table and fucked her right there.

“Tell me, baby.”

“Yeah, I miss you, you cocky jackass.”

His answering chuckle was a low thing, deep and dirty. “Now tell me what your pajamas look like tonight?

“Barry, are you asking me this around your friends?”

“No. I'm standing outside of the bathrooms now. Boys' night shifted when they saw a couple of pretty women and I got tired of fifth-wheeling. And I couldn't stop thinking about you.”

She can picture him, standing in the corner and leaning against a wall, a hand in his pocket as he clutches the phone to his ear; his cheeks are probably rosy with his indulgence and his lips pink from licking at them, his hair messy from touching it.

His voice dips again. “Now tell me.”

Iris can admit to herself that she likes when Barry gets a little stern with her, when his voice deepens and he sounds so sure of what he wants, what he needs from her. It makes goosebumps crawl along her skin, and it does so doubly now, her senses already loose, dipping into the warm, heady place that intoxication takes her.

“It’s a nightgown,” she explains. “Purple. Silk. Stops at the middle of my thighs. Has a low back.”

His groan is loud and clear. “You had to come from one of my dreams. There’s no way you’re real.”

The statement sobers Iris, if only a little, but enough that the smooth and easy flow of her breathing stutters, much like the beat of her heart, stilling until she thinks she’s gonna lose breath, and then hammering back.

“I could say the same for you.”

The responding silence is piercing, expansive, a space where words left still unsaid are scattered along the floor, merely waiting for one of them to pick it up and say it.

“Iris,” he starts, and then he pauses again. “Can I come over? I know it’s your self-care night, and you can tell me no, but I need to… I really just want to see you.”

She doesn’t even think about it. “Yeah, Barry. You can come over.”

Twenty minutes later, she peels herself off of the sofa to open the door for him. He’s standing on the other side, in dark blue chinos and a baby blue and white checkered shirt, his favorite tan desert boots on his feet. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and he’s leaning against the door frame when she pulls it open. His hair is a mess and his jaw is covered in stubble, but other than the faint red tinge in his cheeks, there is nothing that tells her he isn’t as lucid as talking to her had made him seem.

She smiles up at him, aware that her own eyes are probably low and red, but he smiles back, just as softly. He doesn’t come in right away, instead reaching out to pull her to him, one big hand holding the back of her neck. He looks down at her, eyes traveling down the length of her body.

“Hey my good girl,” he greets at last, and before she can respond, he leans down and kisses her. The kiss is chaste at first, one peck and another. Then he pulls back, only enough to scoop her up, gripping her by her waist and settling her in front of him, her legs wrapping easily around his hips. She yelps at the action, but then he’s kissing her again, and they’re moving into the apartment, Iris noting the faint slam of her door behind them.

He carries her to the couch and drops down in the center of it, keeping her atop him, keeping his mouth on hers. The kiss is slow, so slow, the sort of kiss that has no purpose, not one other than allowing them the space to be together. He holds on to her by her hip, free hand trailing up and down the length of her exposed spine, but he doesn’t make any move anywhere else. He seems content to just kiss her, this deep, open-mouthed kiss.

It’s like he’s trying to get inside of her, to climb in and settle down, to take up space with his searing, insidious presence.

It’s as if he’s trying to tell himself that this isn’t a dream, that it’s really her, it’s really them, moaning into each other, holding onto each other, breathing each other in.

It’s as though he’s trying to cement their story, to write it clear into her skin so that she can’t deny it’s veracity, like he’s promising that the only thing she’ll get on the other side of her climax is this, a gentle, effortless sort of fall.

Her eyes close and she lets herself lie in the feeling: opens a space for him to stay as he slides his tongue against hers; lets the feel of his mouth on her pull her from the dream she swears she’s been living since she first laid eyes on him; stencils the same story back onto him, plotting out a scene that only ends after forever comes and goes. She lets the kiss say what she can’t yet, reminds herself that he’s talking with it too, that he’s telling her what she’d seen in his eyes yesterday, and in his touch the week before, and in the curve of his smiles weeks before that.

When he pulls back, Iris cannot say how much time has passed. She only knows that her body has molded to the shape of him, that her heart has found the rhythm of his, that she’s there with him, my afternoon dream when the world is speedin’, i am still sleepin’, in my blue dream.

“What was that about?” she asks him. She stares back at him, and the way he looks at her is more intoxicating than the wine he’d just tasted on her tongue, more so than the weed that so effortlessly floods her bloodstream.

“Told you I missed you,” he replies, voice husky with exhaustion, and likely the arousal she doesn’t think ever really disappears.

She nods, a little dazed. They sit together for a while longer; Iris tucks her head into Barry’s neck and he keeps rubbing his warm hands along her spine. The atmosphere is delicate, peaceful. She takes him in, inhaling the citrusy scent of him, savoring the feel of him so close to her, surrounding her. They stay that way until Iris feels her own exhaustion tugging at her. She climbs off of him and, after turning off her music, she pulls him through her bedroom and into her bathroom. They brush their teeth, Barry with the toothbrush that he’d bought to keep at hers, and Iris reties the silk scarf she’s wearing on her head.

Inside her room, Barry strips down to his boxers, laying his clothes neatly on the arm of the chair by her window. They get into bed, Barry spooning her, his arm holding her tight against him. She settles in, fitting herself snuggly against him, and he kisses her temple before resuming his stroking, this time on her belly through her nightgown. It doesn’t take long for her to drift off, her breathing deepening before evening out. And just before she goes under, she hears it, Barry muttering, “I love you, Iris,” into her hair, so low that she’s sure she’s only just dreaming it.

When Iris wakes up, the first thing that happens is she hears it again, hears him, Barry’s night-rough voice whispering “I love you, Iris.” It runs in her head on a loop, an anaphora to every other thought, every question she’s having: i love you, iris, did he think she was asleep? i love you, iris, did he mean it? i love you, iris, does he want her to say it back? i love you, iris, i love you, iris, i love you, iris.

Over the past few weeks, Iris has become more comfortable with the idea of it, with the reality that what she feels for Barry is real and big and grand. It still takes her aback, how quickly she’d, they’d, fallen into it. As naturally wary as Iris is, she can’t discount what she’d felt last night when he’d kissed her, when he started into her, like she was the sun and the stars and every other bright light in the galaxy all at once; with awe and reverence and yearning; like he wanted to be consumed by her, and he didn’t care how close he got to that fiery, burning light, as long as she was standing there waiting for him.

And it’s enchanting to be looked at like that. Iris has been trying to get it out on paper, that feeling, trying to make sense of the contradictions: the fear that comes with caring about someone enough that they could break you; the power that follows knowing it’s the same for him too; the overall potency that comes with falling in love.

Still, the thought of saying it aloud, right now—when she’s still working on writing it all out, still trying to explain it to herself first—makes her seize up, her eyes darting wildly, her limbs frozen in anxiety.

Barry begins to shift behind her, loosening his arm from around her, and she takes the opportunity to slide out of the bed. She pads across her carpeted bedroom floor into the bathroom where her feet meet cold tiles. She uses the bathroom, washes her hands and brushes her teeth, and throws water on her face. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, chocolate brown eyes bright in her face, her skin clear, her mouth turned down in consternation.

She goes back out into her room. Barry is fully away now, lying on his back, both of his hands cradling the back of his head. Her comforter is pooled at his hips. She takes in his bare chest, the way his biceps bulge in this position, how clear his eyes look in the sun, even as his lids are low with sleep. Those candy eyes catch her as she walks over to him, staying on her as she kneels on the bed and crawls over him, settling herself on top of him. He’s half hard under her and he lets out a soft little grunt when she sits her butt right on his crotch.

“You sleep okay?” she asks him as he reaches up and traces at his iris tattoo. She loves it, the violet ink that has sunk into his skin, the hints of blue and orange giving it depth, the fact that it’s an iris, placed big and pretty over his heart.

“Are you alright?” he asks instead of answering her question. His voice is still sleep-rough and scratchy. The sound of it sends a soft little tremble through her.

She smiles, the gesture real but uncertain. Well, maybe not uncertain, but she’s aware that she’s in her head again, trying to parse through her feelings. Or, rather, trying to figure out which of her feelings is taking precedence, which one she thinks that she should address first.

“Yes, I’m okay.”

Barry hums as he drags a hand from behind his head, placing it at her hip. “You know it’s okay not to be, right? Okay, I mean. And you can talk to me about it, whatever it is.”

He gives her hip a squeeze.

“No, I am okay. I’m good, really. I just…” she licks her lips as she hesitates, unsure if she’s even ready to bring it up, unsure if she even should. But she knows that she’ll think about it all day, will hear it in her head all day, will wonder and question and drive herself sick with the thoughts of it. So she bites the bullet, lets out a long exhale, and takes him at his word that she can talk about it.

“I heard what you said. Before we fell asleep last night.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his entire body stiffens, his hands stilling on her hip. He doesn’t break, though, and continues to watch her face in that way that he does. For a moment, Iris wonders if he even remembers what he said, if the words were just some half-drunk confession he hadn’t actually meant to say,

(and the flicker of disappointment that follows is tangible, an almost visceral response that tells her much more than anything else could have).

“Okay,” he says after a moment, tilting his head. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

She wishes she was as good at reading him as he is at reading her. She’s supposed to be able to make the observations, to understand the truth behind what people don’t say. Sometimes she thinks that she can, thinks that when she really looks at him, she can see what’s simmering in those eyes, can understand his intentions in the grip of his hands, and the curve of his spine, and the shape of his mouth. But it doesn’t feel constant, not like he is with her, and that fact is doubly true right now. Because she can’t tell anything about what he’s thinking, his only tell being the way his hand is still on her hip, tighter than it was before, holding her to him.

“I don’t know,” she tells him, truthfully. “Did you mean it?”

For the first time, he averts his eyes, gazing over at the window. There’s nothing to see; the blinds are closed and the curtains are drawn, but he focuses there for several long seconds, brows furrowed and lips pursed. She blinks, and then she’s suffused with something foreign, something cold and bitter.

“You didn’t,” she says, and it isn’t a question. “Okay, that’s, that’s…”

She moves to climb off of him, but he’s quick, bringing her back by sitting up and wrapping both of his arms around her.

“Where are you going? I’m not done.”

Her eyes flash. “Well you haven’t said anything and I don’t need to sit here like this and listen to you tell me that you didn’t mean to say you love me.”

“What are you upset about, Iris?”

“I’m not upset, Barry,” she says, her frustration evident. She tries to move again, but he holds on to her. “It’s fine. Of course you didn’t mean it. It’s only been a few months. We’re just…”

“We’re just what, Iris?”

He’s looking at her again, with those pretty, too-knowing eyes, and she feels a little like she can’t breathe. Because he didn’t mean it. And the thought that she’d managed to get this all so wrong is, is horrifying.

“I don’t know,” she mumbles, and even though she didn’t actually believe it to be true, she continues, “sex, I guess. Apparently.”

She shifts again, but he tightens his grips even more and she can’t understand it, why he’s still surrounding her like this, the look of him and the smell of him and the feel of him so potent.

“Is that really what you think?” he asks, and he doesn't sound angry so much as annoyed. “That I’m just here for sex. When it’s you that initiated all of our first encounters, when…”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, fuck you, Barry. Like all that slick talking isn’t initiating. You’ve got some fucking nerve.”

This time, when she tries to yank away from him, he lets her; and with a grace she doesn’t feel, she climbs off the bed. She strides towards the living room, but she doesn’t get far because Barry grabs her by the arm and presses her body against the wall near the door.

“Let me go, Barry,” she says, heart hammering angrily against her rib cage. He releases her arm immediately, but he cages her in, planting his hands on the walls on either side of her.

“Look at me, Iris,” he commands, his voice a raspy whisper. She blinks over his shoulder, taking in the messy blue comforter on her queen bed in the middle of the room, and the pale cream curtains on the windows to the right that don’t hide much light, and the blue and cream striped lounge chair where Barry’s clothes are.

“Baby, please,” he tries again, and it’s the pleading that makes her turn.

He looks a little like he sounds, frazzled and out of sorts, his eyes darting quickly across her face and the shadow at his jaw far past 5 o’clock.

“I meant it.” The words come out softly, a little strained, and he blinks once, twice, before repeating. “I meant it. I love you. I’m in love with you.”

“No,” Iris shakes her head. “You’re just saying that now. You didn’t mean it.”

Barry lets out a heavy sigh as he steps back from her. She doesn’t move, though, she can’t. Instead, she watches him, her body lost in the turmoil of the past few minutes. He walks towards the bed, then steps away again, stepping in a circle before coming back to her. This time, when he looks at her, she sees it, him, his feelings.

