#those are not tags often used here but. special occasion okay.

[starite-wishes]

new and improved pinned post!! again!!!

hi. you may call me starite, marrow, or mehri. whatever works

i use it/he

i post about spiders very often. make sure you have #spiders filtered if you don’t want to see images of spiders. if you hate spiders get out of here (if you only fear them you’re fine. you can stay)

this is where i dump shitposts, fandom related stuff, and my own meaningless rambling (found under #my posts). nothing too special. on very rare occasions i will also post art, mainly of my ocs (found under #my art and #starite’s oc stuff)

i’m not exactly the best at tagging things so content warnings and the like tend to be tagged inconsistently. if you need me to tag something for you, feel free to ask !! i don’t mind whatsoever (i usually can’t tag spoiler warnings though, i’ll only tag with the relating fandom)

i vent a lot. simply filter out #vent if you wish not to see that stuff

okay that’s the basic stuff. you can find extra info on me and the fandoms i’m into below :]

random extra info

i’m something along the lines of a bi trans boy that is very, very alterhuman :]

please know that i AM incredibly shy and awkward but i don’t mind asks and DMs!! feel free to interact however you like i love that shit!! even if i’m not always able to respond . .

im incredibly forgetful and pretty much always at least a little low on energy so doing much of anything is a struggle

spiders are one of my biggest interests. i fucking love spiders PLEASE talk to me about spiders

tetris is another special interest of mine (specifically modern tetris!!). i’m not particularly good at it yet but i will teach u how to t-spin

i am not an adult

my favorite color is pink !!!

along with it/he i also use these neoprounouns:

cel/lun/nur/les/luncelf

bee/bud/buds/buzz/buzzelf

don’t forget them !

fandom stuff

main fandoms: slay the princess, ultrakill, hollow knight, omori, the stanley parable, puyo puyo, tetris? does tetris count, minecraft: story mode, more to be added as i remember them

i’m also into pressure (the roblox game), ace attorney, and splatoon but you’ll only see that occasionally for now

extra blogs

@mx-mehri — the alterhuman blog. i post a lot abt my own identity and the odd shit i experience and interact with the rest of the community there. also contains reblogs of photos and gifsets and whatever little things that make me feel happy or give me swag nonhuman vibes, yknow?

@wishes-oc-dump —the blog where i ramble about my OCs however i want and do those little “tag the oc” posts for fun. i’m too embarrassed about my own creations to talk about them a lot on main and i didn’t want to clog people’s dashes, but at the same time if i don’t talk about my characters i will literally explode, so that’s what this blog is for. there’s a SLIGHT chance i post a little doodle or even a little snippet of writing but honestly don’t expect anything coherent from here

[vault81]

OC Interview

I was tagged by @orionlancasterr to do an OC Interview! So here is Jacks! (though I may edit this later with more of them)

"Oh- you uh wanna interview me? fuck it why not! ask away!"

name:

"I go by Jack mainly, but I guess you want 'ma 'government name'"

He starts biting down on his lip while his eyes scan the room

"I think it's Jack Andrew Cooke, ha! It's been a hot minute since I had to remember that one! Not used that since the G.O.A.T! exam!"

nickname:

"My nickname? most folks just call me 'courier' or 'six' but back east people did start calling me 'the lone wanderer', That one doesn't exactly roll off the tongue like the other two though."

gender:

"I'm a male! or man! dude works too!"

star sign:

"Uhhh what's my what?"

After being told what a star sign is, he begins counting on his fingers to work out when exactly his birthday is and what that'd make him, breaking out in a bright wide-eyed smile when he finally figured it out.

"I'm a libertarian! Oh- Arcade say's I'm wrong, apparently it's 'Libra', close enough in my book."

personality type:

"My personality type? uh, I'm a nice guy, I guess? I can be a bit dense sometimes, but I try not to be mean or rude.. wait, that's not what the question means does it?"

height:

"The last time my height got checked out, I think I just shy of 6'3? no wait! Arcade is around my height! and he's 6'3 I think? so yeah! I must be!"

orientation:

"Uh- hold on, lemme check my compass.."

He tries to stop himself from laughing, as if he just made the funniest joke in the world

"Bahahahaha! d'ya get it?! orientation, compas- oh okay I guess It wasn't as funny as I thought... uh- I suppose you could say I'm into guys, always have been I suppose.."

nationality/ethnicity:

"American! I'm sure 'liza said we had some Scottish in us too, Wherever that is!"

favourite fruit:

"Hmmm I'm gonna say Watermelon! They didn't grow 'em often down in the vault, so when they did, it was always for a special occasion! I haven't found anything out here that compares to them yet!"

favourite season:

"Winter! I absolutely hate the heat- yeah I know I live in a desert whatever! But I just love when it gets freezing, wrapping up warm in front of a fire and getting all cozy! and the snow! I love snow!"

favourite flower/scent:

"Lavender, I think it's just for the smell really. It reminds me of home, 'specially Old Lady Palmer! she used to smell like that when she'd come and babysit us! It's just become a comforting scent I guess, If that even is a thing?"

A smile crosses his lips as he closes his eyes, softening as he briefly relives those early years of his childhood

coffee/tea/hot chocolate:

"I'm gonna go with hot chocolate! I don't like how bitter coffee can be, besides It messes with my stomach, so I can't really drink it anyway!"

average hours of sleep:

"7-8 hours I'd guess.. used to be I'd be getting 'round 9-10 but we're always on the move these days so I've gotta be up early!"

"Although good luck waking me up! I sleep like a brick!"

dog or cat person:

"Dogs! Dog's all the way! One of our first adventures outside of the Vault me and 'liza found a dog! he kinda just kept following us around, think his owner died or something, we ended up calling him Dogmeat!"

He smiles, looking down at his pipboy, a picture of a blue heeler smiling away while it gets a bath is on the screen.

"'course we had to give Dogmeat away when we left D.C, he was getting old by that point, so it was best for him. Besides, he's in good hands with Moira!"

dream trip:

"My dream trip? ya'know I don't think I really have a 'dream trip' never had a place that I've been dying to go! guess you could say I've always been about the journey rather than the destination."

favourite fictional/real character:

"Hmmm.. think I'm gonna say The Mechanist! what's not to love about a dude with a robot army?! I mean yeah he was a villain but rule of cool overrules I think!"

"Ya know that reminds me I actually met 'The Mechanist' a coupla years ago.. fought a 'gal dressed up as The Antagoniser, but I'll save that story for later!"

number of blankets you sleep with:

"I actually don't sleep with a blanket most nights, my body runs too hot! I end up overheating under those things, Arcade compares me to a human furnace, so he ends up hogging 'em all!"

random fact:

"I'm actually allergic to some types of medicine! my eyes get all itchy and swell up! mainly ibuprofen that does that one... I just pop a anti-histamine and I'm right as rain though!"

Jack jumps to his feet stretching out all his limbs and gestures to the door

"Now, was that all? I got a few errands to run for the Followers over in Freeside!"

Since I'm not too sure who to tag (idk who else has done this or not) I'll just leave it open for anyone who else who wants to do it!

[starconsumer444]

“When Things Fall In Place” (18+)

Creepy Roommate!Kenma

(A/N: This is...about 3.1k of pure degeneracy, which I actually had no intention on writing, finishing, or publishing and just thought out as I went... There was no planning, no actual ideas prior to this {actually its based off this guy I met recently because im always stuck with the creeps}...I just started it late at night [basically the early hours of the morning] and finished it this afternoon. I haveeee to stop writing for haikyuu... But I’m probably gonna fall off, comeback and write one or two request with a bunch of other random bs, and then disappear again after this, but thats just how it is. I get bored of writing every three days then come back to write my heart out. I really have to write my requests soon or they’ll hate me...) 

(Cw/Tw: Fem!Reader, Stalking, Somno, Rape/Noncon,  Virgin!Kenma, Theft, Crying, Poor Writing, Kenma is a sweaty, friendless, looser in this one guys, I’m bad at tagging these but you get the idea... this is bad and nasty. 3.1k!!!! THIS IS LONG AS HELL)

You don’t know much about him, Kenma— your roommate. You’ve been living together for almost a year at this point and that can’t be normal. He stays in his room playing video games, doesn’t seem to have friends, leaves for work in the morning, and keeps to himself for the most part. Honestly, if you didn’t greet each other in passing you would’ve forgotten the sound of his voice by now. It’s low, unaffected, and monotone for the most part. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be bothered?

But see, Kenma knows everything about you. You went to middle and high school together, but he was just as standoffish in those days too. He doesn’t expect you to remember him, you clearly don’t, but it still weighs on his heart. Was he that forgettable? It’s okay, because one day he’ll tell you. One day he’ll tell you everything.

He’s been obsessed with you since middle school, you were the pretty girl that sat in the front of the class and smelled so good. You would talk to give answers in class and he would be all ears, because to him your voice was his only source of happiness. To hear you speak and smell your perfume as you walked past him was a reason to live. Sure, it was weird, but so were a lot of things about him. He had no friends, could you blame him? Would you?  So maybe, then, in middle school it was an innocent harmless crush, not an obsession, but in high school he was definitely obsessed. 

He overheard you say it to your friends— where you were going to high school, and he told his parents thats where he wanted to enroll. The entire time he never spoke to you, much like middle school, he was off in a corner playing a game alone, inconspicuously keeping an eye on you. He used to trail you and your friends around the school and he always wondered how you were so perfect? How you were so good at making friends? How you stood out like that? Maybe that’s why you were so unapproachable... 

He remembers you were class president for three consecutive years up until graduation. You were so damn intimidating, but everyone loved you, especially Kenma and you were blind to it. You never ONCE noticed him or gave a damn about him and you were class president. He wanted to talk to you so bad, but he just couldn't. He would steal things from you with the intent to say he found them and maybe start a conversation, but he ended up hoarding them in his room at home. The biggest thing he’d stolen was a sweater because you hadn’t seemed to notice the erasers or pencils. 

He vividly remembers the sheer panic and urgency he stuffed that damned pink sweater into his backpack with, so scared he’d get caught and called a creep. He really did plan on returning it but he just— it smelled so good back then...he remembers. He took it home and hid it under his bed, only opting to take it out and hold it to his face and just smell it on special occasions when he felt up to it and guilt wasn't taking over his mind, body, and soul. He knew it was wrong but he felt the most alive in moments where he didn’t care. He’d tried to resist the urge, but at some point he started to pleasure himself with it too. It started happening so often that he’d get hard at the smell of you even when you walked by him in class. He still has that sweater.

At some point during that time, he’d picked up the strange hobby of following you home from school. You walked alone all the time so he’d lie to himself and say it was for your safety as he stalked around corners and made sure you never saw him. He’d always watch you enter your home from down the block, far enough so he wouldn't catch your attention. Those times he didn’t want you to notice him, he felt sick doing it, but it was something akin to an addiction and he just couldn't stop himself. This was a short lived addiction though...about a month or so. 

His mom started to pick up on his staying out later than usual and by then he’d actually started to go up in front of your house and just stare at it. He prayed to god that you didn’t see him being a creep like this, but sometimes he wished you did because at the very least you would recognize his existence. Still, you never saw him. He went back to being locked up in his room, playing video games until the early hours of the morning, rubbing himself raw against your sweater, and being consumed by you in private. All he wanted was for you to acknowledge him. Tell him that he exists to you, because he’s sure his existence is for you.

Those days were hell on earth, he struggled to shower and his only motivation for getting up and doing anything was to see you, who didn't know he existed. It was a depraved cycle. 

Now he’s here with you, and the first time he talked to you was to respond to a “roommate wanted” ad. Isn’t it wonderful how things come full circle? 

Still, he struggles to actually hold face to face conversations with you. How could he? He fantasizes about you so much...it feels wrong.

These days he finds himself rutting into your sheets when you're out praying that you don’t catch him, stealing your panties just to hold them to his nose and eventually soak them in his cum, and even worse having disgustingly sadistic fantasies about you belonging to him. He pushes those fantasies to the back of his mind, though. He doesn't want to be fucked up, but then again, it can't be that bad to want to own your source of happiness.

His infatuation reaches a peak one night when he finds himself groggily trudging his way to your room in the dead of night with his fleshlight in hand. He tried everything, he didn't want to jack off so he played his video games like usual, but even that didn’t take his mind off of you. Typically, he’d jack off with his fleshlight alone in his room to depraved and deluded fantasies of you, but tonight he needs to be near you; to see you, to smell you, and to know you’re there.

Upon entering your room he flips the light on, and it’s actually really dim— not that he hoped to wake you up or anything. He tip-toes over to the side of your bed and stands over your sleeping figure. You look so beautiful when you’re asleep, a shame he’s never thought about seeing you like this before or rather...a shame he’s violating you like this. He wants himself to stop because he knows it’s wrong, but he’s wanted something like this for so long and right now it’s in the palm of his hand. He’s sick and he knows it.

Still, he pulls his sweats and underwear down just enough to where they’re right under his balls. The cold air of your ceiling fan hits his painfully hard shaft and it feels so good it makes him sick. He slowly sheaths himself inside the faithfully used toy imagining it was you. That’s even easier to do now that you’re right here in front of him.

His heart is racing, and he feels sick to his stomach...

“Gotta make this quick,” That’s what he says under his breath, but he want’s you to wake up and see him, he want’s you to call him a pervert and make him leave you alone forever. He wants to see you horrified by the sight of him pleasuring himself to your sleeping body. Is that so wrong?

Yeah, he knows it is. He can’t bring himself to care, though. He pumps himself in and out with hurried movements. He feels so gross and so good like this. Even with the fan on above him he’s sweating bullets like a madman, but he just can’t stop himself, he swears this isn’t his fault. His rational mind would never permit this, but when has he ever gone with that side of himself?