“You looked terrified this morning, Iris,” he explains, “thinking about what I said. I think that I can read you, that I can see into what you aren’t saying to me. I see the way that you look at me, the way that we are together, and I can swear that you also…”

“What if that’s just sexual chemistry?” she interrupts, because she’s still spiraling, her body still so heavy with the range of emotions she’s experienced in the span of just minutes. And what if he really didn’t mean it, what if she’d actually started writing this story wrong, what if this has all been some dream she’s just starting to wake up from.

Barry stops pacing to look at her, incredulous, and then he narrows his eyes at her.

“Is that really what you think, Iris?” He steps, no stalks, towards her, steps slow and measured. He looks up and down the length of her, eyes lingering at the spread of her hips, the dip of her cleavage, before settling on her face. “You really think that the way we are together is, is just sex?”

She opens her mouth but doesn’t answer, and he closes the distance between them. He stands so close that she has to throw her head back against the wall in order to see up at him.

(She tries but can’t find it in herself to be ashamed of what this does to her, even as she’s not happy with him, having his attention on her like this, having his hard length pressed against her like this, the look of him and the smell of him and the feel of him like this.)

“I know that no one else fucks you like I do, Iris.”

That makes her snap and he pushes at him and he stumbles back near the bed. “You’re a smug fucking bastard, Barry Allen.”

She moves to grab her phone off the counter, intending to, she doesn’t know, throw it at his head. But then she’s plucked off her feet. She squeals as he tosses her onto her back and straddles her hips, holding her by her arms above her head. She bares her teeth at him, but doesn’t try to get away from him this time. She’s breathing heavily, and he is too, and for a second, Iris thinks that this love stuff is too much. Because that’s what’s going on here, isn’t it? It’s their first fight and it’s about love, about the fact that they’d slipped into it so simply that they (and by they, she means she) is finding it difficult to just let it be.

“I don’t mean it in an arrogant way, Iris,” he murmurs. “I just… you are a fucking goddess, baby, and if you’d ever been with anyone the way you are with me, there’s no way they would have ever let you go.”

He presses down on her arms a little, presses his hips into hers a little. “And no one has ever made me feel like this, the way that you do, in bed and out of it. And you don’t have to say it back. Not until you’re ready. I meant what I said but I didn’t think you would hear me. I just needed to say it.”

His eyes roam her face and she stares back. Her breathing has begun to level out, but she’s still left with, with adrenaline or something, a heavy, aching sort of feeling flooding through her, making her warm and jittery and, and wet. Which, she’s never been turned on by arguing before, but, by god, she is. She is. Turned on and in love and so gone on the man above her that she doesn’t think of anything at all before she leans up and kisses him.

For the first time since they’ve started doing this, Barry doesn’t take his time. He kisses her back, just as hard, the kiss more teeth and tongue than mouth. He keeps a hold of her arms in one of his big hands and then reaches down to push her dress up over her hips, lifting his own hips just enough that he can pull himself out of his boxers and spread her legs, hiking them over his waist. He doesn’t bother with taking her panties off; he just yanks them over to the side, probably ripping the delicate lace, and then runs a couple of his sure fingers through her slit to see if she’s wet enough to take him. Satisfied, he grips himself and then slides into her.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, dragging the word out, and Iris seconds that, throwing her head back at the heavy, hard, full feeling of him. He gives her one experimental thrust, and then another, and then he’s setting a pace, fucking into her in hard, shallow strokes. He clenches hard around her, her head filled with the press of his body and the smell of his skin and the thought of his love, i know the meaning’, for all the seasons, you are the reason, my love. Then Barry leans down on her, so that his chest brushes her nipples and his pelvis rubs against her clit every time he rocks into her, and her head clears of everything but this.

“God,” she moans, eyes fluttering closed.

He moves his mouth to her ear as he picks up his pace, murmuring as he always does, “fuck, baby, yes, you feel so good, girl; my good girl, shit” but his words aren’t as smooth as they usually are. He is frayed, his breathing choppy and his pace brutal. She likes it though. Her pussy grows wetter with every thrust, her hips rocking up to meet him, and she breathes out through her nose when she finds her mouth stuck in a round “o.” They’re both slick from the exertion and Iris can’t tell if it’s his sweat or hers or theirs. He holds on to the meat of her thigh, widening her so that he can ride her deeper, harder. She drips, down onto her thighs, soaking him too, and she knows that were she to look down, his dick would be so obscenely slick with her. He kisses at her ear, down to her neck, along her jaw, biting and licking and sucking on her skin. His grip on her is hard, and it isn’t so much rough as it is raw, inelegant and sensual and crude and so so so so good.

The thought of it is just as arousing as the act of it, and Iris manages to breathe out, “shit, Bear, how, how, how are you always so gooood?”

He flashes her a grin, her Barry coming back to her, and he says into her ear, “because it’s us, baby. Because I love you and you’re falling for me and we were meant for this.”

When Iris comes, it’s so hard she swears she goes blind for a minute. The world darkens and all she can do is feel: passion and euphoria and ecstasy and every other expression like it.

She’s thirty minutes late meeting Linda for their monthly brunch..

She and Barry shower together, and she drops him off at his car downtown and then she drives the couple blocks over to Golden’s. Before he gets out, he leans over and kisses her, a long slow sort of kiss, licking deep into her mouth as he cradles her face gently in the palm of his hand, and then he taps the top of her car twice before ambling over to his jeep without saying a word.

She feels a little funny after all of that, wondering why she still hadn't been able to say the words to him. He hadn’t said much to her as they’d dressed and gotten ready to leave her apartment. But he hadn’t stopped touching her either: taking her loofah from her and washing her down in the shower, running his hand over her hip after she’d hopped into a pair of light denim boyfriend jeans, rubbing on her thigh as she’d driven them downtown. She doesn’t think he’s upset with her; he’d told her she didn’t have to say it back. But he’d retreated, at least verbally, and it’s fucking with her, making her realize how much her fear is keeping her from him.

Golden’s is already open by the time she gets there so she walks in through the front door, throwing a hand up at Kamilla as she heads to the back in her stiletto heeled ankle booties, tugging lightly at the long, faux pearl necklace lying over her white half tucked in sweater. It’s packed as usual, the Saturday lunch crowd filling most of the seats, and she has to walk around chairs half pushed in and groups of people laughing and enjoying their Saturday.

She slides into the booth across from her best friend, the table already littered with food, Linda’s mango mimosa mostly gone. The other woman looks up at her, perusing, her brown eyes curious. Iris ignores her to grab her champagne flute, dropping a frozen mango slice into the glass and pouring a smidge of juice in, topping it off with champagne. She downs half of it in one gulp.

“You’ve been fucked,” is the first thing Linda says, when she finally decides to speak.

Iris chokes on her swallow of mimosa.

“Freshly,” Linda adds. Her red painted lips curve up in a devious little grin. “Is that big ass hickey you’re sporting the reason you’re late?”

She rolls her eyes, but touches gently at where she knows it’s sitting, an uneven patch of darkened flesh about the size of a quarter on her neck just under her left ear. She’d been in too much of a daze while she was putting on her minimal makeup earlier, the moisturizer and a little concealer, a bit of bronzer on her lids, liner and mascara. She hadn’t noticed the hickey, not until she was putting on her lipstick in the car and she didn’t have any foundation to cover it with.

“I’m too old to have a hickey,” she says to Linda instead of responding to her question.

“Tell your boo that,” Linda responds.

Iris wrinkles her nose at “boo” and starts spooning some sticky sesame chicken onto her plate. She forks a dumpling and bites at it as she goes for the lo mein and she doesn’t realize she’s reaching for the edamame until Linda stills her hand.

“Okay, what’s up?”

Iris chews the rest of her dumpling. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re eating.”

“Is that not why we’re here?”

“No, I mean you’re eating, doing that thing where you just throw food into your mouth without stopping or even really tasting it. You only do it when you’re really anxious and there’s no notebook or wine handy.”

Iris stills with a piece of shrimp in her hand. She drops it back onto the platter and sits back into the booth, chewing and swallowing while Linda waits patiently, sipping from her glass.

And then she blurts, “I’m in love with Barry.”

Linda nods, not yet committing to a response. “Okay.”

“And he told me he’s in love with me and I didn’t say it back.” Iris lets out a breath, tension releasing like a pressure valve has been turned.

“Why didn’t you say it back?”

“Because I’m a coward,” she answers.

Linda’s head shake is automatic, her brown waves brushing at her neck. “There’s not a hint of coward in you, baby girl.” Iris takes her best friend’s white silk blouse just as she says, “Now why don’t you really tell me what’s up.”

To give herself some time to put it all together, she finishes her mimosa and mixes another, though this one with less champagne, and she eats another dumpling, chewing slowly. Then she clears her throat.

“For a while now, I’ve been feeling, I don't know, lost. I was single, school was boring. Work was too, and it seemed like all of you were moving forward while I was just watching. Nothing felt exciting, not even my blog really. And then Barry came along, and I swear, the moment I saw him, it’s like my entire world lit up. There was this, this spark, and even when I was claiming that he was just around for sex, there was always this feeling that it was bigger than all of that, bigger than anything I’ve felt before.

And suddenly, I feel so different. I feel good, Linda. Everything is starting to feel good. My blog is getting real recognition now and Dr. Jamison must also be getting good sex because she’s been an actual joy to be around. And Barry...and Barry is…”

“Putting you to sleep every night?”

It makes her laugh, the way Linda wiggles her eyebrows as she says it, the way her eyes light up with mirth, the way her smile is a soft thing.

“Yeah, he is,” Iris says, her mouth twisting wryly. “But what if it’s a fluke, Linda? This man is everything I’ve wanted in a man and so much more than I even knew I wanted. What if we do this and I learn that he’s been, just, fucking with me this whole time?”

“You know that’s not true, Iris.” Linda picks up her own glass and drains it.

“But how can I trust this?” she pushes. “This happiness that seems to have only come when Barry stepped into my life?”

Linda reaches over and grabs Iris’s hand, and Iris clasps it like a lifeline, her pale orange tipped fingers pressing hard into Linda’s hand and Linda’s own pink tipped fingers pressing back. “There are no guarantees. So maybe we do find out that Barry has been faking this entire time. But what if he’s not? What if he’s as kind and loving as you say he is? ” She lets that digest for a moment.

“Love, and life, is a series of ups and downs, of good experiences and bad, Iris. The timing of it all is just coincidence. And I hear you. It feels so scary to realize that someone has that sort of power over you; that the care of your heart is in their hands. But what I’m learning with Dan is that love, love is always worth it. Because what you’re feeling, it doesn’t go away just because you don’t say it back, just because you don’t acknowledge it. And when you don’t you risk cutting it, him, off, and you’ll get hurt anyway. And that, my love, will be your own fault.”

Iris thinks about Linda’s words as they finish brunch, moving the conversation to Linda’s upcoming trip to meet Dan’s family. She thinks about it as she gets into her car and drives back home, forgoing working on a story in favor of plopping down on the couch and letting music play, my mind is open, so wide since you came inside, i feel so alive, without you life just passes by, passes by, lost in the reality of what she’s feeling.

She thinks about the words as she goes out to grab dinner, picking up a salad for herself and a chicken sandwich and fries for Barry, the intention to take him food not one fully realized until she’s parking in front of the precinct that Barry works out of.

She thinks about the words because Linda is right.

(She would never tell the other woman this, but she is right more often than she’s not, her poise and curious nature making her one to offer sound advice, always realistic and with love.)

She loves him, she does: his wit and his hands and his eyes; his compliments and his patience and ability to make her feel as if everything he’s ever wanted is present in the curves of her body; as if it is his profound pleasure to coax it out of her, with every touch, every moan, every dirty, mumbled thing.

Buoyed by the fact that she’d said it aloud, at the very least, and she didn’t wither away after she had, she grabs the food bags and her purse and walks up the steps to the precinct.

Her dad is working tonight but since she’ll see him tomorrow at dinner, she doesn’t drop by his office. Instead, she heads downstairs to where CSI is located, following the stairs to where they’ve apparently put them in the basement. The hallway is well lit, and there are several windows covered in closed blinds that lead to the lab door. She balances the bags in one hand and opens the door with the other. And she’s stopped short at what she sees.

The room looks like how she’s always imagined a crime lab to look like: lots of white, microscopes, and computers, shelves full of test tubes and petri dishes. Barry is there and so is the Cisco guy she remembers from Fall Fest. There’s a woman there too, in the utilitarian black pants and matching blazer that Iris knows is the norm for detectives. And it’s not that she’s there, because that’s not weird. But she’s there, next to Barry, close to Barry, leaning on his counter with her hand on his arm as she talks. She’s as tall as Iris is in the four inch booties Iris is wearing, with shoulder length dirty blonde hair and the sort of white girl next door look that men fall all over themselves for.

Cisco notices her first, as the door closes softly behind her, and Iris feels a bit mollified at the way his grin rises up when he sees her.

“Iris,” he calls, eyes twinkling. “Nice to see your beautiful face.”

Iris winks at him, pulling out a flirtatious grin so that she doesn’t scowl at the sight of the woman touching Barry.

(She’s not jealous. She’s not, but Iris can’t stand the thought of Barry looking at someone else the way that he does her, can’t stand the thought of him touching someone else the way he does her, can’t stand the thought of him whispering, yeah, baby, fuck, ride me just like that, to someone else the way he does her.)

Cisco, though, is loud enough that Barry hears him, and she watches as he straightens at the sight of her, eyes wide. “Iris!”

He gives her his look, the one where he rakes his eyes over the length of her and then lingers on her face, always trying to read her. She’s still a little frustrated at how she’s always such an open book for him, apparent after he’s finished his perusal and he smiles, slow and with more smirk than anything else. The woman next to him only moves her hand from Barry hesitantly, turning to see what all of this commotion is about. She gives Iris the same once over that Barry did, though decidedly colder, and Iris tilts her head at her before settling her gaze on Barry.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Iris says. “I know that you’re busy, but I thought I’d drop off dinner for you.”

She steps further into the room, and her heels clack loudly in the too quiet space. She pauses in front of where Cisco is sitting. She turns to him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring you anything. I should’ve texted Barry to see who else was around, but I was picking up dinner and just decided to get him some too.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “You can get me next time.”

Iris passes him and lets her eyes wander back to Barry and the detective, who’s stepped back in a bit. As soon as Iris catches his eyes again, Barry steps away from her, moving around to meet Iris. She stops at a point along a wide expanse of empty space on one of the tables, and Iris feels it’s a safe enough spot to place the food without contaminating anything. As soon as she drops the food on the table, Barry cups the back of her head and stares down at her. His thumb traces the mark he’d left on her neck.

“Hi, beautiful,” he says, eyes wondering, smile tender.

She looks over his shoulder to where the woman still stands, looking at her too. She gives her a smile in greeting. Iris thinks it’s returned.

“I’m sorry. You look busy,” she responds. “Should I go?”

“Absolutely not. I’m just surprised to see you.” Without stepping away from her, he turns to address the detective. “Patty, I’ll come down as soon as I have the results for you.”

Her gaze trails over to Iris once more, observing where Barry holds onto Iris’s neck, onto her waist. “Of course,” she murmurs, finally.

She walks out of the room, her low-heeled boots nearly silent on the floors. Both Iris and Cisco watch her go, but Barry doesn’t pay much attention, his focus on Iris as he continues to rub along his mark.

Cisco stands, sort of abruptly, his chair skitting across the floor. “Barry, I’m gonna step out for a minute.” He shrugs out of his lab coat, tossing it on the back of his chair. His thick brown hair brushes against his shoulders with every shake of his head. “It’s good seeing you again, pretty lady.”

Iris offers him another smile. “You too, Cisco.”

She turns back to Barry who’s eyeing her, expression curious. “You’re here,” he says, voice low.

“Yeah,” she nods at the bags she’s placed on the table. “I don’t know, I went to get dinner and I was, well, I was thinking about you.” She shrugs with a nonchalance she doesn’t feel.

“Yeah?” Barry’s answering grin is wide, and a little bit boyish, cheeks reddening; it makes Iris smile back in turn.

“Come on,” Barry says, picking up the bags and walking over to a desk tucked into the corner. “I've got a few minutes.”

The desk is messy, stacks of folders and sticky notes all over the place, and he moves some papers around so that he can place their food down. He rolls his desk chair over for her to sit in and he grabs the bag, pulling out her salad container and his sandwich and fries and placing them in front of their spots.

She waits until he sits down in the hard back chair he’d gotten from under one of the computers and she snaps the top of her salad before she says, “so why wasn’t I introduced to the detective?”

Barry takes a bite of his sandwich and looks at her in question. “Who? Detective Spivot?”

“Don’t you mean, Patty?”

Barry pauses with a fry poised for his mouth. “Sure,” he says. “Patty is one of the detectives on the case we got called into.”

“Hmm.” Iris stabs at her salad. She takes a bite and chews, though she doesn’t really taste it.

Barry places his half eaten sandwich into the cardboard container and he turns to her, giving her his full attention. He inclines his head, watches for a second. She thinks that the corner of his mouth tilts up, that humor brims in his eyes.

“What do you want to say, Iris?”

She rolls her eyes, annoyed that she can’t focus on how cute he looks with his lab coat and glasses on, annoyed that that woman was touching him, annoyed that she’s annoyed.

“I didn’t know you were so close to the detective. Y’all were very...touchy.”

Shaking her head, she starts to go back to her salad, but then he drops his food and rubs his hands together. He leans towards her.

“Come here,” he says.

She ducks away, but he grabs her wrist gently and pulls at her. She goes, because her tripping heart and her heaving chest and her warming sex won’t allow her to not. Barry sits her in his lap, sideways so that her legs are half hanging over his. She’s a head taller than him in this position, and he presses a hand at the small of her back as he looks up at her.

“You’re jealous,” he announces, seemingly pleased with the fact.

Iris rolls her eyes. “Of course not.”

Barry laughs. “So you’re just really grumpy right now?”

“I’m just curious,” she says.

“Oh?”

“About the touching.”

“She’d literally just put her hand on me as you walked in the door. I was about to move it.”

Iris harrumphs. “Doesn’t Detective Spivot know that you’re…” Iris waves her hand as she trails off and it makes Barry’s slight grin widen.

“That I’m what?”

Even she knows that the huff she lets out would only be completed with a foot stop.

“That you’re taken,” she says, boldly. Because whatever she was feeling, whatever he was feeling, this morning, they are still them: two people who’ve crawled into open, waiting hearts and made space for one another; two people who are pages deep into a story that the stars must have already been writing; two people hours into a dream that is so vivid, it has to be real.

The statement seems to sober him, because his eyebrows furrow. “Am I?”

She wants to be bothered by the genuine question in his eyes. But they’ve never blatantly talked about them. There has been some conjecture, sex-fueled mutterings that hinted at the reality of them, of their feelings. There have been looks between the two of them that tell far more than Iris has ever even realized could be portrayed through eye contact. He’s told her that he loves her. But they’ve never defined or drawn out the lines or made it real.

But like she said, they are them. And he is. Taken. So she slowly licks her lips, and nods her head. “Yeah, you are.”

This time, Barry’s smile is a sexy, lilting thing. “I’m fully yours, Iris. You have to know that.” He turns her so that he can hold her gaze, and reaches up to curl his fingers around the back of her neck, his thumb hitting that mark again. Then he says,

“I love you. I will until you love me back and forever after that. And that means that I don’t see anyone but you. I haven’t seen anyone but you since the minute I laid eyes on you in that slinky dress you had on, dancing in the middle of the crowd by yourself.” He presses a soft kiss to her lips. “Even before, for months before, I couldn’t see anyone else. Because I was waiting for you, Iris.”

He gives her another kiss, this one longer, deeper, like the one he’d given her before he left her car. She finds herself humming into his mouth, her arms tightening around his shoulders. He rubs against her thigh, higher, then a little higher, until Iris is opening her legs to try to get some sort of friction.

Minutes or moments or eternity after, he pulls his mouth away, though he doesn’t move away from her fully. Instead, he looks at her, and she finds herself lost in him, in this dream of a story. She sees the words of it, my afternoon dream, when the world is speeding; i am still sleeping, in my blue dream and i know the meaning, for all the seasons; you are the reason, my love, and she wants to add to it, wants to let herself live in it, wants to finally fall into this love story without fear or reservation.

“Barry,” she says, whispers, and she notes how hooded his eyes look through the wire-framed glasses he’s wearing and how just the act of sitting here on his lap calms her at the same time that it inflames her. Then she thinks about his infinite levels of patience as he’s waited for her to be ready for him and how he’s always been interested in what she thinks or feels and how no one has even treated her body with the, the homage that he seems to. And she...and she loves him. “Barry, I…”

“Alright, Barry, we have…whoa.”

Iris blinks out of her haze, startles out of the confession she was about to make, at the sound of Cisco’s voice. Still, it takes a second before she’s able to pull herself from Barry, and from the expression he’s saddling her with, she thinks he might have an inkling of what she was about to say.

“None of this hanky panky,” Cisco continues, either oblivious or uncaring, Iris doesn’t know. “Spivot and Mitchell need to see us.”

“Alright,” Barry calls over her shoulder. “I’ll be down in five.”

When Cisco nods and leaves again, Iris is pulled back into Barry’s orbit. He palms the back of her neck, thumb brushing the mark on her throat. She assesses him.

“Did you do that on purpose?”

“I’m sorry.” He immediately goes red. He averts his eyes for a moment, before they drift back to her. “It’s tacky, I know, and I didn’t realize what I was doing until it was too late. This morning, I was, I don’t know, confused about us and I just…” He pressed his thumb into her skin. “I told you I’m not composed around you; I’m a mess.”

Iris covers his hand where it’s still on her throat. “You know that I’m yours too, right?” The earlier moment seems to have passed, but she can, needs to, give him this. His stare is hard and almost unreadable.

“Yeah,” he says after a while, sort of breathless. “Yeah, I guess you are.”

She wishes that she could stay in this moment with him, such a stark deviation from the way they’d left each other this morning. So she takes that feeling with her as she packs her salad up and helps him clean up the trash. Together, they venture into the hall and Barry leads her back out into the bullpen where Cisco is standing with Spivot and a tall, dark-skinned man with a baldhead and a beard. All three of them turn at the sound of Iris’s boots on the floors. Something about the look of them makes Iris grab Barry’s hand. Barry stops her a few feet away and leans down.

“I like how territorial you’re being,” Barry all but whispers in her ear. “I’ll come over after work and remind you why you don’t have to be.”

The thought of them this morning, the hard press of him, his breath rough in her ear, makes her look up at him, her eyes bright, bottom lip between the white of her teeth. It’s only Cisco’s pointed throat clearing that keeps her from falling mouth first into him.

Barry’s grin is knowing. “Bye, baby,” he says, a little louder this time, and Iris shakes her head, knowing he’s saying it in front of Patty for her benefit. He drops a kiss on her check and Iris nods at his coworkers.

“Detectives. Cisco.” She squeezes his hand once and drops it. “See you later, Bear.”

She steps away and walks out of the station, but not before she hears Mitchell say, “Damn, Allen, how did you bag that?”

She wishes she could explain that she’s the one that doesn’t know how she got him.

Barry does come over later, and as soon as he walks through the door, he pushes her up against the wall and fucks her, groaning “mine, mine, fuck, mine” into the bite on her throat, as Iris moans it back in kind, “yours, yes, Barry, I’m yours.”

My afternoon dream when

The world is sleepin'

I am still thinkin'

Of my blue dream

It's bliss

[thelastviolin]

Sometimes I stare at empty Word documents for hours. Sometimes I sit down and write 2k words. 

Inspired by The Script’s “Never Seen Anything Quite Like You”

HotchReid- Tonight

Link to A03 above.

Aaron Hotchner is a consummate professional. He takes pride in his ability to lead his team and in his team themselves. He has heard the whispers about how attractive his team is and how it can’t be a coincidence. Especially after his divorce, rumors abounded that he had cheated on his wife with a team member. But anyone who actually knew Aaron knew he would never cheat on a partner- he is as loyal as they come. Even if he had been inclined to cheat, he would never cross that line with a co-worker. Rossi may have been able to subvert the FBI fraternization rules without consequence, but Aaron cared too much about his career.

As he stood in a shadowy corner at the annual FBI fundraising gala and heard yet another conversation about the attractiveness of the BAU females, he couldn’t help but smile. Because Aaron is a consummate professional, but he isn’t blind. He knows his team wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of a magazine. He had even had to step in to prevent the PR department from using images of JJ and Derek in their latest recruiting campaign, citing their occasional undercover work.

Yes, Aaron could understand the stir his teammates were causing tonight, all dressed in their very best and casually schmoozing with D.C.’s finest, though never letting each other far from their sites. Penelope’s infectious laugh was echoing around the room. JJ’s charisma had some of the most influential lobbyists gathered around her, hanging on to her every word. Derek was casually flirting with these same lobbyists’ wives at the bar, using his immeasurable charm to command the attention of almost every female in the room. Emily was being twirled around the dance floor by the counterterrorism section chief, expertly hiding her disdain for the political machinations of all those who tried to cut in for a chance to dance with an ambassador’s daughter. But what Aaron could not understand was the absolute lack of gossip regarding their resident genius.

Dr. Spencer Reid, who was currently speaking with the director of the FBI, gesticulating wildly and grinning proudly when his story elicited a laugh from his companion.

Spencer Reid, who was wearing a dark grey suit that must have been professionally tailored to fit him so well. Even in his formalwear, his signature style was still on display. While the majority of the men were wearing traditional black and white tuxedos, he had paired his suit with a lavender dress shirt and deep purple tie. He was also the only guest wearing Converse rather than dress shoes, the shock of purple fabric causing Aaron to smile into his drink when he had first arrived.