He starts to lose himself in pleasure, moaning out your name in his typical low voice rather than a whisper. He doesn't catch himself, and his moans start to get louder and louder. You start to stir and he can’t bring himself to shut up. You can’t be that light a sleeper, right? 

Wrong.

Your eye’s flutter open and then meet his and he cums unreasonably hard and his moan is gross and loud. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth and he doubles over from the pleasure. His hand grabbing on to your mattress is the only thing keeping him from hitting the floor.

His heart pounds in his chest and his breathing is erratic, but that’s not why the look in your eye’s is nothing but terror. He's sweating so much, he wants to apologize, but he doesn't.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He says sliding the toy off of himself. He thinks you look even more beautiful when you’re awake and scared out of your mind. 

You lie there, staring up at him, still trying to process how your aloof roommate could—

He climbs on your bed, fleshlight in hand, and straddles your waist and all you can bring yourself to do is shake your head.

“Kenma-” He presses his index finger to your lips and you freeze again.

Suddenly, he’s bringing the fleshlights opening to your mouth and you still can’t bring yourself to fight him.

“Please go away,” You ask like this is just some nightmare. You know it’s not, you can feel his weight on top of you and it feels too real. He’s so warm and so heavy.

“Lick.” He commands. He swears to himself that he’ll go away forever after this, the final piece to his happiness puzzle.

Tears start to fall down your face but he’s still insistent on having you eat his cum out of his gross plaything. When you don’t move, he leans over and presses it to your face.

“Lick.” 

This time, out of fear, you do. His cum tastes rancid, like battery acid. Disgusting would be more than an understatement. That doesn’t stop you from cleaning the toy with your tongue like your like depends on it, because right now...it might.

His eyes are tired when he smiles, almost dead, he looks sick. His hairs greasy, skin is pale, and he’s fisting his half hard dick while he watches you take his seed into your pretty mouth. You’ve never been this close to him before.

He strokes himself back to hardness like a delinquent. He knows he wants to leave you alone, but now he just can’t. When he tosses the fleshlight aside you’re shaking and crying begging him to go away.

“Kenma, please-” As much as he likes when you say his name, he can’t help but stifle your desperate begging with a kiss. 

It’s gross, wet, and all over the place, but Kenma doesn’t notice that. He’s never kissed anyone before and he’s beyond ecstatic that it’s you. You don’t bother with kissing him back, you just lie there, eyes open and crying. 

He savors this kiss, his first kiss. His lips are softer than expected, but he’s not— violence plagues his movements. His heart races even faster now, and when you try to turn your lips away from his he just grabs your jaw and holds you still. He gets drool all over both of your faces, and you can barely breathe. You can still feel him jacking himself off between your bodies and you feel nauseous. This “kiss” is so unpracticed and unrefined, he’s basically licking the inside of your mouth and breathing in your face.

Why is he doing this?

You feel him finally moving from your lips and pulling your shirt up to let cold air hit your tits. For a second, he pauses to catch his breath, chest heaving and spit covered mouth hanging open. He stares down at your chest in awe. You turn away in embarrassment, he doesn’t mind it; you must be terrified.

With one hand holding your shirt up, he brings the other from his dick to squeeze at your chest. You wince and struggle against him because he’s so fucking rough and it hurts. Then he gives one of your breasts a hard slap, and you start to writhe up under him. 

It brings a smile to his face, but he doesn’t do it anymore. He wants to try something different.

He carefully slides down off of you and between your legs. He grossly presses his face against your clothed cunt and smells you even licking you through your pajama bottoms.

He sees the shock on your face when you sit up to look at him and he simply brushes it off, too far gone to be considerate at this point.

When his hands pull down your pajama bottoms-

“No no no no nononono Kenma please stop it.” You whine and kick at him uselessly. You sit up to try to push his hands away but its all useless, he’s so unreasonably strong for someone his size. When he finally slides your pajama bottoms and underwear off of you and on to the floor he buries his face between your folds.

It’s like when he was kissing you, gross, wet, and unpracticed. He’s just haphazardly lapping at your labia and vulva. You push at his shoulders trying to get him off of you while crying your eyes out. It doesn’t seem to effect him though, he just locks his arms around your thighs, sliding you down onto your back. 

At some point his tongue washes clean over your clit and he feels your body jolt from the pleasure. He finds it again and your body stiffens. He looks up at your crying face and squeezes the meat of your thighs between his fingers as he abuses your clit to no end.

You’re sobbing at this point because to you this all feels without reason. For the first time in your life you are scared of Kenma. From what you remember of him, he was always voiceless and sweet, even during school when he decided to show up. He was a kid who always greeted the teacher, even if it was wordless, he got his work done on time when he could, and he minded his business. You never talked to him, but you did hold his understated presence in the back of your mind— for the longest you pegged him as a boy who could be pleasant if you got to know him. So, why was he doing this? Why is he hurting you?

You made him your roommate because you thought that he of all people wouldn’t do this. You wanted to be friends. What did you do?

Now he’s violating you after a year of little to no interaction and him being barely there. He knows it’s wrong and you're not fighting him anymore, you’re just laying there, chest heaving and silent.

He lifts his head to plant a wet kiss on your inner thigh and drags his tongue against the soft skin momentarily. He looks at your scared face and gives a crooked smile. He’s sorry, he really is but this feels like a dream to him. You're too good not to take. 

He finds himself positioning his dick right between your folds and rutting against you. You really must’ve given up, your fight is long gone as he holds you down by your pelvic bones—uncut nails breach your soft skin.

Excitement fills his body as your wetness begins to coat his length as he rocks himself back and forth. He’s careful and his breathing is labored.

“I-” He tries and fails. “You never noticed me, but I’ve loved you forever.” He’s shy. Kenma looks down at your stomach, too embarrassed to meet your crying eyes. 

“We went to school together for years...” He trails off, still staring down. He doesn’t have the guts to look at the mess he’s made of you. “I wanted to talk to you, but you wouldn’t like- no. I was scared.” He shakes his head softly and finally meets your eyes. You're still crying. He feels his throat tighten and he doesn't want to talk anymore.

“Don’t look at me like that!” He stops his movements to reach over and pull the pillow from behind you. He puts it over your face and thinks to hold it there, maybe to suffocate you for a second, but he doesn't. He’s already done enough bad. He just lets it sit there, you’re the one to grab it and hold it there. 

You hold it against your face like your life depends on it. You can't breathe very well, but what does it matter? You want him to go away.You want this to end. So, you cling onto that pillow and pretend like you’re anywhere but here.

It’s an illusion that fails quickly. You feel him press his length into you. It’s rushed, it hurts, and he doesn't know what he’s doing. You squeeze the pillow, and his sweaty hands play with your tits. You can feel the tears well up in your eyes. You don’t want this, it’s a nightmare.

He’s not that big, rather small actually, but he has girth. He hopes you can feel it. He moves slowly dragging every inch of himself against your walls. He mouths at your nipples and it feels yucky. At some point you’re sure you feel him lay a wet kiss on your stomach.

You don’t know. It’s over quickly, but it feels like forever.

 His thrusts were sloppy and unseasoned just like everything else he’s done. He’d never had sex before, but he hoped he was good. When he came his body seized and his fingers dug into your sides. He was glad you weren't watching because the embarrassment from coming so fast a second time was much easier to handle. 

You two sit in silence for a while after that, the only audible sound is you sniveling. He watches silently as your body shakes and tucks himself back in, to at least feel decent. It’s like that for five whole minutes until he finally decides to go back to his room. 

In the silence of his own dark room the water works start in full force as he comes to terms with what he’s done. He’s a degenerate who will struggle to sleep tonight.

[genevievemd]

The Newlywed Game: Round 11

A/N: Not gonna lie, I'm a little excited to answer my own questions lol As always, a huge thank you to our queen of the newlywed game, the icon that brought us Allensey, @jamespotterthefirst! Wedding Wednesday would not exist without you. Also, I best be seeing Allensey answer these, ma'am!

For Both:

1. Where did you go on your second date?

Genevieve: Our patient's art show, although we could count the opera, but I was sad and you were -- Ethan: No. Those were not dates, G. Gen: You asked me out, there for they're dates. Ethan: No, no, no. If we go by this logic, our first date would have been that time you followed me to Derry's and we people watched. Gen: Exactly. Ethan: *pinches the bridge of his nose* Our second date was the drive in theater in Meldon, they were playing grease. You wore your hair like Sandy in the beginning of the movie, it was cute. Gen: Had to be on theme. But let's be honest, we only watched like fifteen minutes of the movie, the rest of the time we made out in your car. Ethan: *smiles wide*

2. What is their pet name for you? Do you have a favorite? Do you have a least favorite?

Ethan: She calls me 'babe' most often, it's not my favorite. Gen: Let me guess, your favorite is chief? Ethan: No, it's not. It's "my love". You don't use it often, but when you do, the look in your eyes... it's my favorite, hands down. Gen: *heart eyes* Ethan uses a variety for me; darling, sweetheart, love, baby on the super rare occasion. Also, G, which didn't start as a pet name, but it's kind of turned into one. He's like one of the few people in the world that call me G, and that makes it special, too. Ethan: Which is your favorite, "baby"? Gen: Rookie, because it didn't come from my name, and it's not the usual pet name. It's just for me. Second favorite is "baby" because it's just *fan's self*. And no least favorite.

3. What is their silliest fear?

Gen: Interns. Ethan: I'm not afraid of interns! Gen: Social interaction? Ethan: Will you -- Gen: *smirks* Ethan: Her silliest fear is the dark. Gen: How is that silly? Lots of people are afraid of the dark. Ethan: Children, maybe. And it's a situational fear, you're completely fine in the dark in our home, but you're petrified of the dark outside. Gen: You can't see what's there! There could be a ghost or a zombie, or a creepy dude coming to kidnap me. Ethan: We live in a city, that's never dark enough for something to jump out of the shadows. Gen: Stop judging me, old man.

4. How often do you go on dates together? Do you think it’s enough or would you like to go out more often?

Gen: Once a week, we have a "date night". More often than not, though, it's just us making dinner and watching a movie or something. But it's a night where we put our phones in the other room and just spend time together. Ethan: We try to go physically out on a date every couple of weeks. Gen: And it's never enough. Ethan: I know, I need to get better at prioritizing our relationship. Gen: No, I meant, like, no matter what it'll never be enough. We could go on a date every night of the week and I'll still feel like it's not enough. You're my person, I wanna be with you all the time. Ethan: *looks at G like she hung the moon* I love you. Gen: I love you.

5. What was the first thing your spouse said after the proposal?

Gen: My name. Ethan: Because you were standing there, unmoving. I was getting concerned. Gen: Like I'd have said anything other than "yes". Besides, I was in a little bit of shock. But after that, I said yes. And then "I love you." And then -- Ethan: I have to call my mom. But that came hours later.

6. If you were forced to marry one of your exes, who would it be?

Ethan: What exactly is the point of this question? Gen: To make you jealous. I'd marry my first boyfriend, Patrick. He's one of the sweetest guys in the world. Ethan: You answered that way too quick. He's the one I met during your second year, correct? The one visiting his sister? Gen: Yes, that was Patrick. Ethan: *grumbles* Gen: *laughs* Your turn. Ethan: No one. I never even considered marriage until you. Gen: Okay, but you're being forced, therefore, you have to pick someone. Harper? Ethan: No, Camila. Gen: Seriously? Ethan: Seriously. Harper and I, we were great and all, but that was situational, convenient. Camila I had rather deep feelings for, and she's an incredible doctor and woman. I'd pick her. Gen: *pouts* Okay, you're right, I don't like this question, it's stupid. Ethan: *laughs then kisses her cheek* Don't worry, love, I'm sure Tobias would steal her from me again.

Bonus Round:

Speaking of exes, describe each of your spouse’s exes using three words only. Go!

Gen: Cam; smart, philanthropic, inspiring. Harper; intelligent, beautiful, iconic. Anna; funny, compassionate, cheerful. I'm only naming those three, because they're your most serious relationships. If I name all the woman you dated for less than two weeks, we'd be here for like another ten minutes. Ethan: I feel insulted. Gen: Your turn. Ethan: Patrick; polite, lack-luster, tall. Jackson; rude, unintelligent, vain. Ryan; narcissistic, vacuous, cowardly, cruel, predatory -- Gen: Three, babe, they said three. Ethan: Fine, moving on. Nate: small-minded, cynical, disorganized. Gen: How is Nate small-minded? He's a doctor, who works at the Mayo Clinic. Ethan: Because he refused to be sympathetic or understanding to your trauma from Ryan. Therefore, he's small-minded. And a whole host of other words. Gen: *giggles* You hate all of my exes. Ethan: Not all of them, Rookie. I don't hate Patrick. Gen: Fine.

That last one was so fun to do. I love over-protective-hates everyone Ethan. Someday, I'll write the fic where he meets Patrick, takes place like right before the attack in book 2.

(tagging separately because that seems to be the only way tags work lately)

[winterbanner]

I Would Give Her the Stars (Bruce Banner/ Reader)

Summary: "In that moment I would have gone to the ends of the universe if she pleased. I would have given her all the stars in the galaxy." 

Tags: Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Slight Angst, This Is Really Cute 

Word Count: 1684

Warnings: None except for some brief language

Paring: Bruce Banner x Fem Reader (uses she/her pronouns)

Additional Note: I rewrote this because it was absolutely awful. I think it’s better now! ;)

It was early, the tower was absent of noise with the exception of the whistling tea kettle sat upon the stove. Tony and I had been working all night to calibrate a new GPS system for the quinjet. It was hard work that required precision and concentration. That was hard to perform, however, when my lab partner was blasting Black Sabbath as if he were at some sort of underground warehouse party. 

My eyes ached from staring at my screen for so many hours, the throbbing synced with that of the headache that had crept its way up to my temples. I just couldn’t take the work any longer, which is something I don’t often say. I have a passion for lab work; I mean, I wouldn’t have seven PHDs in the sciences if I didn’t. That night, however, I needed an escape. 