Spencer, who was the most beautiful man Aaron had ever seen.

 He first noticed how shockingly beautiful the young agent was after the terrible events in Georgia. Aaron’s heart had raced as they rushed across the field to get to Spencer, who was kneeling over his captor’s dead body. As Aaron reached down to pull him to his feet, the flashlights highlighted Spencer’s cheekbones in a way that almost left Aaron breathless. And the moment that Spencer placed his hand on Aaron’s shoulder, expressive eyes shining with relief and gratitude, Aaron knew that Spencer Reid had just stolen a piece of his heart. Every team member had rushed to hug the agent, anxious to confirm for themselves that he had indeed survived the horrific ordeal. But Aaron couldn’t move, lost in the feeling of Spencer’s lithe body holding onto his for dear life.

But Spencer had struggled in the aftermath of his kidnapping and withdrawn from the team. Aaron’s marriage was crumbling around him and Gideon was becoming sullen and unreliable. He never had the chance to examine his feelings upon seeing Spencer alive, knowing that he had reached out to Aaron specifically, had trusted Aaron to understand his message. Aaron’s emotions had been spiraling out of control, as evidenced by his attempt to take on Chester Hardwick during the custodial interview gone awry. But once again, Spencer’s beauty had saved the day. His beautiful mind, his ability to spew facts at an overwhelming rate that often frustrated his teammates, had stepped up and saved Aaron from what would surely have been a brutal beating. When Aaron had apologized for antagonizing the serial killer and escalating the situation, he caught Spencer’s furrowed eyebrows in his peripheral vision. Never boasting, never censuring, Spencer had merely shrugged the apology off before staring out the window as they raced down the highway back home. Aaron struggled to keep his eyes on the road, so intrigued by Spencer’s relaxed profile and casual response to the situation. In his office after their return, he couldn’t focus on the report he was supposed to be writing, imagining the potential outcomes of the confrontation if Spencer hadn’t stepped up. When he heard Spencer describe the interview as ‘ultimately uneventful’, he couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face, allowing him to pull himself from his morbid thoughts with a deep breath and return his attention to the task at hand.

The terror that gripped him upon hearing that Emily and Spencer had been taken hostage by a cult leader due to the incompetence of state officials caused his professional façade to slip as he bullied the attorney general off the site. Images of a beaten Spencer arose in his mind unbidden, threatening his ability to think clearly. Thankfully, Dave had handled the situation with grace, never questioning why Aaron seemed to be falling apart, and the sight of Spencer and Derek emerging from the burning ruins soothed the ache that had been growing within him. That Spencer had sought comfort in Emily’s arms rather than his own was of little consequence- just seeing that mess of hair, made worse by days of captivity and an explosion, reminded Aaron that there was still beauty in the world.

Years passed, and although Aaron was aware of his growing attraction to the young agent, it was never at the forefront of his mind, but merely a passing thought on occasion. Such as the case in which they searched for the Zodiak killer copycat. He hadn’t learned until later that Spencer had been questioning his position on the team and the best use of his intellect. Watching Spencer discredit the attention-seeking man conducting an impromptu press conference completely off the cuff had filled Aaron with pride, knowing that only a few years before Spencer would have never dared to challenge someone, especially in such a public manner. As they stood at the next crime scene, Aaron couldn’t help but be amazed at Spencer’s intellect and confidence. But what was even more awe-inspiring was the sight of Spencer, who was standing with his back to the mountains and the sun providing a halo around his silhouette. That damned purple scarf tucked around his neck and his coat cinched perfectly at his waist. And when he broke the case with his knowledge of obscure chess games, well, Aaron couldn’t be blamed for falling just a little harder. The smile on his face as the team celebrated his birthday after the resolution of the case was so innocent and so Spencer that Aaron had to force himself to stop at a handshake though the rest of the team was showering him in hugs, afraid that if he held the genius in his arms for just a moment he might never let go.

Seeing Spencer interact with Henry and Jack at JJ’s wedding was the final straw. In his tuxedo with a crooked bow tie, entertaining the boys with magic tricks, Spencer had never looked more beautiful to Aaron. His enthusiasm and zeal for life was like a balm for the soul- even the knowledge that Emily would soon be leaving the team couldn’t keep the half-smile off of Aaron’s face all night.

So yes, Aaron was a consummate professional, and although he was aware of the beauty within his team, he never acted on it. He kept his feelings to himself and kept himself on the periphery of the team when his feelings threatened to overwhelm him. He watched Derek tease Spencer about girls and dating and only felt the slightest twinges of jealousy (or so he told himself). He had even managed to keep the depth of his feelings hidden from Dave, his best friend and a seasoned profiler. Dave had dropped hints over the years, but Aaron took pride in his poker face and ability to sidestep Dave’s questioning.

But then Spencer showed up to the gala in that suit. Aaron knew for a fact that Spencer had never bothered to have a suit tailored, never caring enough about his appearance to justify the expense. And from the smirk that Dave was giving him from across the room, it wasn’t Spencer’s idea. Damn meddling profilers. For years, Aaron had been content to enjoy Spencer’s beauty from afar. But this…this was too much for any mortal man to bear, he decided. The stretch of the pants as Spencer leaned over the bar, showing a peek of a hot pink sock. The smile he shot Derek as his friend clapped him on his back, incidentally causing his suit jacket to tighten across his lean back as a blush bloomed down the back of his neck. Before he knew it, Aaron was halfway across the room, having downed the remainder of his watered-down drink. Almost a decade of friendship was potentially on the line, but Spencer had to know. Aaron had never seen anyone as beautiful, as handsome, as Spencer, as the young man before him now.

Spencer turned from the group of women Derek was attempting to introduce him to upon Aaron’s approach. His smile widened, and Aaron hoped that it wasn’t just because he found a reason to escape Derek’s matchmaking attempts. Aaron nodded towards a quiet corner near the exit where a small table had long since been abandoned in favor of the dance floor. Spencer smiled shyly as he ducked his head and made his excuses to Derek before allowing Aaron to guide him away with the subtle pressure of a hand on the small of his back. When they reached the exit, Spencer turned towards Aaron and cocked his head, confused as to why they had stepped away from the party but showing such trust in his eyes that Aaron had to take a deep breath. He had no words prepared and wasn’t sure that he could speak even if he had. Instead, he took a small step forward until their faces were merely inches apart. Spencer’s eyes widened but he didn’t step away. Hesitating, Aaron lifted his hand to cradle the side of Spencer’s face and almost sighed in relief when Spencer leaned into it and touched his lips to his palm.  

“You’ve been staring at me all night.”

“I don’t understand how everyone else has kept their eyes off of you. You are…gorgeous, Spencer. And I know you understand that I don’t say that lightly.”

Spencer looked down at his feet. “At first, I thought I was projecting. You looked at me with such intensity I thought I would burn. But no one said anything, so I assumed it was just wishful thinking. Then Rossi offered to tailor this suit for me to wear tonight, and when I asked why, he just smirked and said he still owed you a birthday present. So I let myself hope that he knew something I didn’t.”

Aaron dipped his head forward so their foreheads were touching. “He can be a meddlesome ass, sometimes. But this may be the best present he has ever given me. God, Spencer, you don’t even know how long…”

“No. Not exactly. I could guess, but it’s not really important, is it? What matters is that you said something tonight. And if you can’t tell- Aaron, I have been gone on you for years. Possibly from the moment we met. Everyone that the team tried to set me up with, none of them compared to you. You set the bar impossibly high, you know.”

Aaron smiled. “I’m sorry it has taken me this long. I was trying to remain professional. But the way you look tonight…well, I’m about to prove to the entire room that I have very unprofessional feelings for you unless you stop me.”

Spencer looked up at Aaron through his eyelashes. “Why would I do that?”

Aaron’s hand slipped from Spencer’s cheek to the back of his neck as his other hand snaked around the younger man’s waist and pulled him impossibly closer into a searing kiss. As he felt Spencer respond, tugging at the lapels of his suit jacket, Aaron decided that he would be content to do this for the rest of his life. He had been a consummate professional for his entire career- he was due for a scandal. And where better to set tongues wagging than in front of the entire FBI? He smiled into the kiss before gently pulling away, grabbing Spencer’s hand and gesturing towards the exit. Spencer smiled back sweetly and followed him out before turning around and looking back at Dave, who lifted his glass in their direction with a smile.

[tamsin-moon]

Together

Anon Ask: So Arthur survived and Charles found him, but y/n has absolutely no idea. In the epilogue he kinda lives with John Abigail and Jack (tb doesn’t exists lmao) and y/n lives in Blackwater. When they first get to Beechers Hope, they go down to Blackwater to do shit like buy the house. This is when they see y/n, wholesome shit, maybe even y/n has a kid that she was pregnant with when Arthur “died” cause why not lol

Notes: Arthur X Female Reader and I was actually thinking to write this, so the request was a tipping point. Canon divergence in which Arthur kills Micah in the end, but was really sick just from everything going on NOT tb. Charles finds him and they stay together eventually coming to help the Marstons say five years later to get the ranch and house built. Meanwhile when the gang had been falling apart Y/n left with Tilly, she hadn’t wanted to but she suspected she was pregnant and would not put that at risk. 

Work was not the easiest to come by for a single mother, but you sure as hell were doing your best. Luckily you were well accustomed to living off the land, hunting and different things so while it had not been easy since you parted ways with Tilly nearly a year ago now you were managing. Your son, Casey, was also as helpful as an almost 5yr old could be and had learned well to do what he was told. He was fairly quiet, but curious in general, liked to ask you questions, but behaved well enough.

Mostly you lived out of the wagon you owned, Tilly and her husband having given it to you despite any protest, and it had served you well so far along with the chestnut Suffolk Punch horse you had….acquired to pull it. Chester was a good boy, though, and quite protective of Casey which you appreciated. Life was actually fairly decent if you thought about it, but you wanted to find something stable to raise him. It was a surprise to you, though, as you found yourself near Blackwater, but you reminded yourself everything was over.

It would cause the pain to swell inside you for a bit as you steered the wagon down the street, eyes casting about for anything interesting before glancing back to your son who was napping in the back. Everything was calm and it seemed like that terrible event may as well never had happened, but you would always have the bad memories. Finding the general store would be where you came to a halt, you could use a few things and had a little spare money, but your thoughts would be stopping short as someone exited the store.

The faces of your companions were ones you would never forget so when your eyes fell on a dark skinned familiar one you would almost feel your head spinning. At first he didn’t notice you and would be heading towards a horse hitched nearby, but you would force your voice to work and called out to him. “Charles? Is that you?” It could be a mistake, your mind playing tricks on you, but as he turn around again with wide eyes you could feel the smile growing on your face.

Dropping from the wagon you would meet him halfway, practically jumping to hug the tall man tight and feeling a warmth you hadn’t in years as he gripped you in return. “I thought you were dead” would fall from both your mouths before you were both laughing, him setting you back on your feet and stepping back. Just looking each other over you would wipe tears from your eyes, “What are you doing here?” you finally ask and he chuckle, “I could ask you the same thing, but right now helping John and Abigail build their house”

You would feel your heart thump as he said that, was her serious? You knew he wouldn’t lie about something like that and were about to speak again when he would add, “Arthur is there too and Uncle” and the air would be practically leaving your lungs that you had to remind yourself to breathe. Arthur? He was alive. If Charles was saying it you knew it was true and you would feel a sob trying to bubble up from you, but a littler voice would be having you force it down, “Mama?” your head snapping to your son as you hastily rub your eyes, seeing him grow concerned quickly.

You had also seen the surprise coming to Charles face and would hear him comment, “So you were pregnant,” before he was stepping over with you. Taking the little boys hand you would give it a squeeze, “I’m alright sweetheart, this is one of mama’s friends, Charles. I haven’t seen him in a long while so just has me so happy I’m crying” you explain best you could before he would wave to Charles, “Hi, I’m Casey” he greet, not nervous if you said it was a friend and Charles would smile to him, “Nice to meet you”

You would feel your friends gaze fall back to you, “You going to come with me to see everyone?” he ask, but you were already nodding. There was no way you weren’t going, especially if Arthur was there. He deserved to meet his son and you still loved him as much as you did then. Casey would look at you curiously, “More friends?” he ask and you smile, kissing his cheek, “Yes, it seems they live nearby and I didn’t even know it” you tell him honestly before continuing, “But not just friends, Charles tells me your papa is there too”

Blindsiding Arthur with this would be one thing, but you had told Casey about his father plenty and shown him a picture so were certain he would recognize him. “Will he be happy to see me?” he ask and you could only smile, giving his hand another squeeze, “I am sure he will, but you might have to be patient with him a bit” you say before looking back to Charles who was just giving you an agreeing smile.

The trip itself to Beechers Hope was uneventful aside from Casey talking to Charles, asking questions and just being a curious child. It had your nerves rising the closer you got and you did have a fear that Arthur could reject you both, but deep down you knew that was unfounded. As the partially built house came into view you would see Abigail and Jack first and it would have your heart swelling, it just seemed right seeing them hanging laundry.

“Arthur must have gone out hunting or so, I don’t see his horse” you hear Charles say, turning to lead you over toward a paddock to park the wagon before you were hearing Abigail. Even at a distance the woman recognized you when she saw you and you were barely off the wagon when you were in another hug, “You’re alive! It’s so good to see you!” she would be saying before she was yelling for John. Said man coming running from around the house with Uncle right behind him and the reunion was turning into a bit of chaos.

Eventually things would settle and they were surprised and happy to meet Casey as well, Jack taking him to play while you all settled on the porch and got caught up on everything. John looking to the sky a minute, “Arthur should be back here soon, thought he saw signs of a cougar this morning so wanted to check around for it” he explain and you nodded, “I am terrified” you admit, but Abigail was swatting you quick, “Nonsense, he’ll be happy for once” she say firmly and you just do your best to nod, knowing better then to try to argue with her.

It would be maybe a half an hour later when you would hear hoof beats and looking up you would feel your heart get caught in your throat. It was a sight you never thought you would see again, the man you love riding up on a horse. Hat tucked on his head, sleeves rolled to his elbows and patting his horses neck. When he caught sight of you all on the porch you could see the confusion grow on his features and how he looked to Charles first. The man just nodding his head towards you and you could tell he lost all form of thought.

At first you weren’t certain what he was going to do, but were soon gasping as he was trying to get off his horse so fast he got caught up in the stirrup and fell on his back. You could hear him cursing from there, but it had you moving. Pulling your skirt up to practically run you would be getting to him just as he was getting to his feet and knocking him right back onto his rear. Arms wrapping around each other you would just cling, as if this would all vanish if you let go, and you couldn’t hold back the tears.

You could feel his own dripping into your shirt as he buried his face into your neck and shoulder, “Oh darlin’ I’ve missed you so damn much,” you would hear him speaking, but your own voice was a mess. It was all you could do to remember to breathe until your body calmed and you could pull back to look at him. He looked healthier then he did when you parted and it had more relief washing through you, leaning into his hand as he cupped your cheek to brush your tears away.

Nothing needed to be said as you both leaned in, lips finding each others and the love sparking between you. A flame that had never dwindled, only pulling back when you needed to breathe. Finally about to speak would be when you heard it, your son’s voice, “Mama?” It seemed Jack saw Arthur ride in so he had brought Casey back around, the little boy looking between you and Arthur with a worried expression.

Taking a deep breath you would feel Arthur tense, seeing him glance between you and Casey before a look of understanding seemed to come over his features, “So that’s what you wouldn’t tell me…when you left with Tilly” he say softly and you blink, “I could see it in your face, something you weren’t saying when you told me you were goin’” It had you softening, squeezing his hand a moment, “You already had so much on your mind, you didn’t need the thought of….leaving a child fatherless on top of it” you admit before feeling little hands gripping the back of your shirt.

Looking over your shoulder you would smile, tugging him around to sit on your lap as he look up to Arthur. Said man shifting to rest on a knee would give the boy a smile and you would feel your son relax a bit, soon asking, “Papa?” and it was all Arthur could do not to cry again, but he nodded, “And who might you be, huh? Been taking care of your mama?” You could already hear the love in his tone and it had any worry in you flying away.

Your son smiling to him brightly, “I’m Casey and yeah, I try” he say happily, not even hesitating to reach for his father and you felt your heart swell as Arthur scooped him up a second later. Rising with the boy on his hip before pulling you to your feet he pulled you both close, you barely hearing him, “Don’t let this be a dream”

[wordsfromthesol]

You Confuse Pity with Love

Author: @wordsfromthesol Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader Summary: The evolving relationship between you and Damian after you approach him at an annual charity ball. Warnings: Minor injuries, cursing Word Count: 1.9k Taglist: @zphilophobiaz

The annual charity ball was an event you had always been forced to go to. You had to keep up the façade that your family had spent years cultivating. Not that you could blame them, it was a mask that all of the Gotham elite wore. You gallivanted around, searching for something to entertain yourself when your eyes landed on Damian Wayne. The youngest of the prominent Wayne family and the only biological son of Bruce Wayne. Your eyes narrowed as a devious expression graced your features.

"Damian Wayne!" You called out, catching his attention. "Please tell me you are as miserable as I." You commented as you approached the unsuspecting bachelor.

"I would not know. Though I get no pleasure from events such as this. It is simply a means to an end."

"How debonair of you." You twirled around him, "I say we play a game."

"Game?" Damian's interested piqued.

"First person to get the watch of…" your eyes searched the crowd for an unsuspecting party-goer. "That guy, wins."

"This is childish." Damian scoffed as he rose to participate in your ill-conceived game.

"I think you're just afraid you'll lose." You winked at him before making a beeline for the chosen victim.

**

You had just ordered your coffee when you noticed a familiar face staring at you from across the café. "What, are you stalking me now?"

"Perhaps you are the one stalking me. I believe I was here first."

"Yeah, but this is my favorite place. And the closest coffee shop to my apartment." Damian stared blankly at back at you. "You're a Wayne, you could've figured that out." You scoffed at him, knowing full well that the Wayne's basically ran Gotham City.

"This is the closest coffee shop to my apartment as well. You are a Y/L/N. You could have figured that out." A faint smile donned his lips as he threw your words back at you.

"Y/N!" The barista screamed from the counter, saving you from trying to come up with a rebuttal. Grabbing your drink, you walked over to a nearby table and pulled out your laptop. You attempted to ignore the youngest Wayne heir, but you found your eyes constantly wandering towards him. An hour had passed and you were not getting nearly as much work done as you had hoped, thanks to your lingering stare at a certain someone. You glanced in his direction again, only to snap back to your laptop screen when your eyes met his.

Another hour passed and you began to pack up your things, realizing you would have to retire elsewhere if you hoped to get any work done. You walked over to his table, "I'll be here again tomorrow at 9, if you feel like stalking me more." You spun on your heel and hastily trotted out the door, screaming at yourself for being so brazen.

**

You stepped into the coffee shop the next day and stopped dead in your tracks as you saw Damian Wayne there yet again. Really you shouldn't be surprised, you did tell him exactly when you would be there. You tried your best to ignore him again, getting your coffee and heading over to an empty nearby table. As soon as you pulled your laptop from its bag, you looked up to see Damian pulling the chair out across from you. You gave him a faint smile before turning your attention back to your work. He didn't say anything, just stared at you for almost an hour before getting up.

"See you tomorrow." Damian mumbled the words as he retreated out the door.

"What the fuck…" you whispered to yourself once he left.

**

Damian was already at the coffee shop, yet again, when you arrived in the morning. This time you sat down across from him, ignoring the laptop you brought with you. "So, what's your deal?" The question slipped from your lips before you had realized what you had said.

"My deal? I assume you are asking why I keep seeking your companionship." You furrowed your brows at his odd vernacular, but nodded your head to assure him he understood your question. "You seemed entertaining at the charity ball. Then again during our first encounter here. My brothers keep hassling me to find friends outside of our family."

"Aw," your hand shot up to your chest. "And you want that friend to me?"

Damian shrugged, "You seem to be the least irritating person near my age that I have discovered thus far."

"Wow, the compliments just keep coming. I'm honored." You chuckled as you stood up to go order a drink.

"Where are you going?" Damian looked almost hurt that you were already leaving.

"Calm down, I'm only getting a coffee. Want something?"

**

The next few months went by and the two of you began hanging out outside of the coffee shop. This boy you had innocently approached at a charity ball had turned into your best friend. You weren't sure when it even happened. But there the two of you were, staring at the giraffes at the zoo, when you glanced over at him and commented, "I just really want to ride one."

"You want to ride a giraffe…" Damian auspiciously met your gaze.

"Yeah." The word resulted in an eruption of laughter from your present company. You turned towards him and that's when the realization hit you like a ton of bricks. This person had become your best friend. This person knew you as you truly were and accepted it.

"Why are you still staring at me?" Damian's words broke you from your trance, as you realized you had no idea how long ago he stopped laughing.

"Just zoned out for a minute, sorry."

"You okay?" Damian's face fell as a worried expression overtook his features. A smile lined your lips as you noticed the sudden change in demeanor. You took his hand in yours.

"I'm fine, I promise. Let's go look at the penguins!" You exclaimed, dragging him off down the pathway.

**

It was time for the annual charity ball and you knew this year's would be better than last. This year you actually knew Damian and couldn't wait to spend the entire night laughing at the Gotham elite with him. You were planning to surprise Damian at his house, so the two of you could go together. That's when everything went wrong. The car suddenly stopped, you looked around, seeing no stop sign or traffic light to warrant such an action.

"Chester?" You called out to your driver, "Is everything alright?"

"I'm sorry miss." His voice shaky, "They have my daughter."

Your eyes went wide as your mind worked out what was happening. The car door opened and two men stood before you with vile grins adorning their faces. You raced to the other side of the car, opening the door and jumping out. Before you could take off running, you felt arms wrap around you. You threw your head back, hearing the cracking of his nose.

"You little shit!" The man behind you screamed, but didn't loosen his grip. You stomped your foot down on his, causing another string of curses to spew from his lips; hisis grasp on you loosened. As you attempted to break free, a hand slapped over your mouth and nose and everything went black.

**

"Where is Y/N?" Damian echoed the question to anyone and everyone who knew you as he wandered around the charity ball in search of you. Finally, he spotted your parents. He raced over, but his face immediately fell when he noticed you weren't with them. "Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N. A pleasure to see you again. May I inquire as to the whereabouts of your daughter?"

Their brows both furrowed as the anxiety glazed over them, "She's not here? With you? She left an hour ago, saying she was meeting up with you."

"I am going to find her." The rage bubbled inside him as he ploughed through the crowd, heading straight for Dick. "I need you," was the short phrase that left Damian's lips as he approached his brother. He didn't bother to wait, knowing Dick would follow him away from the crowded room.

"D, what's wrong?" Dick called out to his brother as they arrived at the empty balcony.

"Y/N is missing. We need to find her."

"Okay…how do you know she's missing?" Dick's expression gave away his confusion.

"Her parents said she was to arrive with me. She did not."

"Why would she come with you? She probably just said that to get out of going to this stupid thing." Dick turned to leave, thinking his brother misunderstood.

"No." Damian grabbed at his brother's arm. "She would not do that to me."

"I didn’t' realize you two were close." Damian didn't bother answering his brother, partially because he didn't have the words to describe your relationship. He had been avoiding his growing feelings for you since that day at the zoo.

**

It had been nearly a day, as you sat in the cold dark cell. You didn't know who these people were or what they wanted. Though you guessed it was probably just money. That's all anyone ever wanted from you. Except Damian. Your thoughts had traveled to him more and more the longer you sat there. Your hand reached up to wipe a tear trailing down your cheek. You cringed as the pain shot through you, just from the minor touch. Unfortunately, the kidnapper, whose nose you broke, sought out revenge for the injuries. You retreated further into yourself, until you heard a loud thud right outside the door. You braced yourself for the oncoming pain, but the man who opened the door donned a red costume...and was certainly not your kidnapper. The stranger fell at your side.

"Who let this happen?" You remained silent, still unsure what was happening. "How did --" his words cut off as his hand gently caressed the bruises forming at your jaw.

"I don't need your pity," you pulled back from his touch.

"You mistake pity for love." Before the bewilderment could take over, the vigilante ripped off his mask and you stared into the familiar green eyes before you.

"Am I dreaming…" you whispered as your hand reached up to touch his face. Damian leaned his head into your touch. 

"No. I'm here. I will always be here." He pulled you into his chest just as another figure appeared at the door.

"Robin, we gotta go." Nightwing motioned around, as the sound of sirens began to fill the room.

"I am not leaving her." He mumbled as he pulled you slightly away from his chest, staring into your eyes. "I will never leave you."

Dick sighed, realizing he would lose this battle. "Fine. Bring her. We have to go."

Before you could protest, Damian picked you up and carried you out of your prison. "Damian," you whispered as he set you down in the back seat of the car. The look you gave him nearly broke his heart as in crawled in beside you. "I don't want to go home." Your voice hitched as you forced the words out. "I don't want to be alone." Damian motioned for Dick to drive before pulling you into his chest.

"I'm not going anywhere." Damian mumbled as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

[captainjimothycarter]

Old Times

Did I just write another Phillips/Sarah fanfic to avoid my Steggy Week/Pirate AU? Yes, yes I did. Do I have any regrets? No, nope. 100% fueled by the gc.