I needed to go see her. 

I knew where she’d be. Up on the rooftop, staring out over the urban skyline. That’s where she went  to think after her attempts to get some rest were tried and failed. New York truly is the city that never sleeps, and neither does Y/N. 

I rummaged through the cupboard until I had retrieved her favorite mug, and paired it with the one she had gifted me last month. There had been no special occasion, she said she saw it and thought of me. It was one of those novelty mugs you find at convenience stores. On the front were the words “science is my bitch” written in a large bold font. I laughed the hardest I had in months after opening that gift. The rest of the team gives me weird looks whenever I use it, but that mug was the first gift I had received in a very long time. 

I took the kettle off the stove and prepared the two mugs of tea. One spoonful of honey, just how Y/N liked it. Afterwards I made my way to the elevator before requesting JARVIS take me to my destination. As I began my ascent my nerves began to get the best of me. I have this habit of second guessing myself, of letting my mind spiral into anxiousness. These thoughts, however, came to a halt as the elevator doors opened to reveal Y/N sat upon her chair serenely gazing out over the bustling city streets. 

At the sound of the elevator ding she turned her head, her lips curving upwards into a smile as she took in my presence. 

Y/N always smiled when I walked in the room. 

“Well hey there genius” she greeted, her grinning face illuminated by that of the dimmed roof lighting, and the neon glow of the Avengers symbol plastered on the front of the tower. 

“Hey Y/N, um- I brought tea.” I responded, gesturing the two mugs I held in my hands. 

“Somebody pinch me. Not only has Dr. Banner escaped from his natural habitat, but he also comes bearing gifts! I’m in shock.” 

I laughed heartily, “Well, my natural habitat has been invaded by a wild and obnoxious Tony Stark.” I responded. 

“Anybody who manages to survive Stark is more than welcome here. Besides you've been down in that lab for hours, you’re gonna fucking suffocate if you don’t get some fresh air.” She said as she gave the seat next to her a pat, thus signaling her wish for me to sit there. 

I thanked her before sitting down and handing her the cup of tea. “Careful it’s hot.” I warned, not wanting her to burn her hands on the hot ceramic. As I handed over the mug I felt her fingers lightly brush over mine, causing my heart to flutter. 

She thanked me in return before reminding me that she always enjoyed my company. Her words filled my chest with a warmth that I rarely feel nowadays. A warmth that I only feel when I’m with her.  

Afterwards we sat and conversed for what felt like both several hours, and a few minutes all at the same time. Conversation with Y/N flowed with ease, our topics ranging from the books we were currently reading, philosophy and politics, to Thor’s new obsession with microwaved popcorn. I couldn’t care less what we talked about, the only thing that mattered was that I was with her, and it seems as though she just might have felt the same way. 

I have always considered myself to be an awkward person. Social interactions were never really my forte, especially after the accident. With the big guy around, I didn’t think that anybody would want to be friendly with me. I assumed that everyone was afraid. With Y/N, however, it was different. She never once looked at me with fear in her eyes. Her disposition was so warm, so welcoming. If I ever needed someone to talk to I knew she’d be there, and she knew I was there if she ever needed the same. Around her I could be myself. She just felt safe. 

After a while I noticed she had grown quiet, her mind drifting off to somewhere else. She sat in her chair, her head tilted upward towards the sky, her brow furrowed in deep thought. 

“You okay?” I asked, concerned that she was upset.

 “Yeah, I just- I wish I could see the stars.”

I looked up, my eyes met with the inky blackness that was the New York sky, all of its stars drowned out by the light pollution and smog. 

“Yeah, it really is a shame isn’t it?” I questioned, receiving an affirming hum from her in return.

At that point we both sat quietly, our eyes transfixed on the sky above in search for the stars that were never going to appear. The silence settled between us comfortably. I knew she was getting ready to say something, but I couldn’t be sure what. 

“When I was a kid,” she began, “We lived in this house out in the country. Out there the stars were breathtaking. You could see every constellation so clearly.” 

I saw her lips curve upwards in response to the happy memories replaying in her mind. 

“Before my mom died, whenever I was upset or stressed out, she would take me out to the backyard. Together we would lay in the grass and just stare up at the sky. We would stay like that for hours; it was peaceful.” 

Her head dropped, her eyes now gazing forward onto the cityscape before us. “I miss that”, she said, her voice barely above a whisper. 

In that moment, as I observed her melancholic gaze. I wanted nothing more than to give her what she wanted, to give her the stars.

Then after a moment of thought, I realized that I could. 

                                    ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The next night I found her in the very same spot, looking over the city lights and skyscrapers unable to sleep once more. 

At the sound of the elevator’s ding she turned to face me , her lips once again forming a smile at the sight of my presence. 

“Two nights in a row?” Y/N questioned, “ That big brain of yours must be really fucking tired.” 

“Actually,” I said,  “this big brain of mine has something to show you.” I waved my hand signaling for her to follow me. 

She smiled in both confusion and amusement as she stepped into the elevator. We stood side by side, our shoulders brushing up against one another as we made our descent down to the lab. 

“Now close your eyes.” I requested 

“Bruce what is this-” 

“It’s a surprise, now close your eyes.”

She complied, the corners of her lips turning upwards as I grabbed her hand and led her down the hall to the lab. I led her to the center of the room and requested her remain there as I went and turned off every light I could find within the vicinity. Afterwards I felt my way back to her through the darkness and positioned myself so we stood directly in front of one another. 

“Okay now open your eyes.” 

“Bruce, is the surprise the news that I’ve gone blind?” she questioned causing us both to laugh. 

“No, just watch.” 

At the press of a button the room became illuminated with starlight. Stars, galaxies and planets hovered above our heads, in majestic hues of purple and blue. The scene was nothing short of magic. The universe on full display, three dimensionally projected all around us. 

At the sight of the stars above her, I saw Y/N’s face light up. Her face filled with amazement as she beheld the multitude of constellations shining before her eyes. Her smile beamed, its brightness competing with that of the brightest stars in the room. 

To me she was the brightest star in the room. 

She slowly spun in a circle in the attempt to fully take in her surroundings, her eyes reflecting the twinkling of the floating stars. She was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. 

She turned to me, her eyes glistening with moisture. “Bruce I-” 

“Do you like it?” I asked, her lack of words worrying me. Maybe this was too much?

Her silence, however, was replaced by her embrace. She took me in her arms as she gently wrapped them around my neck and pulled me close to her. 

“Thank you, Bruce. Thank you so much.” She whispered, her voice cracking at the end. 

I held her tighter in an attempt to pull her in even closer. Her embrace radiated pure love, a love I hadn't felt in a long long time. 

“Y-you’re welcome.” I answered, overwhelmed with adoration. 

As we pulled away I looked at her face illuminated by the glimmering starlight. I felt as though she was the only person that mattered, that she was the most precious thing this world had to offer. In that moment I would have gone to the ends of the universe if she pleased. I would have given her all the stars in the galaxy; and to this day, I still would.

[hongnanglen-arina]

Forget me not | Hong Joshua

Genre: Angst

Pairing: Joshua x fem reader

Warnings: sick!reader, dementia

Words: 3k

A/N: Hey there! So here it is, my first angsty fic on here. I’m currently going through this myself but writing it down helped me cope with it a bit. Of course having to deal with this syndrome/disease is anything but romantic or nice but i tried to make it less bad if you know what i mean... anyways, i really hope you don’t have to deal with this in rl. Please be healthy!! Love you ♡

Tagged: @love-dreams​ @seokcalibur​ 

⋅𖥔⋅ ━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━ ⋅𖥔⋅

The first time Joshua knew that something was off was at your birthday party 5 years ago. When you talked too fast, often times you mixed up the names especially the similar ones. You nearly forgot the cake in the oven. Luckily your cousin noticed it. During the party, he thought you were just too excited or too stressed because you wanted it to be perfect. You’ve always been like this.

But when you were alone in the kitchen after everyone had left, you asked him about the special occasion of the party. You couldn’t remember it was your birthday.

He had laughed and thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t. 

The questions increased, more and more random reactions happened until he couldn’t leave you alone anymore. 

Once he was at a market with you. It was a lovely saturday afternoon. You two enjoyed those short getaways a lot. You would randomly choose a place up to 3 hours away from your home and would drive there, spent the day or even the whole weekend there and would go back happily as if you had a little vacation. That day you had decided to split up so he could secretly get the little bouquet of roses for you before joining you at the grocery store to help with the bags. The bouquet was placed securely on the backseat of your car when he stepped into the grocery store, looking for you. The store wasn’t too big so he was sure that it wouldn’t take long to find you. No sign of you at the fruit corner, the pastries, alcohol nor the snacks corner. He just couldn’t find you. He even asked the workers to call your name through the speakers because he started to get worried. 5 minutes passed. 10. 15. Still no sign. He didn’t want to bother the busy workers a second time so he made his way back to your rented apartment for the weekend. Maybe you wanted to start preparing dinner because you’ve been always like this. You never wanted to get help if it wasn’t really necessary. This was one of the reasons you two would get into an argument but those never lasted for long. 

When Joshua got into the car and drove down the street in the direction of your apartment, he saw you sitting at the bus stop, crying. He immediately stopped the car and ran to you, he thought his heart had stopped beating the second he saw in what kind of state you were.

“Y/n, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” He tried his best to speak in a calming tone but it was very difficult. Joshua didn’t know what was wrong. What happened. What he missed out on. He was mad at himself that he left you alone, no matter what the reason for your tears was.

Your eyes lightened up a bit when you recognized him beside you on the bench, looking down at his hands which were holding yours, thumbs rubbing soothingly over your cold skin.

“I’m such a bad mother! I forgot to prepare dinner for our kids! I have to go back and cook. They must be hungry and waiting!”

It wasn’t what Joshua was expecting to hear. 

Especially because your two children were already living in other cities for work and university. He didn’t understand right away. Again, he thought you made a joke but when his eyes met your glossy ones and he tried to find the right words.

“Love, they aren’t with us anymore. You don’t have to prepare dinner for them.”

This was the wrong choice of words. You started to cry uncontrollably, worse than before. Because you thought they had passed away.

Later on he learned that he had to “play along”. That this would resolve almost every situation with people who were suffering with this syndrome.

The other time you just wanted to throw away the trash. It was just right outside the apartment complex so he thought it would be okay. The big bins were just beside the entrance, in a separate place only residents could enter since the gatekeeper was always around. You didn’t have to go that far, it was still the same building. But what was a task for 10 minutes maximum under normal circumstances became a horrible memory for Joshua and probably you too. 

Because you got lost somewhere between leaving and closing the apartment door and the moment Joshua found you. In the hospital.

Until now, he didn’t know what exactly happened on that day. But you got hit by a car when you crossed the street at a red light he was told. Even after asking the gatekeeper, he couldn’t help you because after seeing you, he got a call and didn’t pay attention where you were going after exchanging greetings.

Joshua’s fingers slightly touched your knee, the scars from the accident still evident. He was mad at himself. He thought moving to this place would help you recover and made you happier. In some aspects it did. Living on the 23rd floor with a breathtaking view over the Hangang river and all the nice lights once it got dark outside was something you two had always dreamt of. Being able to take a walk at the park next to the building and having some slice of nature around was exactly what you two wanted in this huge city. Always joked about growing old and admiring the view together. 

He never thought it would become like this.

He didn’t know why God had chosen you.

He used to believe that everything happened for a reason. That you would only get good things if you do good.

He was raised to believe in God. 

But after everything, it was difficult.

He even caught himself hating God for making you suffer like this.

He just couldn’t help it.

“It’s cold.” Your words pulled Joshua back to reality and he quickly got up to get your favorite blanket. The fuzzy fabric that you fell in love with when you were at an amusement park together a month before you got married. You always took great care to everything and everyone around you so it was no surprise to him that the blanket still looked exactly like it did when he won it for you. Although it hasn’t gotten the same care anymore after you weren’t able to do chores by yourself again. Joshua asked you what your secret was in maintaining it but as much as he tried, he just wasn’t as talented as you. 

He wrapped you in your blanket and made sure that you felt warm and cozy before walking over to the open kitchen area to prepare tea. Your favorite organic herbal infusion. 

While he was waiting for the water to boil, is eyes traveled to the side and to the wall which was decorated by different photos. Every single one holding a deep meaning.

A selfie taken on a ferries wheel. The moment he confessed his feelings for you. He planned everything to the smallest detail and wanted it to be romantic. Throughout the evening you asked him several times why he was carrying a bigger backpack. The reason was a bouquet of red roses. That day he wasn’t fully himself because he was too nervous but it still worked out. He succeeded. Joshua smiled at the memory.

Beside that was a photo from your wedding. The beautiful dress that you wore was something he had never seen. He was speechless and had to swallow down the tears. He couldn’t believe that he was the lucky guy marrying this ethereal woman in front of him. In this photo your eyes were a little puffy and nose slightly red because you couldn’t help but to cry through half of the ceremony. He could still hear your whines when his best friend asked for a photo. The smile remained on Joshua’s lips while remembering the moment.

Then photos of your children. The first born, then your second 3 years later. Time really passed by too fast because now they weren’t living with you anymore. In fact, your first born would become a father himself in a couple of months. 

Joshua looked over to you, the smile changing to a painful expression. He wasn’t sure if you would understand who it is when your son would come over with his baby. 

Once the tea was ready, he put everything on a small tray with some fruits and walked back to you.

You were still at your favorite spot. At the table in the dining room which was right in front of a huge window, allowing you to have a beautiful view on the Hangang river and the Paldang bridge. Joshua would catch you smile from time to time, sometimes even getting an answer from you why you were smiling. When there wasn't a smile on your lips, your eyes would be watery as if you had remembered something sad. Every time he would ask you and often times he would be surprised what the cause was. The fact he would randomly learn new things about your past even after knowing you for over 40 years now was surprising to him. But the doctor once told him that those things could also be dreams or wishes that you would mix up with reality. Sadly it was common.