--

Chester Phillips is a tired man. He's seen far too much between the war and whatever the hell Red Skull was, but with Schmidt now dead and Captain America home (and some of the politics dealt with so the Howling Commandos and Carter can stay together), he just wants to go home to rest.

Even if it's in an empty house and alone. Then Carter, bless the woman for being amazing, had to screw it all up and invite him to dinner at no other then Sarah Rogers' home.

--

 This staredown could happen all day. He had nowhere to be and knew the politician what's-his-face had everywhere to be. So they were in a standoff.

 Phillips smirked as the paper was slid in front of him, picking it up to glance over. He rolled his eyes at the names on the paper.

 “They’re due back in their home countries because-”

 “Let me tell you something, son,” Phillips mused, ripping the paper in front of the guy. He leaned closer over the desk, gripping the edge hard enough that his knuckles turned white. “The only reason that pretty, white ass of yours is sitting in this high fullutine office is because of these very men. While you sat here and signed papers you didn’t even read is because of      them.    These boys are staying as a unit or else and trust me, son, you do not want to find out what else means.”

 The slug of a politician had turned a shade paler, hands shaking as he pulled the rest of the paperwork back towards him. “Y-yes, sir. I’ll get that fixed right away. No worries about it.”

 “Good,” Phillips grunted. “Because I’d hate to sick Carter on you. She’s already in a bad mood from your worthless talent of creating terrible situations. I expect that paperwork on my desk at 0900 hours tomorrow morning. I don’t care if you have to stay up all night to do it. It      will    be done.”

Read AO3

[scripts4dreamers]

Bedside Manner

AN: Lockdown is always hellish but it does leave you a lot of time to think. Characters: Marcus Arguello Pairing(s): Marcus x reader Spoiler(s): None Warning(s): Swearing, unhealthy coping mechanism (Smoking/drinking)

 Prompt: this post I saw from @write-it-motherfuckers

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

When the monks rushed in and started pulling people out of class, you weren’t sure if you were terrified or relieved. On one hand, you could hear the fight happening in the corridors, the sound of Saya and Maria yelling at one another, kids cheering something on, and you were scared of what they might do to one another if no one intervened. On the other, the school itself getting involved was almost never a good sign and, as a staff slammed into your back, ushering you forward, you couldn’t help the rising tide of panic in your chest. The corridors were packed with students being pushed and shoved towards their rooms and you searched through the chaos, without much hope, for a familiar face.

“Y/N!” You heard someone call, “Y/N!”

“Marcus?” You shouted back, turning in the direction of the voice, “Marcus where are you?”

“I’m here!” He shouted, closer now.

The kids next to you pushed and shuffled forward, blocking your view and, no matter how much you twisted and turned, you couldn’t see past flashes of navy blazers and anonymous patches of skin. It was horribly claustrophobic but, just as the panic started to get too much, you felt a hand wrap around your wrist and caught sight of a familiar mess of brown curls.

“Got you,” Marcus assured, still several people behind you, “shit Y/N/N I thought-shit, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Maria and Saya?” You asked.

Marcus shook his head, “I’ll explain later. What’re the monks doing?”

You opened your mouth to explain but, before you could, Master Lin did it for you.

“Everybody back to your rooms,” Master Lin’s voice boomed, “We’re officially in lockdown.”

Marcus’ eyes widened. The monk at your back shoved you hard, forcing you forward and through the first available door. You stumbled in, tripping over a backpack on the floor, and just managed to catch yourself before you fell. From behind you you could hear Marcus being pushed into the room and, beyond that, just for a second, the sounds of your fellow students yelling and complaining before the door to your room slammed shut and you heard the lock click into place. Your heart sank and you swore under your breath, turning to face Marcus, who was tugging uselessly on the door handle.

“It’ll be locked from the outside,” you told him, “always is during lockdown.”

Marcus Arguello was almost a friend of yours. Almost. You liked him well enough. He was smart and funny and caring, he was friends with all of your friends, he was helpful and interesting, he respected boundaries and he always knew how to get a smile out of you. All in all, he was an incredible person, but that was kind of the problem; you liked him a lot. Too much. Since his first day at King’s, Marcus had done nothing but make you smile and blush and generally make an idiot out of yourself at every available opportunity, which, at this particular high school, wasn’t just embarrassing, it was dangerous. Trouble followed him like a lovesick puppy, putting your life at risk more than once but, no matter how many times you told yourself to just forget him and move on, you couldn’t. You just kept coming back, every time. You wanted to believe that some part of you was distancing itself from Marcus and that that was why you were hesitant to call him a friend but, if you were honest, you just weren’t keen on lying to yourself. You were in too deep, he meant too much to you.

He sighed, “Fuck.”

You hummed in agreement, trying to hide how nervous the idea of being stuck in a room with Marcus made you feel. There wasn’t much else to say about lockdown anyway. They didn’t happen often, but this was by no means your first, and you knew there was no real point in fighting it.

“This is bullshit,” Marchus continued, “they’re not really just gonna keep us locked in here, are they?”

“Yup,” you answered, collapsing onto the bed and picking up a book, “no leaving except two bathroom breaks a day and meal times. You might as well get comfortable.”

“This isn’t even my room,” Marcus complained, “what the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“No, it’s my room,” you explained, gesturing to the other twin sized bed, “you could start by sitting down and telling me what the hell is going on.”

Ever since that trip to Vegas, where everything had gone so horribly wrong, things had been different. Marcus had been different. He was more somber, vacillating between being on edge and being extremely happy and relaxed. He was stressed, of course, you all were but there would be moments when you would look up and catch him just watching you and then, when he saw you looking, he would just smile a bit, like he was sad about something. It always made something in your chest pinch. What made the situation worse was that, outside of those moments, he’d been distant with you. More distant than what was usual for Marcus. As far as you could tell, he was avoiding you in class, sitting next to Petra or Lex at lunch and just generally keeping you at arm’s length. You hadn’t had a real conversation in weeks. You wanted to be indifferent to it but, in reality, it had hurt more than you wanted it to and you wanted an explanation.

He wasn’t smiling at you now. If anything, you noted as Marcus folded himself onto the floor with his back against your roommate’s bed and buried his head in his hands, he looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in days and it was wearing on him. That thing near your heart pinched again and you cursed your own selfishness. Marcus had obviously been dealing with a lot, more than the rest of you combined probably, and all you could do was think about your bruised ego. Typical. Cautiously you swung yourself upright, sitting cross legged on your mattress to face your friend.

“Marcus, are you okay?”

“Hmm?” he answered, his voice thick with exhaustion, “What? Oh, yeah, I’m fine Y/N/N, don’t worry about it.”

You raised an eyebrow in disbelief but didn’t push, knowing he’d open up in his own time.

‘How long do you think we’ll be in here?” he asked.

You shrugged, “Until Lin gets what he wants, I guess.”

“What if-” he paused, “what if he doesn’t though? What happens then?”

You leant forward, “What’s going on, Marcus?” you asked gently, “You can tell me. Maybe I can help.”

Before you’d even finished the question he was shaking his head, “No. No, Y/N/N trust me, you can’t help with this.”

“I can try,” you argued, giving him a small smile, “I’m pretty smart, you know?”

For a second it looked like Marcus wanted to cry. His eyes watered up and you had to fight the instinct to reach down and pull him into a hug.

“Yeah, I know that.” he said softly, sniffing and wiping his eyes to force back the tears, “Okay, Y/N, I’ll tell you.”

Satisfied, you leant back on your bed, waiting expectantly while Marcus collected his thoughts. He sighed again, running his hand through his already messed up hair. His dark eyes darted around your room, taking in every inch of the place like he’d never seen a dorm before. It made you feel strangely unsettled.

“This really your room?” he asked, pulling out a cigarette and sliding it between his lips, “It’s nice.”

You rolled your eyes, “Yes, it’s my room and you,” you started, leaning forward and pulling the cig out of his mouth, “can’t smoke in here.”

“Wha-really?” Marcus complained, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

His hands were fidgety, which meant he was nervous.

“Yes, really, Now stop deflecting and tell me why I’m stuck in my room with no one but you for company, and why you look like you haven’t slept in a month, will you?”

He met your eye and you felt, more than saw, his resistance crumble.

“Well, I should probably start with how I blew up my old roommate at the boy’s home,” Marcus started, leaning back against the bed, “and why he wants to kill me for it.”

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

When Marcus finally fell silent you were shocked. You felt like a tidal wave of information had just knocked you over and you were just drowning in it all. How had so much been happening without your knowledge? Some things you’d known about, of course, like Maria killing Chico and Billy killing his dad but, all this other stuff? Chester and El Diablo? Maria killing Yukio? Juan going after Saya in the middle of the hallway?

“Jesus Christ,” you said.

Marcus snorted, “You can say that again.”

You reached behind your bed and pulled out a bottle of vodka that was still mostly full, left over from some house party or another that you’d managed to smuggle in. In one fluid motion, before you could think better of it, you twisted the cap off and took a deep swig, sloshing a little bit on your uniform by accident. The alcohol burned like fire on the way down and you grimaced as you passed the bottle to Marcus.

“Thank fuck,” said, accepting the bottle gratefully, “Y/N, you’re an angel, if you ever need anything-”

“Yeah, yeah,” you smiled, “shut up and drink, Arguello.”

“If I must,” he joked with a melodramatic sigh, taking a massive gulp.

As he drank, you watched Marcus as inconspicuously as you could. He seemed lighter now, like the act of opening up to you had taken a huge weight off his shoulders. You still weren’t exactly sure how you felt about it all. Were you confused? Angry? Terrified? Did you wish he’d never said anything? Were you happy he’d trusted you? You didn’t know, probably a little bit of all of it but, despite the craziness and confusion, you were glad you’d been able to help, even if it was just by listening. Talking to Marcus had always been one of your favorite things to do and, sadly this was the most genuine conversation you’d had with one another since Vegas. It was nice, in a weird, messed up sort of way.

“Is this why you’ve been so off with me lately?” you eventually asked, “You were trying to keep this all a secret?”

Marcus grimaced, whether from the alcohol or embarrassment you weren’t sure, and passed the bottle back.

“I’ve always been shit at lying to you and, yeah, I wanted to keep you out of it,” he admitted, “I thought if I just waited long enough everything would just sort of die down.”

“But it hasn’t?”

“But it hasn’t,” he agreed.

“So, we’re all basically fucked.” you said simply.

“Unless I can get to Saya, convince her not to gut Maria and explain what happened before anyone else does, yeah.”

“Well,” you sighed, pushing yourself up onto your feet and sliding your secret stash of contraband from its hiding place in the ceiling, “you know, whatever happens I’ll fight by your side when the time comes,” you said, avoiding his eye, “but for now, since this might be one of our last chances, we might as well enjoy the peace and quiet.”

Marcus looked up at the contraband and smiled, “you’re amazing, you know that?”

Blood rose to your cheeks and you broke his gaze, tossing a bag of cheetos at him, “Shut up.” you said fondly, “And don’t ever keep me in the dark like that again.”

The teasing glint in Marcus’ eyes softened and he reached out to catch your hand, forcing you to look back at him from where he sat on the floor.

“Never.” he promised.

You passed the first few hours of lockdown in a bubble of serenity. While you lay on your bed reading and listening to music, Marcus doodled in his journal all the while maintaining an easy conversation with you. You avoided the hard topics, focussing instead on music and comic books and which teachers you thought would win in a fight as you passed the bottle of vodka back and forth. It felt good, easy even, joking with one another like nothing had happened, like nothing had changed. And maybe it hadn’t, you reasoned to yourself, maybe this is how it had always been at King’s; a little bit messy, a little bit terrifying but better than what your life had been before. Maybe this was enough, maybe this was the trade off you made when you agreed to go to a school for assassins and, maybe, you could be okay with that.

At some point Marcus had moved and was now leaning up against your bed instead of your roommates so that you could play with his hair while he drew. It was something you’d discovered that he liked entirely by accident, sitting on the roof together one night when he was still fairly new at King’s. Back then he’d been so touch starved that he’d almost cried the first time he felt your fingers carding through his hair and you’d wondered, not for the first time, what exactly had happened in that boy’s home to make him so afraid. You’d never do it in public of course, people would get the wrong idea and pick on you both if you did but, in private, you’d gotten used to just reaching out and twirling one of his curls around your finger whenever you wanted. As you gently let your fingers scrape against his scalp you could hear Marcus' pencil as it scratched against the paper, and you fought the urge to lean forward and see what he was drawing. Journals were private shit, you reminded yourself, if Marcus wanted to show you what he was doing, he would.

“What’re you reading?” He asked, breaking the comfortable silence you’d fallen into.

“The color purple,” you replied, “my mom sent it to me.”

“I didn’t know you and your mom were close like that,” Marcus said, a note of confusion in his voice, “in fact,” he stopped drawing suddenly and twisted his head to look at you, “I don’t really know anything about your family.”

You shrugged, “There’s not much to know, really. My parents are smugglers and I’m at King’s, end of story.”

“End of story? Just like that?” he retorted, “Come on Y/N/N, you know everything about me and I know almost nothing about you. Tell me something.”

“That’s ‘cause you are a chronic oversharer and a terrible judge of character,” you teased, ruffling his hair and returning to your book. Marcus sighed, all melodrama and betrayal and you could feel his eyes burning a hole through The Color Purple. You swore loudly and sat up, “Fine, whatever, you win,” you conceded, “what do you want to know?”

“Yes!” he sighed, laughing at his own cleverness before continuing, “Okay, do you have any siblings?”

“I had an older sister, she died when I was eight and we’re not going to talk about it,” you answered, “next.”

“Favorite colour?”

“Blue or grey.”

“Where were you born?”

“In a tiny little city you’ve never heard of,” you said.

“Have you ever been arrested?” Marcus pressed on.

“Twice, have you?”

“Never,” he replied.

“Okay square,” you joked, “my turn. What’s your biggest fear?”

“Jesus, alright,” Marcus laughed, reaching for the vodka, “if we’re going there we both need to be like 15% less sober.”

You snatched the bottle back, “How about this, for every question we choose to answer we get to drink. If we pass on a question then the other person gets to ask two more which we then can’t pass on, agreed?”

“A drinking game version of twenty questions? What are we, seven?” Marcus complained, but he shook your hand anyway, “Agreed.”

“Good, so back to my question,” you started, “what, Marcus Lopez Arguello, is your biggest fear?”

Marcus looked at you for a long moment, like he was sizing you up and, instinctively, you fought back the urge to shiver under the weight of his stare. He was, of course, incredibly handsome; the sort of handsome that you couldn’t help but notice, even when you were trying not to, but that wasn’t what made it so difficult to meet his eye. No, what made it difficult was that, despite what he thought, Marcus really knew you. He saw past all the bullshit showboating, all the carefully constructed facades. Every single defense mechanism you had was worthless against him because, at the end of the day, you didn’t really want to keep Marcus out. If anything you wanted him closer and, when he looked at you like that, you felt like he might see right through you, into that secret part of your heart that you kept hidden. So you did what any self respecting coward would do; you looked away. Marcus sighed and reached for the bottle.

“Dying without really having lived,” he admitted, taking a swig from the bottle, “and dying alone I guess. You?”

You wrinkled your nose, “Pass.”

“What?” Marcus laughed incredulously, “You can’t pass! I just bared my soul to you and you’re just gonna opt out? Boooooo! Booooooo Y/N!”

“Fine,” you laughed, “fine I’ll tell you. I uh-I’m afraid that I’ll never find somewhere to belong. Like maybe I’m just always gonna feel like an outsider wherever I am until I die, maybe even after that.”

“You belong with us,” Marcus said, “with me and Billy and Petra and the others.”

You shook your head and drank deep, wincing at the vodka’s burn, “Nah, I don’t. Not really at least, not like you and Billy. I’m sure they all like me just fine but, at the end of the day, I’m nobody’s reason for being there, you know?” Marcus looked thoughtful but, just as he opened his mouth to answer, you cut him off, desperate to avoid hearing whatever kind, pitying lie he’d come up with, “Anyway moving on, it’s your turn Arguello. Hit me with your best question, I’m an open book.”

You traded questions back and forth like that for quite some time, laughing and joking and drinking as you did. Marcus was ruthless in his honesty, laying himself bare in front of you and refusing to pass on even a single question. You passed on many. Not all of them were deep and personal, some were funny or nonsensical, but enough were deep and personal that, by the time the alcohol had started to really kick in, you were feeling a little raw. It was like Marcus was desperate to wrap himself up in his own honesty, clinging to every shred of emotional intimacy he could find like it was a lifeline and flinging himself ever deeper into his own vulnerability. Usually you would have pulled back so fast at the idea of being that open that you’d have given yourself whiplash but now, with the alcohol making you feel warm and light, and Marcus smiling at you like there was nowhere else in the world that he would rather be, you revelled in it. There was a sort of tension building too, not exactly something but almost something….very nearly something, and part of you was just excited to see what it was. Marcus laughed at something you said, you didn’t even remember what, and the sound made you so happy that you actually had to stop and catch your breath. He was still leaning against your bed but now his back was to the cupboard next to your headrest so that he could face you while you talked. Unfortunately this also meant that you could study his face more conveniently, mapping every dip and curve and scar like he might vanish if you looked away. Dangerous territory, a voice in your head whispered, sharp turns up ahead.

“Shhh, stop, it’s my turn,” Marcus asserted, still breathless from laughing, “Okay, no shhh-Y/N-listen, here’s my question; have you ever been in love?”

Dangerous territory! Your brain shouted, Abort, abort, abort, abo-

“Nope,” you answered, which felt like a lie even though it technically wasn’t, “have you?”

“Is that your question?” he asked, which some small part of your brain noted was strange since, up until now, you’d both been answering every question.

“No! Well-yes-but I have a different, better question so just answer this one anyway.” you said, pushing the thought away and looking down at Marcus expectantly.

He held your gaze for a second longer, took a deep, deep drink and nodded before saying, like it physically pained him, “I’m in love now.”

Your heart stuttered and dropped into your stomach like a stone, but you kept your face neutral, “Saya?”

Marcus gave you a wry smile that hinged on sadness, “Is that your question?”

You blushed and shook your head, trying to recapture the fun, carefree energy you’d had just moments before. Somehow, your drunk brain noted, you’d made Marcus sad. Or he had made himself sad. Or the question had made him sad, maybe? It was confusing and thinking about it made your chest feel tight so you just pushed forward.

“No, here’s my question-are you ready? It’s a good one-here it is; what is your most precious recent memory and why?”

Marcus frowned, “Most precious memory? What does that mean? Do you mean my best memory?”

You shook your head, “See, that’s why it’s so good; a precious memory is like a good memory, only more. It’s a memory you play over and over in your head whenever things get tough because something important happened there, something you didn’t realize was happening when you were in it. So you have to keep remembering it, you know?” you explained, “So you can figure out what happened and why it was so important.” you continued, “And I say recent because, well, we’ve talked about our families a lot, and the people we’ve lost, but we’re on our own now, and we’ve gotta start making new precious memories.”

“Oh,” Marcus said softly.

“It’s good right?” you continued, distantly aware that Marcus was looking sad again, “Like mine is that day that I tried to stop Viktor from stealing that girl’s kit kat.”

“You mean when he and his goons beat you to a pulp?” he asked dubiously.

“Almost to a pulp,” you corrected, “but while he was wailing on me, the girl got away. I knew when I went in that Vic would beat the shit out of me, but I did it anyway and it worked. It was the day I realised that the choices I make can have some positive effect on the world, so long as I’m willing to take the consequences of them.” you finished, shifting so that your head was resting on your hand, “So, what’s yours and why?”

Marcus shook his head and took another sip from the vodka bottle, “You’re killing me here, Y/N/N. Pass.”

Your jaw dropped, “What!?! NO! You never pass on questions, that’s like your thing.”

“Yeah well I’m passing on this one so just-” he waved his hand, shooing away your berating, “ask me something else.”

“Fine,” you sighed, mulling over the possibilities in your head for a moment, “okay well, since you apparently are in love and I’ve never been in love, what does it feel like?”

“Hmm?”

You met his eye, “Being in love,” you clarified, “what does it feel like?”

In the dim light of your dorm room it was hard to tell, but you were pretty sure you saw Marcus flush deep red.

“It-uh-” he started, fiddling with his hands, “it’s kind of hard to describe.”

“Try,” you encouraged softly, mesmerized by the shift in his demeanour.

“Well I-” Marcus cleared his throat, “for a long while I wasn’t sure it actually was love. I thought maybe it was just general teen stupidness you know? You want what you can’t have, projecting onto someone you admire, that sort of crap but then one day-after Vegas actually-it just,” he shrugged, “changed.” you listened intently as every word burrowed itself into the small secret part of your heart like a knife, and he continued, “Suddenly everything made sense. It’s like my whole damn life was leading me to that moment, like maybe this was why all the shitty stuff happened, so that I could be here, feeling like this.” he explained simply, keeping his gaze focused on his hands, “And now it’s fucking crazy ‘cause all this shit’s going on and all I can think about is keeping-is not losing this. My heart feels like it’s gonna explode half the time, like it’s too damn big for my body and it hurts but it’s a good hurt, like stretching a stiff muscle. I’m not even really worried for myself anymore, but I’m so fucking scared that something I say or do is gonna come back and mess everything up and-” he shook his head, his voice quivering, “and I’m terrified, but I also don’t ever want this feeling to go away. It’s scary having someone hold your heart like this but, at the same time, I think not feeling like this, now that I know what it’s like, would hurt a million times more.” he finished, tensing his jaw and fidgeting like he was nervous, “Sorry, bit of a rambling answer. I owe you another one, don’t I?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” you answered, snapping yourself back into focus. It felt like the air itself was heavy with tension now, like all the things you wanted to say were swirling around your head, invisible but always present because you knew that feeling. You knew it all too well and for him to feel that way, to talk that passionately about someone else...you just couldn’t take it. “Okay for my second question;” you continued, “tell me your most precious memory and why.”

This time all the blood leached out of Marcus’ face, like he was becoming a ghost right before your eyes. You felt mean, it was a total bastardisation of the rules and you knew it but there was a little voice in the back of your mind telling you that this was the only question you wanted answered, that this was what you needed to know.

“That’s so against the rules.” Marcus tried, lightening the atmosphere considerably.

“No it’s not,” you argued, “it’s a dick move for sure but there was nothing specifically forbidding it in our original agreement.”

“You suuuuuuuck,” Marcus whined, leaning into your arm where it hung off the bed.

Instinctively you threaded your fingers through his hair, playing with the soft curls like you always did. You felt Marcus arch up into your touch, humming with pleasure as you scraped your fingers through the baby hairs on the back of his neck. He shivered, but the tension slipped out of his muscles and he relaxed with a sigh, resigning himself to his fate.

“Do you really want to know?” He asked softly.

“I really do,” you replied.

“Okay then” he breathed, “honestly, it’s that time on the way back from Vegas when everyone else had gone into the gas station for food, and it was just you and me in the backseat of Willie’s car.” he continued, “You had your hair pinned back and I was telling you some story about my childhood while we waited. You had a red sweater on, and bright blue nails. It was dark out, but the lights from the gas station were shining around your head like a halo.”

“I remember,” you told him, your voice hardly louder than a whisper, “but why? Why that memory?”

Marcus looked up, his dark eyes filed to the brim with the kind of vulnerable sincerity that made you feel breathless and afraid. Slowly, as though he were approaching an injured animal, he reached up and pulled your fingers from his hair and held your palm in both of his. You were frozen, like a deer in headlights, but you still felt the shiver as it ran up your spine at his touch.

“It was the first time I saw you smile, for real, since we’d arrived in Vegas,” he explained, studying your hand, “up until then I was pretty sure I was never gonna see it again but,” he shook his head and shrugged, “I made some awful joke about wishing I’d known then what I knew now and...you laughed. You really laughed and you rested your forehead on my shoulder and-boom-just like that...I knew.”

“Knew what?” you asked, half terrified of the answer.

Marcus gave you that smile, that sad little smile he’d been shooting you for weeks, the one that made your heart hurt just to look at and, before he even said anything, you were already shaking your head.

“Don’t make me say it Y/N,” he whispered, “surely by now you know?”

“No.” you said, pulling your hand away and leaning back, “No, you don’t. You can’t, Marcus.”

“Y/N/N-”

“No, you don’t understand,” you insisted, “it’s not possible. You aren’t-you don’t think of me that way. No one does, I’m not like that. I’m not lovable like you are.”

“Like I-?” Marcus started, following you up and sitting gingerly on your bed, “Y/N you’re infinitely lovable.”

“No I’m not!” You asserted, sure that this had to be some sort of trick, some sort of sick joke, “Who could love me? Who could possibly be fucked up and unlucky enough to love me?”

“I could!” Marcus promised, “I do, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Marcus, you’re the only person I’ve ever felt this way about,” you admitted, “please don’t joke.”

His answering smile was gentle and understanding, like he saw the pain you were in, like he understood. You couldn’t hope for this, you had never let yourself believe for even a second that-

“It’s not a joke, Y/N,” he promised, cupping your face in his hands and forcing you to meet his gaze, “I’m just-I’m in love with you. You were wrong, you’ve never been an outsider, you’ve always belonged with me.”

You searched his eyes, his dark, beautiful eyes, for some trace of deceit, some hint that this was too good to be true and that he was waiting to take it away from you, but found none. Maybe he was right, a small, hopeful voice in your mind chimed in, maybe this was how it was supposed to be. Maybe just this once, you didn’t need to be afraid, maybe you could let yourself want this, want him.