He helped you with the tea, blew over it and held the cup while you took a sip. Every time you would thank him but without saying his name. It was painful but he tried to hold his smile.

“They look like the flowers we have in our garden. They are so beautiful. My mother loves them. Me too.”

Joshua turned around to a painting on the wall. A painting of small flowers, little blue petals with white and yellow centers. Forget-me-nots. 

You painted it after getting the diagnosis. At that time, it wasn’t this severe. You were still able to do everything by yourself although you stopped from time to time because you weren’t able to remember what you wanted or why you were doing something. But the both of you were scared of the future.

It wouldn’t just go away after some time like a flu. There was nothing you could do, no antidote. Just medication which would temporarily improve the symptoms, distracting you from the real process. You knew that one day it would become so bad that you may hurt him.

The reason you painted the flowers was because you wanted to break up with him. You wanted a divorce. Not because you stopped loving him, it was because you loved him. You hated to ask for help. You hated to bother people, especially him. People who meant the world to you. You wanted him to live his life without you as a burden because dementia meant you would need help until the very end.

You wanted to give him the painting as a gift, like a symbol of your time together. That you were thankful for everything and hoped he would keep all the good memories in his heart. You didn’t want him to hate you and you really hoped he would understand. If not now, then later. The divorce would give him the freedom he deserved. He shouldn’t see you miserably and take care of you when you can’t recognize him anymore.

That was the biggest fight you two had. 

Joshua was more than hurt of the decision you had made alone. But he wasn’t the only one in pain and he saw it in the way you were shaking as you tried to explain everything. He knew that something was wrong with you some weeks prior to your fight where the bomb dropped. You didn’t eat normally, you denied his ideas for a night out, you didn’t smile as much as you used to. You just avoided his love and wanted to be alone more and more.

In the end he convinced you to stay. Joshua told you that he swore to care for you until his last breath. To be there for you in good but also in bad times. He would be understanding if the syndrome would mess with your brain or body again. It was his purpose to be there for you. He loved you. Just as much as you needed him, he needed you as well. Even if that meant to be in the situation he was in right now.

"You really sing so beautifully. You should become a singer!"

That's what you would say every day after he played the guitar or sang his favorite song for you. And his reply would be the same as well, every day.

"Believe me or not but I was a famous singer once.”

And you would always giggle and think that he made a joke. But it wasn’t.

Joshua was 2 years older than you but then again, healthy. Unlike you who was suffering from dementia. 

He knew you didn't do it on purpose but it always hurt him so much, he had no word to describe the pain. Knowing you weren't able to remember all the happy moments you two went through made his heart ache. No matter how often he told you about your adventures, your experiences and life lessons, you would forget about it right after. But he still did it again and again. At least he had a lot to tell you about and somehow it was a way of not forgetting it himself. Some kind of therapy for himself. But often times he struggled because he couldn't remember it clearly and it was always a lonely feeling as you couldn't help or correct him.

Joshua checked the secure on the wheels of your wheelchair, making sure it wouldn’t move. He slowly got up to his feet to turn on the heater on the other side of the room. It was getting cold inside and the tea was gone already.

When he first heard about dementia, he thought it was losing memory only. But as he educated himself more and more, he learned that it could also mean the loss of mobility and the loss of speech. 

Luckily the latter hasn’t happened yet and he prayed it would stay that way. 

That was one of the reasons he believed in God again.

He felt selfish but he had nowhere to go. No place to let everything out.

When he prayed to God again, he felt bad and pathetic at first but it gave him the strength he needed.

He prayed that you wouldn’t be in too much pain.

He mentioned his gratitude for still being with you.

He was thankful for the chance to be a good husband to you.

Absentmindedly, his fingers found his cross necklace. You weren’t in a good state and of course everything could be better without dementia but being there for each other must be the life lesson here. Even without a marriage, being with the person you love and supporting each other was one of the most important things in life. He didn’t know how it would be, if the tables were switched between the two of you. Maybe that was why Joshua understood your idea of the divorce although he decided against it. If he would have to choose again, his decision would be the same. 

He didn’t want a life without you.

After turning on the heater, he joined you again.

He was watching you smile with tears in your eyes.

He asked you what was wrong but you didn't react, instead your gaze was fixated on something outside the window. He wanted to help. He wanted to turn back time but he couldn't. His wish was impossible to become true. 

Joshua reached forward, grabbing two clementines from the tray he had brought earlier and started peeling them for you. You two used to do it for the other when everything was still okay. Before the drastic change had started. Now you've never done it for him again but it would never stop him from doing it for you.

Carefully taking your hand and placing the peeled fruits in it, you made a surprised noise, giving him a soft smile.

"How do you know I like them? Say, what's your name?"

He tried to smile back. The same question he would hear every day.

Leaning forward, he gently rubbed your arm through the blanket. "My name is Joshua." ...and I'm your husband, he added in his thoughts.

You pulled out your arm from under the blanket and carefully touched his hair, letting the fingertips graze his cheeks until he grabbed your hand and kept your hand like this, leaning in your palm and closing his eyes for a second before placing your hand back down in your lap. You still wore his bracelet. The one he made for you with pastel colored beads. 

Every day you would ask where you got it from but Joshua made sure to tell you about it every time he heard this question. At least you two would always have topics to talk about, he always told himself.

“You are so kind to me.” 

Your soft voice made him look up to you and then he saw it in your eyes. He saw that deep down you haven't completely forgotten about him and that was all he needed. That was what kept him going, day after day. You were and will always be the love of his life after all.

And that would never change. Never.

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Chapter 3

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

A week passes, and her interaction with Agent Mulder fades into the recesses of her memory. She files it away under “times a cute guy hit on me,” alongside overly friendly waiters and optimistic students.

She and Ethan’s anniversary is coming up next week and she’s been grappling with the best gift to get him; something practical or indulgent? He is a prolifically thoughtful gift-giver and she feels pressure on each special occasion to select the perfect thing to give him, though the pressure comes only from herself. She’s contemplating this as she finishes up an autopsy, replacing the organs in the chest cavity and suturing up the Y-incision.

“Dana,” the pathologist about to come on shift calls out to her, “someone is asking for you.”

“I’ll just be about ten minutes, Trudy. Who is it?” she returns, gently settling the young woman’s liver back into her body.

Trudy shrugs. “Tall guy in a suit, cute, dark hair.”

She feels a flutter in her belly and then immediately chastises herself.

“Tell him I’ll be right there, please.”

She apologizes internally to the decedent as she rushes through the final steps, not taking quite as much care as she typically does.

After scrubbing her hands and fixing her hair, she steps into the hallway to find Agent Mulder sitting on a bench. His back is against the wall, his long legs crossed casually as he studies the art hung opposite him. He looks so composed and confident it unnerves her.

“Agent Mulder, what can I do for you?” she asks, forcing confidence she does not feel into her own voice.

The smile that lights up his face when he turns to look at her makes her flush, and she can feel the heat in her cheeks. Being unable to hide her emotional response behind her fair complexion has always been something she resents.

“Scully, good to see you. I wanted to follow up on the Dugan case, you said you were interested in understanding the motivation behind your autopsy findings,” he says as he stands and walks towards her, his tall frame looming above her such that she has to look up at his face. He stands close enough that she can smell his aftershave and see the stubble coming in on his cheeks.

“Oh, yes, I was curious about that,” she replies, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. Why does this man make her so nervous?

“If you’d like, you can meet with the lead behavioral analyst on the case. They can tell you how they drew parallels between the wound pattern you observed and the perpetrator profile,” he offers, a slight tilt to his head as his green eyes jump around her face as though he’s trying to commit it to memory.

“That would be great, thank you. You really didn’t have to do that,” she replies self-consciously, feeling as though she asked for something she shouldn’t have, even though she’d never requested this.

“Do you have time today?” he asks, lifting his wrist to glance at his watch. She knows it’s just past 4 pm.

“Um, yes, actually, I’m done with classes for the day and that was my last autopsy. I was just going to do paperwork for a bit, but I can defer it until tomorrow.”

A small smirk flashes on his mouth, but quickly disappears.

“Alright, why don’t you meet them at that cafe you mentioned in, say, thirty minutes?” he asks.

“Okay, that should work,” she replies, “what’s their name, so I can find them?” She should have just about enough time to change and get there by 4:30.

His eyebrows lift as though he just realized he forgot something, and he pauses before continuing.

“Uh, Fox. His name is Fox. I’ll describe you to him, he’ll find you.”

“Fox?” she asks dubiously, “is that a real name?”

He purses his lips. “Sadly, yes.”

“Alright, well, thank you, Agent Mulder. It was, um...it was good to see you again.” She extends her hand with her chin held high, trying to portray an air of professionalism and not one of a girl with a crush, which is how he makes her feel.

He takes her hand and smiles at her warmly, a little something coy behind his eyes.

“Likewise. I hope to see you again very soon,” he says confidently, and she feels her belly tumble yet again.

——————————————————————————

He stands in the hallway until Scully disappears into the staff locker room, then books it over to Cafe Adamo to get a quiet table in the corner. He’s not sure exactly what he’s after here; she has a boyfriend after all. He just hasn’t been able to get her out of his head all week. When the lead analyst on the Dugan case had a family emergency and needed to take leave, he jumped at the opportunity to take over the case, getting a little thrill from reading over her report and incorporating it into his profile. It felt as though they were creating something together.

He watches the clock, a pit in his belly as he wonders how she’ll react to learning that he tricked her into having coffee with him. He barely knows her, but gets the sense that she doesn’t take shit from anyone. That is, in fact, what draws him to her. Well, that and those plush pink lips. He hasn’t been this affected by anyone since he and Valerie split.

When the door swings open and she steps through in fitted jeans and a black T-shirt, he feels a wave of nausea. She’s even more beautiful in street clothes than she was in scrubs, her tiny waist curving up into a modest bustline. She scans the room and when her eyes fall on him, she quirks her head to the side and her eyebrows knit in confusion. His heart starts to pound and he stays glued to his seat, watching her traverse the room until she reaches him and gives him an expectant look.

He holds out his hand. “Fox Mulder,” he says with a guilty smile, and she lifts her chin before tucking it to her chest, taking his hand with a pensive expression.

“I see,” she says, her tone skeptical. It’s clear that she is unsure of his intentions.

“I am the lead behavioral analyst on this case, for the record. I am now, anyway,” he offers, and watches her doubt deepen. What the hell did he think was going to happen, catfishing an unavailable woman into a date? “Will you sit?” he asks hopefully, and she does, though he can tell by her posture that she is one wrong move away from fleeing the scene.

Someone comes by and takes their coffee order, and he sets his profile on the table, getting right to the reason he asked her here lest she think he’s completely full of shit.

“You noted that the victim was stabbed repeatedly in the exact same location, giving the appearance of one wound,” he explains, “we’ve seen something similar with the other victims, and at this time my theory is that the perp lost someone close to them in this manner, perhaps a family member or parent. I believe they’re re-creating the injury that killed their loved one, though because these crimes are so rage-fueled they feel compelled to injure the victim more extensively than just the one wound. The repeated stabbing in the same location provides an outlet for that rage while preserving the one-wound injury that is the cause of death.”

She reads over his profile with interest, nodding along as he speaks. “That’s very interesting,” she says, lifting her head to look at him, and he feels a swell of pride at her praise. “You had to trick me into getting coffee with you to tell me that?” she adds flatly, and now it’s him who is blushing.

She smiles victoriously at having made him uncomfortable, a bright, dazzling, toothy smile, and he’s overwhelmed by how attracted he is to her. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again and just shrugs.

Their coffee is delivered and he watches intently as she licks at the foam on her cappuccino. Her blue irises dart up to meet his and he startles at having been caught, picking up his own cup and taking a big gulp that burns the roof of his mouth.

“Your name sounds very familiar,” she begins, “why do I feel like I’ve heard it before?”

“Uh, I had a bit of a reputation at one time,” he says with a regretful tone. “Are you familiar with the X files?”

Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “Spooky Mulder,” she says with realization, “that’s where I’ve heard your name.”

He grimaces. “Not my favorite nickname, but yes, guilty as charged.”

“But you’re in the BSU now? Not on the X files anymore? I’m surprised I’ve never seen you around Quantico,” she remarks, and he can see her relaxing a bit.

“No, the X files division was shut down a couple years ago. I was in the BSU before I reopened the X files, and transferred back after I was reassigned. I’m part of a small BSU team that works out of the Hoover building, so I’m not down here all that often these days.”

“Why was the X files division shut down?” she asks before licking more foam from the rim of her mug, and he shifts in his seat.

“Well, how much time do you have?” he asks with a shy smile, “it’s a long story.”

She returns his smile. “Not that much time. So you’re into aliens and all that paranormal stuff?”

“Well, let me ask you this, Scully,” he says, leaning in, “do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?”

She gives him an incredulous look, but answers. “Logically, I’d have to say no.” He nods and sits back, but she continues. “Given the distances needed to travel from the far reaches of space, the energy requirements would exceed a spacecraft’s capabilities…”

“Conventional wisdom,” he interrupts, “I just happen to disagree with it.”

“On what basis?” she asks, curious but not derisive, which is what he’s used to getting in response to his theories.

“If you’d seen what I’ve seen, Scully, you’d understand why I believe in such extreme possibilities.”

She tilts her head expectantly. “Do tell, Agent Mulder. Or should I call you Fox?” she asks with a haughty tone, though a playful one, and he blushes again.