Because looking back, it made sense, didn’t it? All those things you’d written off; months of secret smiles and gentle touches, of seeking one another out when you didn’t need to, this was what they were leading up to. As you looked, Marcus blushed, his cheeks flushing a pale shade of pink as you both realised, for the first time, how close you were, how open and vulnerable you were to each other in that moment.

“Y/N/N,” he started softly, “Y/N/N I don’t want to be an asshole or anything but-” he let out a breathy laugh, “but I really want to kiss you right now. Would it be alright if-”

You were kissing him before he could even finish his sentence.

[hphmmatthewluther]

Matthew Luther and the Riddle of Easter

7th April, 1985:

It was a Sunday, and everyone at Hogwarts was either busy enjoying themselves or furiously studying for their exams. Well, almost everyone. For in the West wing of the Castle, up in Ravenclaw Tower, there was one person still in their bed. He wasn’t asleep, but he didn’t exactly want to get out of bed. Matthew Luther didn’t really feel like there was much of a point. If he did, he would either get dozens of looks for being Jacob Luther’s brother, or be pestered by the Slytherins again. As far as he was concerned, it was best to avoid all of that. For the past three years, it appeared that God had been playing an awfully long-winded joke on him. So there he laid, trying not to think about anything, forcing himself to go back to sleep.

Suddenly, there was a noise. A loud, piercing screech. It sounded like a cat of some kind. It was probably Mrs Norris, Matthew thought, covering his ears with the pillow. If he hadn’t, he would have heard several tiny footsteps moving towards the dormitory door, followed by a click. He finally noticed when the door swung open, filling the room with light.

“Gah!” Matthew exclaimed, squinting to see that the only thing in the doorway was a cat. It wasn’t Mrs Norris, that was for sure. This one had large, green eyes and ginger hair, and it didn’t hiss at a moments’ notice. It walked up to the bed, and started to mew at the first-year.

“...Oh, what? What is it?” Matthew asked, pushing himself over to see the cat. It looked at him, right at him, before glancing up at his desk. On it was Matthew’s wand, books, and his silver bracelet. In a flash, the ginger cat jumped up and swiped it, scampering out of the room with the bracelet in its mouth.

“H-Hey!” yelled Matthew, quickly forcing the duvet off of him, grabbing his wand and heading off after the cat. He followed it down the stairs and into the Ravenclaw Common Room, and into the many bookshelves that made up Ravenclaw Tower. The cat headed deep into the tower, until it came to a stop several minutes later near an alcove with several blue lanterns and cushions. It sat down on one of these cushions, keeping the bracelet under its claws. Slowly, Matthew approached the animal, now exhausted thanks to having chased it down here.

“There’s got to be a better way to do this...” he said to himself, moving closer. And then it hit him. He was going about this all wrong. I always am, he thought, stopping in his tracks. Cautiously, he moved his hand forward, not towards the bracelet, but to the cat’s head. It hesitated for a moment, sniffing the hand, before allowing Matthew to stroke its head, moving its claws away from the silver. He didn’t grab it instantly, and instead sat down on one of the cushions, continually stroking the cat. Eventually, it moved onto his lap, and Matthew finally grabbed his bracelet and put it on. He gave a sigh of relief as he felt the cold metal touch his skin.

“Ah, you’re not so bad.” he admitted, as he started to give the cat chinny rubs. It purred loudly in his lap. “I wonder who you belong to.”

“He belongs to nobody.” came a woman’s voice. Matthew snapped his head up, and the cat remained still in its lap. In front of them was a silvery figure in a resplendent dress, with long brown hair going past the shoulders. She had the tiniest of smiles on her face. Matthew gasped.

“It’s you...” he began, “The Ghost of Ravenclaw Tower...Helena Ravenclaw.” he said, remembering Chester informing him that she didn’t like the name “The Grey Lady”. And honestly, who would?

“I am glad that you solved my riddle. It’s a favourite of those eager to find a suitor who has both intelligence and kindness, and faith in their soul.” Helena explained, “Take good care of it.”

Matthew’s eyes widened. “You- You’re giving me a cat? W-What? W-Why?” he stammered, looking down at the cat’s green eyes.

“I felt that you require a companion that is immune to human inventions such as rumour, or scandal.” Helena said, gliding closer to the window. “Things that you know too well.”

Matthew nodded. “You can say that again.” The cat got off of his lap and pounced up to the windowsill. The Ravenclaw got up and moved towards it too, to see whatever it was that had caught their attention. From here, they could see a great deal of Hogwarts, including the Clocktower Courtyard. There, he could make out a large crowd of people surrounding two people. One of them was a nervous-looking Gryffindor, and the other was a wild-haired Slytherin.

“Ben and Merula!” Matthew exclaimed, “Oh no...”

“Ah, yes. I believe the Snyde girl has been one of the most eager to find the Cursed Vaults.” Helena observed. “Besides you, of course. I must ask, is this why you have shut yourself here?”

Matthew’s expression soured even more so. The cat nuzzled his shoulder. “That’s..that’s not it. It’s just...well, it’s Easter.”

“Indeed it is.” confirmed Helena, looking down at the boy.

“Well, it’s just...we don’t have an owl, so my Dad can’t send me anything, so that sucks...” Matthew explained, “But more than that...it’ll be the first time I’ve missed it. Every year, we’d go to church and they’d give us all a little chocolate egg, and we got to do colouring activities while the main service happened. I know I’m twelve now, but...it was nice seeing everyone there, you know? I just...that was how it happened every year. I miss that.”

Helena nodded. “You miss your old life. Now I must ask you something that may cause you offence.” she announced. “How does staying up here solve any of that?”

Matthew stared, open-mouthed. “Wh- well, I...I...you stay up here all the time, don’t you?!” he reminded her, suddenly very annoyed. He knew that staying up here wasn’t helping, but hearing it from somebody else was just...well, it felt awful. It then occurred to him what he had just said. “I...I’m sorry, I should go, I-”

“No. I understand.” Helena reassured him. 

“I...” Matthew began, “It’s no excuse, but...I just...I know it's wrong. But I can’t bring myself to change anything. When I was younger I’d always had Jacob to help me with that...we’d always get the same Easter chocolate, too. He’d tell me when to stop so I could space it out over the holidays, you know, to make it last. He was brilliant. I guess if I had the chocolate now, I’d eat it all in one go and feel awful about it later...I...I guess I just miss him. He was brilliant, and...I can’t stand his name being tarnished.” As he let everything out, he found himself stroking the cat again. It turned onto its back and let Matthew rub its belly. Helena watched for a moment, before sighing.

“Matthew Luther, in case you had not noticed, I am dead. But more than that, I am a ghost. I refused to let go of this world, as I did not have the faith to move on. Thus, I am trapped here, unable to truly feel the pull of the world around me...unable to enact change. You are not dead. You are alive. You can enact change.”

Matthew digested this, taking a long sigh. “You’re right. Of course you are. It’s just...so damn hard sometimes.”

“As all things worth doing are.” Helena said, “Now, best hurry. It looks like Mr Copper has been struck by the Jelly-Legs Jinx.”

“Right!” said Matthew, picking up his wand again and heading towards the door of Ravenclaw Tower, the cat following behind. “Honestly, I think I lost God’s lottery, and then there’s Ben-”

“Matthew!” cried Helena, gliding forward.

“Um...yes?” he asked. The ghost pointed at him.

“You are still wearing your pyjamas.” 

Matthew blushed. “Right, sorry, gah!” he exclaimed, heading up to the boy’s dormitory. A few minutes later he emerged, now with proper clothes on. He looked down at the cat by his feet.

“I guess you need a name.” he realised. “How about...Danny?”

Danny mewed quietly, scratching his head against Matthew’s leg.

“Great.” He said, before turning to the Grey Lady. “I...thank you. You know, I think you’re slightly wrong. You said you couldn’t change things, and now here I am, off to duel half of Slytherin.”

Helena’s smile grew ever-so-slightly. “Well...take care of that cat. It’s been in my care for a few years now, it deserves someone like you.”

“I will. I promise.” he said. Before he left, however, he turned back. “Um, Helena?”

“Yes, Matthew?”

“Do wizards...do they believe in God?”

Helena paused, then nodded. “Some do. They believe that he gave us our magic for a purpose, and...that we are destined to act as Guardian Angels for the masses.”

Matthew nodded in return. “Yeah, cool, um...see you around, Helena! Thank you for the cat! Oh, and Happy Easter!” he yelled, before dashing out of Ravenclaw Tower.

When Matthew got to the courtyard, the crowd had almost doubled. Rowan was standing nearby.

“Where were you? The Slytherins have been, well they’ve been-”

“I know.” Matthew said, scowling. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd. The group of Slytherins were hurling insult after insult at Ben, who had next-to-no chance of defending himself. Matthew sighed, and pointed his wand at Ben’s wiggling legs.

“Unjellify!” he yelled, causing them to straighten out. Ben immediately backed away, Rowan moving forward to check if he was okay. “Wait, the counter-curse is just ‘Unjellify’? That’s it?!” Merula asked, her eyebrow raised.

“Trust me, I was surprised too.” Matthew said, chuckling. “Alright then, guys, you’ve had your fun, so-”

“Oh shut up, halfbreed.” sneered Preston Crawford, another Slytherin who Matthew found to be worse than Merula. “You’ve made an enemy today, you know that?”

“Mm, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.” Matthew said, looking up at the clock tower. “Hm. Half eleven. Guess I’ll have to settle for brunch.”

“You’re going nowhere, Luther.” Merula declared, stepping forward. “I doubt you could ever best me.”

“Is that so?” Matthew asked. “How about this, then: If I win, you can’t lay a finger on Ben Copper ever again.”

Merula snorted. “And if I win, you will never search for the Cursed Vaults ever again.”

“Fine by me.” Matthew said, genuinely smiling. “By all means, you first.”

“Flipendo!” she screamed. Matthew took it head-on. He heard a gasp from the crowd as he skidded to a halt. Matthew looked down to see Danny by his feet. Ben was nearby.

“Matthew...you really don’t have to do this...really, I..” he stammered, but Matthew just smiled, and gestured to his cat.

“Take care of my cat while I do this, will you? Thanks a bunch. Expelliarmus!” he yelled, knocking Merula’s wand right out of her hand.

“Ooh...you little...” she muttered, scowling at the cheering crowd. “You can’t do this! You can’t stop me from showing that mudblood who’s boss! I’m the Most Powerful Witch at Hogwarts, and-”

“Umm...Merula...” Matthew began, pointing behind her.

“No, I’m not done! How’d you master that spell already?! It’s not fair! Nobody can be better than me! I can do what I want, when I want! I run this school, I-”

“Merula...” Matthew tried again.

“For Merlin’s sake, what?!”

“Ahem.” said Professor Snape. Merula looked behind her and gulped. Preston and his cronies quickly scattered.

“P-Professor Snape!” she said, quickly.

“I suspect this is your fault, Luther. Are you aware of Hogwarts policy on unauthorised duelling?”

Matthew felt his stomach curl up, and it wasn’t because he’d missed breakfast.

“Sir,” piped up Rowan, “Merula hit him first, he-”

“Enough, Khanna. Is this true, Miss Snyde?” Snape asked. Merula looked as though she was going to deny it, but Danny had walked over and started moving in and out of her legs. She looked down at the cat, then up at Snape, and nodded.

“Very well. You will report to me in the West Towers to discuss this transgression.” He declared, both him and Flitwick departing. A silence hung in the air.

“Blimey, I am starving.” said Matthew, clutching his stomach. “I wonder if they do cat food...Not for me of course,” he added, looking at Merula’s bewildered expression.

“Luther...I’m getting to the Vaults first. And you won’t stop me.”

“I look forward to trying.” he said, before heading into the castle with Rowan, moving towards the Great Hall.

“See? Told you she wasn’t that bad.” he was saying as they came to Ravenclaw table.

“Matthew, she tried to jinx you.” Rowan reminded him. “I mean, I certainly didn’t expect her to tell the truth, but do you really think she’ll keep her promise to stop bullying Ben?”

“I suppose we’ll find out.” 

Suddenly, there was a loud hooting as several owls flew into the Hall. One of them flew low down and dropped a large box in front of Matthew. Attached to it was a note.

Hey Matt,

Happy Easter. I don’t know if they celebrate it over there, but I convinced your mother to let me send these to you with her owl.

Keep it up, 

Love, Dad.

Matthew smiled and opened the box. It was filled with several large chocolate eggs, and a singular smaller one, too.

“Wh-what is all this?” Merula asked, having just appeared in the Great Hall.

“I think...” said Matthew, “It’s God’s way of saying, ‘Sorry, mate.’ Why, do you want some?”

Merula scowled, then walked over to the Slytherin table. Matthew just grinned.