“Please, it’s just Mulder. I even make my parents call me Mulder. I’m sure you can understand why with a first name like Fox.” She makes a face that says she can’t argue with that, and he continues. “I’ve seen things, Scully, things that defy all logic and can’t be explained by the laws of science. Repeat abductees, men who can stretch their bodies and travel through the slats of a heater vent, prehistoric monsters dwelling in the woods.” She’s giving him a doubtful expression, one eyebrow cocked suspiciously. He laughs a little. “I know I sound crazy, but it’s just crazy enough to be true. When convention and science offer us no answers, might we not finally turn to the fantastic as a plausibility?”

She screws up her mouth, politely suppressing the “you are certifiably nuts” expression that wants to present on her face. He’s used to it, and takes no offense.

“What I find fantastic, Mulder, is any notion that there are answers beyond the realm of science. The answers are there, you just have to know where to look,” she says in a tone that is both playful and sincere.

He smiles at her, sure he looks like a total dope. This conversation is more intellectually stimulating than any he’s had in months.

“You should come see the X files sometime, Scully. Tell me how you make scientific sense of what you see.”

“You have them?” she asks with wide eyes.

He shrugs guiltily. “I may have acquired a few on my way out.”

Her head dips lower in disbelief. “Is that allowed?”

“No, definitely not,” he answers with a chuckle. If only she knew the extent of his flaunting of bureau policy during his time on the X files.

She smiles at him in a way that he can only interpret as openly flirtatious, an acknowledgement that she finds his insubordinate behavior a little bit enticing. As suddenly as the smile appears, it vanishes and she checks her watch.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” she says as she stands.

“Right, you’ve got somebody waiting for you,” he says with a regretful tone.

She looks at him guiltily, then thanks him for the coffee and leaves. He sits there for a long while, staring at the door she exited through.

“Shit,” he says aloud to no one.

[lesetoilesfous]

For @alienturnipp, from the angst prompt list for Nanders, “people who are okay don’t act like this”

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Anders

Characters: Anders, Nathaniel Howe

Tags: Awakening fun, canon-typical Circle abuse

Rating: Mature

*

Nathaniel is not, habitually, heavy footed. On more than one occasion, the commander’s Antivan lover had suggested he take up a career in dance, ( “so light are your dainty footsteps, mi amigo.”) He’s not sure whether Anders knows this. This is largely because after three incidents in which Nathaniel had caused the mage to fall into something alarmingly akin to a panic attack, Nate has made an effort to be heavy footed around him.

Still, Anders jumps when Nathaniel knocks on the door to his room. The door is open - Nathaniel has never known Anders to close it, and the mage himself is standing in fairly sparse surroundings looking...lost. The expression fades almost as soon as Nathaniel catches it, like a mirage, Instead Anders gives him a smile as bright and thin as cheap paint. 

“Howe! Wasn’t expecting you...here. How do you do that? You always seem to melt out of the blighted shadows.”

Anders laughs, but the sound rings hollow, and his long fingers shake a little even as he brushes them against his robe. Nathaniel frowns. “Are you alright?”

It’s been three weeks since he and the mage were conscripted by the warden commander. More has happened in those three weeks than most of the time Nathaniel spent soldiering in the marches, but Anders still acts as if he’s only just arrived. It’s...disconcerting.

The mage, for his part, smiles again, “Oh yes, don’t worry about me, I’m not going to go all demon on you.” He wiggles his fingers, as if to emphasise his point, and his light brown eyes flicker over Nathaniel’s shoulder, to the empty corridor beyond.

Nathaniel knows that no one is there - he makes it his business to know when he’s being watched - but he turns anyway, and cannot help but feel the pantomime must be painfully obvious as he makes a show of checking to see if anyone is there. In the low, rainy grey light of Amaranthine it’s hard to tell, but when he turns back he thinks he can see Anders flushing.

Anders claps, and seems to startle himself with the volume of the sound (outside, a few of the mabari start barking, and he stiffens almost imperceptibly.) “So! Does the commander need me? Has she finally realised she has no use for me after all? Time for me to get shipped back off to the Circle? Between you and me, I think I’ll put up a fight. For old time’s sake, you know.”

Nathaniel’s frown deepens, and he moves to cross the threshold into Anders’ chamber, but hesitates. Something at the back of his head tells him that he needs to respect the mage’s space, and whether it’s old prejudice or gut instinct, Nate can’t quite force himself to disregard it. Instead he shakes his head, “Why would you think that?”

Anders laughs, and again, it rings hollow. “Oh, well, you know. It’s been a week and I haven’t been forced to risk my life again, so. I figured…”

Nathaniel cannot shake the irritating feeling that he’s missing something. “She cares about you a great deal. You knew each other in the Circle, didn’t you?”

Anders snorts, and it’s graceless enough that Nathaniel believes it’s honest. “As much as you could know anyone there. And she was younger than me. Mages aren’t allowed to mix with apprentices once we’ve passed our Harrowing.” Anders wrinkles his nose. “I suppose they want to stop us getting attached.”

“Why?” Nathaniel asks the question without meaning to and regrets it immediately. He’s certain he will not like the answer.

Anders shrugs, stiff and awkward in his tall frame. “Most of them die.”

Something of Nathaniel’s shock must show on his face, because Anders laughs - for real this time, though a little bitterly. His long hands flicker through the air like restless birds.

“Hate to break it to you Nate, but the Circle has a pretty high death rate.” Anders laughs again, higher pitched and a little manic. “Would you look at that? I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.”

Nathaniel crosses the threshold. He catches Anders hands without thinking, arresting their ceaseless, anxious movement through the empty air. Beneath his hands, Anders’ wrists are too thin. Nathaniel still isn’t entirely convinced the templars who’d caught Anders were feeding him. The mage, for his part, falls into startled silence. Nathaniel watches his pulse racing through the thin skin of his throat as he swallows, and is reminded of nothing so much as a hare.

But then he looks up into Anders’ brown, golden eyes, and sees the fierce thread of rebellion there (“I think I’ll put up a fight. For old time’s sake, you know”), and Nathaniel realises that Anders has never been anything other than a fox: wily and wild and refusing to be tamed. “What is the matter?”

Anders purses his lips. This close, he smells of the embrium and elfroot he carries with him on his belt. Nathaniel is half surprised he isn’t making poultices now. He usually was. He claimed it helped him think, but Nathaniel isn’t entirely sure it’s not just a habit he hasn’t shaken from making potions for the Circle. 

Anders pulls his arms back and Nathaniel lets him, not following as Anders backs up in the direction of one of the thin, hard pallet beds they used in the soldiers’ dormitories. The commander must have dragged it up here specially, though he couldn’t imagine why. Anders follows his gaze and coughs another laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, that. Sorry, couldn’t sleep on goosefeathers. Too damn soft. I mean what’s laying your head down at night if you don’t wake up in pain?”

Nathaniel decides that Anders doesn’t actually want an answer to that, and presses on to the subject that he’s avoiding. “People who are okay don’t act like this.”

Anders flashes him another sharp, crooked grin and again Nathaniel catches the fire of anger in his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nathaniel clenches his teeth. Delilah had never explained that being kind would take so much blighted work. (He can almost hear the commander in his head, laughing at him for that.) Anders is pacing back and forth in front of his thin, poorly appointed bed, and his hands have started moving again. Nathaniel speaks before Anders’ nervous energy manages to infect him too. 

“You have refused to acquire any material possessions other than that pillow, which you hide most of the time. You are stockpiling food beneath the floorboards,” Nathaniel nods at the one uneven plank which had often been the secret to his own childhood hiding places, “ for reasons I do not understand. You never close your door and yet you seem outright terrified whenever anyone enters a place you consider to be private. If you bathe I haven’t seen it, though I must assume that you do as you have not yet begun to smell. You are avoiding...everyone, but especially the commander, despite her efforts and obvious desire to get to know you better. For some reason you still think that she - or any of us - would turn you in to the Circle without a second thought.”

Anders frowns at that, stopping mid-step to look at him with something that is either curiosity or pain in his eyes. “Wouldn’t you?”

Nathaniel stares at him - and feels, for a moment - his own foolish heart plummet like lead into his stomach. “I - no.” Mouth suddenly dry, Nathaniel wets his lips and tries to speak past the lump in his throat (past the voice in the back of his head, he’s afraid of you, everyone’s afraid of you, just like your father).

Anders’ expression softens, and his shoulders drop. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

Nathaniel blinks, and tries to shake off the feeling of being rooted to the spot. “Of course.”

Anders’ mouth quirks upward at the corner. Outside there’s the gentle patter of the autumn rain against the muddy courtyard, bouncing off the mens’ new armour like a thousand soft, tiny bells. After a moment, Anders sits down, heavily, on the thin mattress, and gestures for Nathaniel to step forward.

Feeling as if he’s suddenly been freed of some strange, invisible spell, Nathaniel does so, almost toppling to sit on the floor in front of Anders as he looks at his hands. Anders breaks the new and sudden quiet, running the fingers of his left hand over the knuckles of his right. “They broke my hands.” The admission is so quiet and so unexpected that Nathaniel is almost unsure he heard it. But then Anders lets out a long, shaking breath and continues. “I was...half drunk with magebane so I didn’t...have you ever felt pain without emotion? It’s so hard to describe. Like shock, I guess. You register that something terrible has happened and that it hurts. But the grief, the anger, the fear. All that comes later. They let it heal naturally. So my hands are crooked now.” Anders splays his fingers in the air between them, and Nathaniel can see now, as he hadn’t before, the way his knuckles do stand a little crooked, the way a nose heals when it breaks. 

Nathaniel’s voice is rough when he speaks. “Why?”

Anders shrugs, and his expression is distant. “I don’t remember exactly. It was whilst I was in solitary. They were always doing…” His features shutter into a mask so impassive that even Nathaniel cannot read it, and he draws in a quick deep breath and exhales again. “It doesn’t matter.” He offers Nathaniel a small smile, and nods at the door. “I keep the door open because I haven’t had a door, ever. When I was a child I was too young and small to have my own room. In the Circle only templars and Senior Enchanters are granted the luxury of such privacy, and I was neither.” Anders nods at the floorboards. “I...One of the first punishments they’d go to was restricting rations.” Anders’ mouth curls into a thin  smile. “I think some of them just wanted to see how long I could go. Caught them making bets on it, once.” Anders shakes his head, as if he’s dislodging the memory from his mind like a cat shaking off water. He spreads his hands wide. “I don’t...know what to do with all this. Everything I’ve ever been told is that I can’t have it. Whatever it is.”

Nathaniel resists the urge to say freedom. He isn’t entirely sure that it’s true. Anders, on the bed, sighs and  slides down from the mattress to the floor, easily framing Nathaniel with his long legs, the tabard of his robe falling heavy and velvet between his legs. Nathaniel averts his eyes. Anders’ laugh is rough and low and warm, and then his (crooked) fingers catch Nathaniel’s head and turn it back to look at him.

“That I understand.” Anders leans forward, until his chest is pressing against his bent knees. He smiles at Nathaniel, sweet and a little shy, and this close Nate can see that his eyelashes are almost as golden as his hair. Anders’ other hand comes up to catch the other side of Nathaniel’s face, and Nate doesn’t resist when Anders draws him closer to brush a kiss against his lips. “Thank you for asking, though.”

For a moment they’re quiet. Far off, from downstairs, there’s the sound of Oghren bellowing and Sigrun cackling, followed by a clattering or armour as one or the other of them gives chase. Anders’ thumb runs over Nathaniel’s cheek, and Nathaniel reaches up to catch his wrist and press his hand closer. He waits until Anders meets his eyes to speak. “I would fight with you.” A shadow of a frown passes over Anders’ brow, and Nathaniel clarifies before he can ask, “ If they tried to take you away. Back to the Circle. I would fight by your side.”

Anders’ mouth twitches into a rueful smile, though the pad of his thumb keeps running softly over Nathaniel’s cheek. “Even against the commander? She’s the Hero of Ferelden, you know.”

Nathaniel shifts closer, letting go of Anders’ wrist to reach up and cup the back of his head, gently, firmly, pulling him closer until their foreheads are touching. “Even her. Against the wardens, the templars, chevaliers and darkspawn, Anders. I will not let them take you. Not whilst I am breathing.”

When Anders breathes out, Nathaniel feels the shudder of it where their bodies are touching. Anders doesn’t look at him when he replies. “Don’t say that. Someone might make you prove it.”

Nathaniel huffs, pulling back to look into Anders’ eyes. “Let them.” He catches one of Anders’ hands and pulls it between them, running his fingers over Anders’ crooked knuckles. “This is not Justice. I’ve met Justice.” He looks up, offering a smile which Anders returns, “He looks like a walking corpse. But, truly.” Nathaniel bends and presses a kiss to Anders’ palm, and watches pink flush through his cheeks like a sunrise. “This is not just. And I will not let them have you. I swear it.”

Anders shakes his head, shutting his eyes as his brow twists with a frown despite the smile on his lips. “I want to believe you.”

Nathaniel holds Anders’ hands tightly between his own, and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Perhaps, one day, you will.”

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Just Swimmingly ch.9 (BAON)

Summary:  The final chapter! Let's hope it lives up to the story name, shall we?

Tags: Spicyhoney, Established Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

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Read it here!

~~*~~

Edge knew that he wouldn’t be able to carry Stretch for long. They were barely down the hallway to the stairs when warning twinges started up in his leg, and he could only ignore it for so long before he setback his own recovery. He resented that lingering weakness, hated that someone had stolen, albeit temporarily, his ability to physically take his willing husband to wherever he wished to put him. Hated that Stretch no longer flung himself at Edge from their front porch, trusting that he would be caught.

A return to that would come, he reminded himself. For now, he simply had to get Stretch to the car. He wasn’t about to let him walk downstairs with the delicate bones of his feet exposed to the floor of that filthy, junk-strewn warehouse anymore than they already had and perhaps Stretch realized that as well. His protests were brief and faded quickly.

“babe, no, your leg!” Stretch made a weak attempt at squirming loose, “i can walk!”

“You are in your bare feet,” Edge said shortly, “there is angel knows what foulness on this floor, and I am not letting you go.”

“guess i can’t argue that," Stretch sighed. "okay, captain. make it quick.”

“You’ve never said that before,” Edge murmured and Stretch let out a startled laugh that was always lovely to hear, but especially tonight. He really was all right if he could laugh like that, deep and sweet and loud.

So, Edge carried on down the stairs, past the melting remains of some kind of chemical foam, and Stretch didn’t struggle, a wise choice considering it would probably have sent them both tumbling down. He simply sighed and wrapped his slim arms around Edge’s neck, his skull resting lightly against his shoulder.

He was exhausted, Edge realized belatedly, already mentally berating himself. Of course he was, it was past the point of being late and going more into early, and the only sleep Stretch had had tonight was deliberately induced unconsciousness.

Better not to think about that. Seeing Stretch awake and hearing his laughter already relieved some of the raw, achy heat in his soul, there was no point in agitating it again. Surreptitiously, Edge ducked his head enough to breathed in the sweet scent of his husband’s magic, letting it further ease the dimming clamor of his LV demanding retribution. Much as he hated admitting when his brother was right, it would be best to let the Embassy security teams handle the kidnappers. Not that Edge wouldn’t be intently watching the results, but Edge knew himself well enough that he couldn’t promise not to react with violence if he saw any of them in person.

They’d stolen from him. Not a possession, no, love was not something to be owned, but it could be given, along with his soul, and Edge had given his to the very person they’d tried to use as a mere tool to be bartered with and after, they would have surely discarded him as nothing more than a useless object, a means to an end.

There was only one punishment suitable for that and Edge did not trust himself not to mete it out.

Outside, the night air was cool, refreshing after the dusty warehouse, and there was a new vehicle amidst the Embassy cars. An ambulance, the lights swirling silently atop, and the back doors were open with a stretcher already on the pavement. When the attendants saw them, they started forward, and in his arms, Stretch tensed, shifting as if to crawl up and over him in a wild attempt at escape.

“no,” Stretch said shortly. “no, no, no, don’t let the damsel in distress pose fool you, i am fine. all i need is a stiff drink and some zzz’s, this is me not consenting to any medical treatment.”

“Love—” Edge began. Stretch swung around to look at him, the pale glare of his eye lights accusing, and he backtracked, choosing his words carefully, “You were drugged. Perhaps it would be best if you were checked out.”

That suggestion was met with fierce scorn as Stretch scoffed, "yeah, i was drugged and now i am wide awake. i can tell you my name, my address, and my shoe size, and whoever tries to get me into the back of that wah-wah-mobile is gonna know it, too, when i shove my foot up their ass.”

“kinky.” Edge whirled to see his brother’s smirking face as he strolled towards them. “wellie, well, well, went fishin’ and got a hellava catch, eh, boss?”

In his arms, Stretch stiffened so briefly, he might have imagined it. He blinked rapidly, once, twice, as if to clear his vision, then relaxed again, settling on a wheedle in Red’s direction, “fishing jokes are so cliché, cooking is better. i’m the best cupcake in the bakery, so let him wrap me up and take me home. come on, tell them i’m fine.”

Red scratched the back of his skull lazily, “dunno, honeybun, might need a tune-up and an oil change—”

“quit switching the metaphors!” Stretch let go of Edge long enough to flip a middle finger at him.

Red snorted, amused, “yeah, yeah, he can take you home. if,” Red stressed, “you take a mo’ to strip off the new gear those assholes gave you.”

“aw, gee, red,” Stretch batted a pair of imaginary eyelashes, “you’ve never asked me to strip before. i’m not even wearing a g-string, where will you stuff the dollars?”

“cute,” Red’s grin widened in a way that made Edge want to carry his husband far away. The way he bared his teeth venturing into the realm of amused cruelty, and the flick of his tongue absurdly lascivious, “it’s evidence and we need it. if you’d rather change up at the bone factory, bet the docs could take a chance to check you out—”

“no!” Stretch yelped, “no, no, fine. you have something for me to change into?”

“yep.” And Red pointed to the back of the ambulance. “in there.”

Stretch rolled his eye lights. “wow,” he said dryly, “that trap isn’t even subtle. you want i should strap myself into the stretcher, too? check my vitals, start an iv?”

“it’s the only place to change, so either trust that we’ll do a catch and release, or…” Red trailed off meaningfully.

Stretch heaved a sigh and started squirming in Edge’s arms, wincing at the gravel as he was carefully set on the pavement. “back to fishing, huh? fine, fine. but if it drives off in the hospital way when i climb in the back, I’m shortcutting at the first stoplight and then we can play tag across town.”

“I won’t let them take you anywhere you don’t want to go, love.” Edge signed a little ‘x’ over his chest. Stretch’s scrutinizing look shifted to a soft smile and even though he would have preferred a doctor checking him over, Edge wouldn’t do anything to break the trust shining in his eye lights, not for anything in the world.

“okay, babe,” Stretch said, “give me five.”

He climbed into the ambulance, pulling the rear doors shut behind him. After a few minutes of the vehicle shaking and muffled swearing coming through the door, Stretch remerged. The clothes weren’t his own, but they fit, soft pants and a neon-bright sweatshirt that Stretch could have chosen himself, a far contrast to the cheap, bland clothes their kidnappers forced on them. Edge suspected his brother’s hand in it and wondered with some resignation if Red sent someone to purchase them tonight or if he simply kept spare clothes for them all in the dingy hole in the Embassy basement that passed as his office, for just such an occasion.

Probably the latter, Red was never one who minded delegating, but some things required a personal touch.

With visible distaste, Stretch handed over a large brown paper sack to Red. “take ‘em,” he said flatly. “burn them, whatever. i never want to see them again.”

“fair enough,” Red handed the bag off to one of the Embassy security who was standing close by with a muttered order. “all right, newly engaged goes next.”

Their Human friends were standing close by, both silently watching the entertainment, which was fair after the recent show upstairs. With the spotlight turned his way, Jeff hastily nodded and Antwan carefully set him on his feet, his hands lingering and reluctant to let him go.

“You two can head on home,” Antwan said, “We’re taking one of the Embassy cars.”

“yeah, okay, sounds good.” But Stretch didn’t return to Edge. He went to Jeff, leaning down to pull him into a tight hug that was fiercely returned. “hey, we made it, and you even got a special prize to top it off. congrats, bro,” Stretch told him.

It was charming the way Jeff’s cheeks went visibly pink even in the harsh overhead lights of the parking lot, but if this horrible night could end for him on a smile, Edge thought it fitting. No one said a word until the friends ended their embrace, Jeff heading into the ambulance to change and Stretch returning to Edge’s side, if not his arms.

“hey, honey bun.” Stretch paused, giving Red a questioning look, “i’ll have your cell phone back to you tomorrow.”

His face twitched but Stretch only nodded. He turned in a circle, his gaze searching, until it landed on Edge’s car parked on the far side of the lot. He started towards it and as slippers were included with his new wardrobe, Edge reluctantly allowed Stretch to walk on his own towards it.

Before he’d taken two steps, a small voice came from behind them. “Can I ride back with you two?”

Alone on the crumbling pavement, Blue stood there, his hands twisting together and his starry eye lights hesitant and hopeful. For the second time that night Edge cringed inwardly at not thinking of him.

“sure, bro,” Stretch said immediately. His eye lights flicked briefly to Edge to confirm, surprising him.

Of course he could come with them, why wouldn’t he…they needed to invite Blue over more often, Edge decided abruptly. They saw him often on movie nights and group events, and he knew that the Swap brothers had lunch together once a week, but he should spend more time with his brother, and with Edge.

Once, they’d been decently good friends, before his relationship with Stretch subtly cooled things between them. They could be friends again, better friends, if only one of them took the first step. Interesting how traumatic events could be a hell of an incentive.

“Of course,” Edge told him, and tried not to notice the sudden gratitude that filled Stretch’s face. He dug into his pocket for his keys and tossed them to Blue, who caught them with a jangle. “In fact, I’d prefer if you’d drive.”

Blue brightened visibly at the show of trust, darting over to the car. He held open the door as Stretch crawled into the back and didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow when Edge followed him.

“home, jeeves,” Stretch said. The last word broke on a deep yawn and he shifted to sprawl across the backseat, his skull in Edge’s lap.

“Seatbelt,” Edge chided.

“you put it on me,” Stretch grumbled. He didn’t move as Edge did, only settled in more comfortably once the belt was across him. He was asleep before they’d even left the parking lot, without so much as an ounce of deception in his long, slow breaths.

Cautiously, Edge settled his bare hands on him, choosing where to settle them with some care, one hand on his clothed side and the other on his skull with more palm than fingers. He wished for a pair of his gloves to keep the sharpened tips safely concealed. Earlier, he’d wanted his hands exposed and ready to be used, and now in the aftermath, he wanted them tucked away again, the same as he’d learned to conceal his other, more Underfell-ian tendencies. Only bringing them out when they were useful, like a set of heirloom dishes, then hiding them at the back of the hutch again to gather dust.

(don’t think of it that way, do not)

He resisted the urge to clench his hands, closed his sockets and tried to concentrate on the feel of warm bone under his bare hand. Stretch often carried spare gloves for him in his bag, never questioning Edge’s preference, never mocked or teased; he didn’t just accept that quirk, he embraced it and tried to help. If he were awake, he would have been pleased at the bare-handed touch, he would understand the significance of it and Edge focused on that.

It helped soothe some of his agitation and when Edge opened his sockets again, he was surprised to see the Embassy gates already looming ahead. “Drop us off, you can take my car home tonight.”

Blue nodded silently, his gaze focused intently on the road. There wasn’t even a teasing, if pointed, joke about Edge letting his car out of his sight. The car didn’t matter, all that was important was in his arms right now.

He pulled into their driveway and Blue held the door again as Edge carefully lifted Stretch into his arms. He paused long enough for Blue to press a gentle kiss to his brother’s skull, murmuring something Edge did not hear, then carried him inside as the car pulled out of the drive behind him. He hoped Papyrus was home, surely he was, and that he would know that Blue could use some friendly companionship after this night.

He would know, Edge decided firmly. This was Papyrus he was thinking of and it was likely he already had a pot of strong tea and some very interesting cookies ready to share, along with a blanket and some Mettaton reruns. Blue would be fine for tonight and tomorrow he could come over again, after they’d all had some necessary sleep.

He carried Stretch inside and settled him on the sofa. Upstairs would have been better, but he needed a moment for his leg to recover before taking him any further. Not that Stretch noticed, he only slept on, sleepily burrowing into the blanket Edge draped carefully over him.

Indecision seized Edge then. There were things that needed to be done, but leaving Stretch here alone made uneasiness stir in his soul. In the end, he checked the door and window locks to make sure they were secured and that their alarm system was on before he reluctantly went upstairs to run a bath and lay out pajamas. It would be testing Stretch’s ability to sleep through anything, but those Humans had touched him, laid their filthy hands on him. A quick wash would go a long way for both of them to get some decent rest.

He waited for the tub to fill with foamy bubbles, the unsubtle floral scent of lavender filling the room, before heading back downstairs. He halted on the landing, his soul seizing in his chest, to see that the sofa was empty, the blanket thrown carelessly back.

Edge closed his sockets and took a long, deep breath, settling his rattled nerves. Yes, Stretch was missing again, but this time, he suspected he knew exactly where he’d gone.

The sliding glass door was now unlocked, and Edge opened it to step out into the backyard. Dewy grass clung to his shoes as he walked and the horizon was overflowing with purples and pinks and deep orange, heralding the arrival of the sun.

The fence was standing open, confirming his suspicions, and Edge opened the coop door to find Stretch sitting on the floor, heedless of its less than sterile state. Nugget was in his lap, magnanimous surrendering her a scritches to her small, adopted duckling that was curled up on Stretch’s knee, mumbling out sleepy little quacks as it was gently stroked.

Stretch didn’t look up. “hey, babe,” he mumbled.

Edge sank down to sit next to them, pressing their sides together from shoulder to hip. “You could have warned me,” Edge said.

It was lightly said, but Stretch flinched, shifting to rest his head on Edge’s shoulder. “sorry, wasn’t thinking.”

“I’d say you’re still not,” Edge agreed. “are you even awake?”

“prolly not.”

They sat together in the dimly lit coop, the silence broken only by the faint sleeping rumbles from the chickens. Neither of them were prepared for Cheese to stir, going from sleeping to wide awake in an instant the moment they noticed the open door. With a riot of happy peeps, they hopped from Stretch’s knee, dodging Edge’s grab as they ran outside to plunge into the new pond, swimming circles in the clear water.

They followed them out, “No, not right now,” Edge began, preparing to wade in if necessary to secure their tiniest poultry companion.

“eh, let ‘em play," Stretch yawned. He sank down on the walkway they’d finished only the day before. “let them have some fun. may as well, i'm really tired, but i dunno if i can sleep yet."

Edge nodded and settled next to him again. The brickwork was hard beneath his tailbone and he made a mental note to have a bench of some sort installed. He should have thought of it before, Stretch enjoyed watching his pets, and both the patio and the porch swing were too far away for proper observation. Rather than allow Stretch to sit on the stones, he pulled his love into his lap, holding him close without impeding his view. "We can wait until you're ready."

"gonna have nightmares,” Stretch said abruptly. His voice was smaller and knowingly weary. "i was scared, you know, but andy was there, and he was scareder. his face was," Stretch gestured at his own face and shook his head. "i couldn't let him get hurt. i couldn’t."

It ached to hear that soft confession, though he’d known Stretch must have been frightened. He pushed the image of Stretch waking up terrified and surrounded by enemies out of his mind, saying firmly, "You didn't, you protected him."

"he wouldn't need protecting if he'd stayed in his seat on that bus all those months back,” Stretch said sourly and that was a notion that couldn’t wait for his therapist to address.

"Don't,” Edge told him softly, “Don't take on blame that isn't yours, you don’t deserve to carry their guilt."

"heh, yeah. you're one to talk."

“I know. So you can believe I know what I’m talking about.”

“don’t worry, babe, i know something about carrying guilt that ain’t yours, too.” Before Edge could question that, Stretch sighed heavily, confessing, "i knew one of the guys."

That was a chilling admission. "You did."

"yeah, he used to work at classic books,” Stretch said. He shifted in Edge’s arms, unconsciously pushing in closer. “had an issue with monsters, but i didn't think anything of it. lots of humans do. he never said anything out loud that i ever heard. last i knew, thomas said he quit. thomas was happier for it, he was about to fire the guy, anyway, him quitting made his life easier."

“Does my brother know this?”

“if he didn’t before, pretty sure he already does now, but i’ll tell him during my little interview tomorrow.” In his arms, Stretch shivered, bones briefly rattling. “when i saw him, saw into his—” Stretch stopped abruptly, “anyway. he’s not a nice guy, babe. not at all.”

“I see,” Edge said, slowly. There were depths in that obvious diverting should be explored, questions to ask, but that could wait for tomorrow. “Let’s go inside and get cleaned up, all right?”

“yeah, okay.” Stretch crawled out of his arms to the side of the pond and rather than fruitlessly chasing Cheese, he held out a hand. It took hardly more than a touch of blue magic to pull the little duckling close, their pitiful quacks as they were once more robbed of their watery freedom filling the air. “yeah, i know,” Stretch soothed, “tomorrow, okay? i’ll let you swim ‘till you’re sick of it, kiddo.”

He returned the duckling to Nugget, who unsympathetically tucked the peeping duckling beneath her, and when Stretch turned back to Edge, his gaze sharpened suddenly as he watched Edge climb to his feet. “where’s your cane?”

“I was getting it as we speak.”

“uh huh, from inside the house, it’s so useful in there. you,” Stretch jabbed a slender finger at him, “you’re going to use it all day tomorrow, right? no bitching, either.”

Edge didn’t bother pointing out that it was highly likely he wouldn’t be doing much walking at all tomorrow, certainly not out of their home. Tomorrow would be full of questioning and paperwork, so many things that would need to be done. But first, they needed to finish off the night before dawn took it.

“Of course,” he agreed. He allowed Stretch to pull an arm over his shoulders, ostensibly to help him inside, but it wasn’t his leg that needed Stretch’s assistance.

His soul pulsed in his chest softly, settling at the feel of Stretch close to him, leading them both into their house, and when they finally slept that night, it was on the sofa rather than their bed, both of them freshly washed and with a cooking show playing softly in the background.

Lying together, Edge was acting the part of smaller spoon to Stretch’s larger one, and if Stretch guessed the position was one that put Edge closer to the door, he didn’t say. His face was buried into the back of Edge’s neck, his breath damp and even. Edge drifted on the borders of sleep, listening more to that quiet breathing than whatever the chef on the screen was saying.

“I can’t lose you.” The words escaped him, said to no one at all, less a statement and more a vow, a promise offered in the early morning light. I can’t, he thought to himself as he drifted, barely hearing the sleepy murmur in return.

“you won’t, babe. ’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Soothed, Edge let sleep claim him, trusting that he was safely caught up in the embrace of both slumber and his love.

-finis

[dayseternal-blog]

If you ever finish answering all of yours awaiting asks...

45 questions for you 👀

https://myaekingheart.tumblr.com/post/650107314353897472/fic-writer-ask-game

Lolllll BADLUCKBREBIS, you are so funny.

Inspiration and Reading Asks:

1. How long ago did you start reading fanfiction? Writing fanfiction?

It looks like I started writing in 2017. I've been reflecting recently on how there are so many regularly active writers now compared to in 2017-2018. It was the tail-end of some of my fave writer's activity within fandom. Utsus was posting less and less. The Tumblr NaruHina fandom seemed to disappear, a whole community of writers left for other things (matchaball, nekomamoru, magmawrites, cherryjutsu, spyder-m, tenney-shoes, eliphya, among others). 2018 was a very quiet year, but! I avidly read katarinahime and bunnyhoodlum's works! In 2019, quirrrky restarted things with NaruHina Week!

2. How do you spend your time when it comes to fanfiction? Are you primarily a fic reader, writer, or a perfect 50/50 split of both?

Recently I’m primarily a reader!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Because there's so many writers now!!!!!!!!

3. Are there any fics that inspired you to write what you do?

Yeah, let’s list them.  “A Special Friend” by agitosgirl inspired “Nightdreams.  “Medicine” by @grimmjowkurosakidrake​ inspired “White Lilies.  “Torch Song” by @mmmbuttery inspired “About You.”  The language in “Unless the World Were to End” by @bunny-hoodlum​ inspired the language in “That was the plan.”  “In Between Drinks” by @peppercornpress inspired “In Between Drinks NH.”

4. Link your three favorite fics right now.

“Operation: Bring Home Naruto” by Dragonwannabe - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Complete. Hinata's been assigned the mission of getting Naruto back home safely after his last dangerous assignment. But can she handle the undercover identity as his girlfriend that she’d been given without revealing her true feelings for him?

“The Mission” by Lunawraythe - Rated M, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Ongoing. It wasn't that Hinata never expected to work with Naruto, just never on a mission quite like this.

“The Loving Type” by @peppercornpresses - Rated M, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Ongoing. A few years have passed since the Fourth Shinobi War, in which...Rookie Nine steadily advances in rank. Naruto gets engaged. Hinata leaves Konoha. And Kakashi schemes for days.

5. What are your fanfic pet peeves? Do they have a huge effect on whether or not you decide to read something?

ahhh.  I do have quite a few pet peeves.  If the fic is Canon-Compliant or Canon-Divergent, I expect Naruto and Hinata to behave like Japanese people.  Say what you want, but the Naruto Universe is definitely Japanese in my book.  So that means no shoes in the house.  Nothing rattles me more than reading Hinata taking her sandals off before climbing into bed.  Like, what?  she was wearing her outdoor shoes indoors this whole time??

mmm... another pet peeve is when the writer describes Hinata in a kimono, but it sounds like an American Halloween costume, like the slutty version, instead of an actual kimono.

mmm... and the other big pet peeve I have is when it’s Hinata’s first time eating ramen because Naruto is showing her the wonders of ramen.  lol.  why.  how.  in what world would a Japanese person make it to their teenage years without ever eating ramen.

I have a bunch of other little pet peeves regarding Japanese culture in fanfics.  But in general, it doesn’t stop me from reading the fic if I'm already in the middle of it.  I’ll continue reading it and will probably recommend it to other people anyway. If I can tell based on the summary, then it's not for me, and I don't read it. If this makes anyone feel nervous about writing fanfiction, that's not my intention! I would also be happy to be a sensitivity reader if necessary.

6. How do you find new fic to read? Where do you primarily read fanfiction?

I primarily read fanfics on AO3 and ffnet.  I find new ones by constantly checking the Hyuuga Hinata/Uzumaki Naruto tag on AO3 or looking into a writer’s favorites list on ffnet.

7. Do you prefer to read short fics or long fics?

Short fics.

8. How often do you reblog/comment on fics that you like?

I reblog pretty often. I don't comment as often as I used to😕 I used to comment on every fic I liked.

9. Tag 3 fic writers you think are underrated/unknown in the fandom/fanfiction community.

Uhh?? Idk. I think recently the writing group here is pretty tight, everyone seems to know everyone.

10. What’s your favorite fandom, pairing, or character to read fic for?

Naruto fandom and NaruHina.

Fanfiction Writing Asks:

11. How do you come up with your fic titles?

I usually take it from words used in the story or from the prompt.

12. Tell the author your favorite fic title of theirs (not the fic, strictly title). Author: what’s your favorite title you’ve come up with and why?

I think...maybe "Tell Me of Forevers" or "Nightdreams." I like those because they aren't taken word-for-word directly from the story, but touch on a theme in the story.

13. Do you outline your fics? How much of a headache would someone get if they just looked at an outline of yours without reading the fic?

Yes, I outline. They wouldn't get a headache, I think. It's usually just a summary.

14. Do you have a personal word minimum that you hold yourself too? Why or why not?

Nope. I didn't know people do that.

15. Tell the author your favorite fic of theirs. What’s your (the author’s) favorite fic you’ve written?

My favorite fic continues to be "It's No Secret."

16. Do you research for your fics? If so, how deep of a rabbit hole have you gone down by accident when researching?

Yes, I do. I've done historical and folktale research for "Little Samurai." I did area/location research for "Last Chance." I did historical research for "About You." I did fairy tale research for "Catskin." I did a ton of astronomy research for "The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl." And I did lighting research for "Inspo." I go pretty deep.

17. How obsessively do you sit and stare at your fic after you’ve just posted and wait for feedback?

I don't. I usually have something else I need to do or I go to bed.

18. Do you have a WIP that you keep telling yourself you’ll eventually get back to, but deep down you know that’s probably a lie?

I actually think I can finish all of mine if I just try.

19. Do you edit your fics after you write them, or do you prefer to just hit post and run (because it’s someone else’s problem now)?

I always edit before posting to AO3. Anything I post directly on Tumblr might not be edited.

20. What’s your favorite part about the fanfiction writing process?

Posting!

21. What’s your least favorite part about the fanfiction writing process?

Starting a new chapter.

22. Do you take fic requests? If so, for what characters and why?

On occasion. If someone sends me a request, I'll think about writing it. Sometimes I do write and post it, sometimes I leave them in my drafts for a better day.

23. What’s your absolute favorite trope to write?

From what I already have posted, probably friends-to-lovers, secret relationship/forbidden love, or high school au. I don't think I have an intentional favorite.

24. What’s a trope that you’d like to never hear about as long as you live, let alone write?

Public humiliation / public degradation.

25. Do you listen to music as you write? If possible, link your writing playlist.

No, not usually.

26. What’s your biggest distraction when writing?

Tumblr feed, all the pictures to scroll through mindlessly.

27. Do you like to give your readers some warning of what might be coming or just slap them in the face with content at random?

lol, whatever is fine.

28. How do you deal with writing pressure (ie: pressure to update, negative comments, deadlines, etc)?

Well, pressure to update is not a big deal to me. I do this for fun, so I don't think I unnecessarily pressure myself too much. With negative comments, I don't get too many of those, and I think I do my best to avoid situations where I might get negative feedback.

29. Have you ever written for an exchange or event of some kind? Which one(s)? Did you enjoy it?

Yeah, I like the events. My favorite was NH2020, the year-long one last year. I also enjoyed the Secret Santa last year since @badluckbrebis was my giftee.

30. Post a snippet from your current WIP without context - no more than 300 words.

haha😈

Ecstasy slides through his veins, blooming over his mind, cocooning him in pleasant sensations, cum shooting out in eager twitches against hot, milking flesh.

31. Of the characters you write for, which is your favorite? Has that choice been swayed at all by your followers/readers’ reactions to certain ones?

Naruto Uzumaki, always.

32. Copy and paste your top three favorite lines/jokes/sentences you’ve ever written. What fics do they come from?

Top 3 faves in order:

That was the plan: "She shifts in his arms, and cloth and cleavage come pillowing up to his face, and he’s certain that she’s scooped from the same puffy stuff his adolescent daydreams were made of."

Tell Me of Forevers: "What he wouldn’t do to inspire every blush, every smile of hers for an eternity when such moments already only speak “forever” to him."

White Lilies: "Whether at his feet, in his eyes, ears, mind, if not reaching his heart, she never landed anywhere. (It’s okay.)"

I consider "White Lilies" to have my technically best writing, so it was kind of hard to choose just one line from that fic! But I decided that one's my favorite line from the whole story.

33. What do you like writing better: one shots or multi-chapter stuff?

One-shots.

34. How much of yourself and your life experiences do you put into your writing? What do you think your readers’ image of you is?

A lot of my life experiences are in my writing. Hmm, I think readers probably think I'm...hmm...either empathetic or really perverted?

35. How much has writing fic changed your life?

I spend a lot less time on real-life social media than before.

36. Are there any fics or fandoms you’re embarrassed to have written or been part of?

I'm kind of embarrassed of "Honeymoon at the Hot Springs" lol. It's fine.

37. Give an update on your current WIP - if you don’t have one, give a sneak peek to a title or idea that you have and would like to write.

My current WIP is that A/B/O fic I started for February Smut Month Prompts: Sweet as Candy or Love Bites. I'm going to title it "Sweet As," and it'll be about how Naruto and Hinata become Alpha/Omega mates. It's really kinky, really smutty, and totally what I would want to read.

38. What does your writing process look like? How chaotic is it on a scale of 1 (very tame) to 10 (you can’t handle this kind of chaos)?

uhh???? a 1?? I've never once thought of my writing process as chaotic. Ahh, then I think of bunnyhoodlum's multiple drafts for the same chapter, and I realize that there exist types of writing processes that I would not be able to handle...

39. What’s something about your writing that you pride yourself on?

My smut.

40. How did you come up with the idea for [x fic]?

41. What’s your most popular fic (with the most notes on tumblr, most hits/kudos on ao3)?

Idk about Tumblr,,, maybe White Lilies got the most attention here. My most popular fic is Nightdreams on AO3.

42. Asker: pick three of the author’s works. Author: rank them 1 (the best) - 3 (the worst) based on whatever criteria you want - this could be something totally random that isn’t quality related (like simply ranking fics based on how many trains appear in them) - have fun!

43. Talk about a positive experience with fanfiction or the fanfiction community that you will always remember.

I will always remember how people congratulated me for finishing White Lilies😭 Also, when peppercornpresses made that FIRST art of my story, I just, I just stared at it all day.

44. Rant about something writing related.

hmmm, I don't feel like ranting about anything. I just recently ranted about my pet peeves above.

45. Fic specific questions - if you have any weird questions about specific works, here’s your shot to ask them!

I did them all! Nice questions.

[shireness-says]

A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink (2/5)

Summary: Two people are trained from childhood for a magical competition they don’t fully understand, whose stakes are higher than they imagine, all to be played out in a magical traveling circus. Falling in love complicates things. A CS AU of the book “The Night Circus”.

Rated M. ~16.5k. Also on Ao3. On Tumblr: Chapter One

A/N: I’m back! Thanks for your patience in waiting for the latest chapter of my @cssns​ piece. My apologies for the wait; these chapters are slow in coming due to my own overthinking and perfectionism, what I know where everything is going and this Will Be Finished. 

Special thanks to my betas, @snidgetsafan​ and @ohmightydevviepuu​, and to @eirabach for the absolutely gorgeous art she created for this chapter. Seriously, it’s like she climbs right inside my head to see what I’m picturing. Give her a BUNCH of love for all this. 

Tagging the interested parties (and let me know if you’re one of those!): @welllpthisishappening​, @thisonesatellite​, @let-it-raines​, @kmomof4​, @scientificapricot​, @thejollyroger-writer​, @superchocovian​, @teamhook​, @optomisticgirl​, @winterbaby89​, @searchingwardrobes​, @katie-dub​, @snowbellewells​, @spartanguard​, @phiralovesloki​, @profdanglaisstuff​, @winterbythesea​​

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Henry is six the first time he visits the Circus. 

It’s a special treat for an orphaned boy like him; the nuns who run the Storybrooke Children’s Home, just outside of Portland, Maine, aren’t much given to frivolous entertainments like this. But a generous monetary donation had been made to the home when the Circus had set up just over the next hill, and tickets for all the children along with it. The nuns may not be much for frivolity, but they’re not ones for waste, either, especially where gifts are concerned. The next night, Sister Astrid and Sister Theodora collect all the children who want to go, and bring them to what, to Henry, feels like a whole other world. 

Henry is a boy the adults already say lives in his imagination too much, and the magic of the Circus only enchants him further, calling to him in a way he doesn’t yet have the words to understand, let alone describe. There are trapeze artists who soar through the air, and jugglers, and lions and tigers and wolves so tame that they’ll take treats from his hands. Kindly confectioners slip him pieces of praline and boxes of popcorn to snack on through the night with a wink and a smile. It’s treatment such as he’s never experienced before, and it’s easy to wonder if he’s just wandered into some kind of dream.

(Even at six, Henry knows better than to disrupt such a lovely dream.)

It’s easy to get separated from the rest of the children in the dazzle of it all, and Henry finds himself wandering the curved paths alone as the clock strikes one, when the others in his group are preparing to return to the Home. Not that he knows it; he’s far too occupied by staring wide-eyed at the black and white tents where they soar to meet the stars and peeking beyond their entrance flaps.

That’s how the lady finds him - gawking with a craned neck at everything around him. 

“Have you lost your group, young man?” she asks with a gentle voice. Henry likes being called young man; it makes him feel important. 

“It’s okay,” he tells her earnestly. “They like to go faster than me. I can do it by myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” the lady laughs. She looks really pretty; her hair is yellow and curly and she wears a poofy white dress with black swirly bits and a black, long-sleeved jacket, the lack of color making it obvious she’s part of the Circus somehow. If this was one of the fairy tales Henry likes so much, she’d be the princess in hiding; here, at the Circus, that just might be true. “I was just planning to walk to the front gates. Would you care to escort me, young sir?”

Henry eagerly takes the hand the lady offers. “I’m Henry,” he tells her as they walk. “What’s your name?”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Henry. My name is Emma.”

“That’s a princess name. Are you a princess?”

“No,” she laughs, “but thank you very much, Henry. I appreciate the compliment. Are you enjoying the circus?”

“Yeah!” As they walk, Henry eagerly tells the lady - Emma, his new friend - about all his favorite bits - the animals and the dancers and especially the magician. Emma has a funny little smile when he talks about that, but Henry doesn’t think to ask about it.

When the front gates are finally in sight, Henry tugs on Emma’s hand. “I like it here,” he whispers. “Do I have to go?”

Emma crouches down, her skirts pooling around her and threatening to envelop him too. “Yes, Henry, you have to leave for now.”

“But why? I want to stay here. I could stay with you!”

“Oh, Henry, I’d like that so much,” she tells him, pulling him into a hug. “You need to go for now, until you’re older, but the Circus will always be here for you, okay? You’ll come back.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Henry dreams of the circus that night, and for many nights after, though the visions his mind conjures up never quite match the mysticism of the real thing.

A week later, the Circus is gone.

(But here, in a small room in a cold, gloomy children’s home - a young boy remembers.)

———

Belle, unsurprisingly, proves to be a determined and reliable correspondent. She’s like his little window into the Circus, even when he can’t be there himself, as is so often the case - especially in those first few years. Five years pass of letters and far-too-rare visits, and yet Killian never feels left in the dark. That’s the magic of what Belle can accomplish with her words - let him feel as if he is present even when he can’t be. 

Her missives contain the important things he asked for, of course - reports of new tents and changes in operations and unusual things his opponent, Miss Swan, is doing. They’re useful words, words that help him plan his own next moves. More than that, though, her letters are filled with wonderful little mundane details that make him smile. Belle tells him about the latest book she’s read and how fast the Zimmer twins are growing up and particularly funny anecdotes she’s heard. There are complaints about the weather, and discussions of the interesting or ominous things she reads in the cards. Always, always, there are chronicles of all the many places she has seen as the Circus crisscrosses the world, recountings of wondrous sights and marvelous people. Belle had wanted to see the world, and she’s getting to, five times over. It’s everything she deserves, only wrapped in an unusual and often demanding package. 

“It’s not too much, is it?” Killian asks on one of the rare instances their paths cross - in Paris, this time, where Killian has come on an errand for Jefferson, sitting in a little cafe in the shadow of Notre Dame. “I never want to ask more of you than you can manage.”

“Don’t be silly,” Belle says, waving off his concerns like the steam from their coffee. “They’re merely letters, Killian. It’s no great bother - especially for something I’d be doing anyways. I’d be writing to you regardless, Killian - you’re my best friend in the world, and I’ll be terribly put out if you ever stop writing me back.”

And that’s that.

(Most days, Killian believes that Belle is a much better friend than he could ever possibly deserve. He makes a mental note to say something of the sort in his next letter back to her.)

(Of course, he forgets - but then again, he can’t imagine she doesn’t already know.)

———

As a child, growing up knowing she was destined for some magical contest, Emma had always been told that she’d understand what she needed to do once her competition actually started. As an adult, now smack in the middle of it all, she finds that is decidedly not the case. Emma does her best, but it still feels like she has no idea what in the world she’s supposed to be doing.

The Circus is meant to be a canvas for her abilities, hers and her opponent’s; that much is obvious. What exactly that means is… more up for debate. Emma tries to take on more of the Circus in little pieces, bit by bit, so that more of its operations run on magic than on man power. It’s more enjoyable to try and come up with new attractions, drawing upon her imagination to come up with something new. It’s not a particularly quick process - Emma spends a lot of time planning each idea, to make sure she doesn’t miss anything, and it means that she can only create maybe two new tents each year. It’s worth it, though, to wander through the finished product, and see the way her most fanciful ideas have come to life. 

(“You need to be doing more,” Regina always scolds her on those rare occasions she makes the effort to visit her student. “This isn’t playtime. You can’t just make the effort when you feel like it, silly girl. Don’t you want to win this?”

“Of course, Regina,” Emma always says, making whatever promises she needs to in order to appease the other woman - all the while knowing that she will continue to act in her own way.)

(For Emma, the best thing about the Circus may be the separation from the woman who took her in. Regina does not often make the effort to check in on how her student is doing - and Emma more than likes it that way.)

There are traces of her mysterious opponent’s work, too. Sometimes it’s in the form of dramatic new attractions, things that push the bounds of possibility and perception; sometimes, it’s with more mundane things, like a wine-sampling tent tucked along a path that Emma is certain never existed before. 

His or her greatest feat, however, is on the members of the Circus themselves. As the years pass by, Emma can’t help but notice that time doesn’t affect everyone who brings the Circus to life, with the exception of the Zimmer twins. It’s been more than half a decade, but Granny Lucas is still as hale and hearty as ever. Not a single face has gained extra creases, or a single head extra grey hairs. Something this unknown competitor did has stopped the clock for all of them within the iron fence, even as the grand timepiece above the front gates ticks on.

It’s an impressive piece of magic - one that must take a considerable amount of skill and effort. It’s the first time Emma wonders if maybe this is a contest of endurance, rather than skill.

Regina won’t tell her, however, and Emma puts the matter out of her mind while she turns her attention towards the night’s performances and the germ of an idea blooming in her head. Something fantastical. Something striking - and icy. 

There’s always room for imagination and for creation at the Circus, after all - and despite her opponent’s impressive efforts, that’s exactly what Emma is counting on to one day prevail in this competition. 

——— 

The Zimmer twins are special, Emma discovers, and not just in the way anyone who has loved a child claims them to be exceptional. In Ava and Nicholas’ case, it’s true. 

There had been something in the air the night the circus opened, the night after the twins were born - something crackling and pervasive and magical. Emma has suspected for years - since that very moment - that the energy was something created by her still-unknown opponent. It’d been like a wave, rippling through them all at once and creating unknown effects. She thinks this might be one of those - powers growing in two children who, by all indication, shouldn’t have received them.

It’s especially noticeable to Emma, who not only has the ability to sense the powers running through their veins, but spends a considerable amount of time with the six-year-old twins. Ava and Nicholas grow up like the beloved niece and nephew of everyone involved with the circus, as though everyone communally agreed to test the proverb it takes a village. While the circus is open to visitors, and the children’s parents responsible for their little cart of carved treasures, everyone else watches the little boy and girl in shifts when they’re not performing - and Emma quickly becomes a particular favorite. She’s never been sure why; maybe they sensed the magic in her own veins, even as babies, and latched onto it. Maybe they simply like the way she thoughtfully humors every flight of fancy. Whatever the case - Emma knows her life would be far less interesting without the two in it. 

Ava has magic that likes to shake out and twinkle at the edges of her soft hair, similar in a way to Emma’s own powers. Unusual things happen around her, if you’re paying attention; lost things are more easily found, snacks and sweets turn up in unlikely places, and on one impressive occasion, a pair of fluffy orange and white kittens crawled out from beneath her bunk. 

“I can fix that,” she tells Emma innocently one day as Emma moves to throw a vase of wilted flowers out. She hasn’t prodded Ava about her powers before - it doesn’t seem the time to bring to the forefront all the things she can likely do, not when she’s still a little girl, not when Emma’s own childhood was largely sacrificed because of her own powers - but it’s a hard opportunity to pass up. It’s worth demonstrating to Ava, anyways, that her powers are simply a part of her, and nothing to make a fuss about.

“Can you show me?” Emma asks. It’s impossible not to smile when the little girl nods eagerly and furrows her brow in concentration, staring fixedly at the wilted daisies. Slowly but surely, the browned tips disappear, the petals straightening from their shrivelled state and the flowers once again lifting upright to seek the sun.

“That’s very well done, Ava,” Emma makes sure to tell her. 

“I know,” Ava replies seriously with all the intensity of a child her age. “Can you do that too?”

“I can.” Emma doesn’t tell people about her magic, usually, but Ava seems like a necessary exception - to let the little girl know she’s not entirely alone in her special, unusual skills.

“I thought so,” the little girl nods sagely. “I could feel it.”

It doesn’t surprise Emma in the least. 

Nicholas knows things that he shouldn’t - knows things that no one should know. Somehow, the stars speak to him in a language only he can understand. Nick sees things to come and things that have already happened, and sometimes divulges them readily and at the most unlikely times. 

“Is the scary lady with the dark hair your mama?” he asks one day out of the blue, startling Emma before she collects herself.

“No. She was my teacher,” Emma explains. 

“Oh.” His question asked, Nick happily goes back to playing quietly with his wooden lion. He’s less prone to chatter than his sister, happy to keep to his own thoughts when Ava isn’t pulling him into some other adventure. Emma rather wonders if it’s not because he has all the things he sees in the stars to keep him company. 

“Is there a reason you asked?” she inquires as casually as she can. “Did you… was there something you saw?”

“She hurt you,” is all he’ll say. “Before you were here.”

Something from the past, then - not so immediately alarming, though a sign she’ll need to be vigilant about hiding certain portions of her memories that young, impressionable and trusting minds shouldn’t be seeing.

“It’s alright, Nickie,” she tells him. “She isn’t around to bother me very often.”

He nods decisively. “Good.”

As he turns his attention back to his wooden lion, bringing a tiger in as well, Emma reaches out for the magic constantly humming about her and draws it into herself, directing to play through her mind and cast something almost like her invisibility cloak around her more traumatic memories to keep Nicholas from seeing. 

“Is there anything else?” she prods, mostly to test and see if the charm is effective.

Sure enough, the little boy’s face twists into a frown. “I don’t know,” he grumbles. “I can’t see.”

“Ah, well,” Emma replies in a purposefully light tone. “Maybe some other time.”

(She is not entirely sure she means it.)

Truth be told, Ava and Nicholas and their wondrous gifts are a beautiful mystery. All Emma knows is that it’s her responsibility to protect them from more sinister influences, the way she wishes someone had done for her. They deserve that. She deserved that. And she’ll be damned if they’re turned into pawns the way she was. 

There are many good things to come out of the Circus - friendship and wonder and home - but Emma thinks the Zimmer twins, and the powers they should be able to wield for good without the interference of people like Regina - are one of the best. 

——— 

There are attractions at the Circus unlike anything you’ve seen before, that you think may only exist within these iron gates. The Circus is a place where the otherworldly and impossible come to life.

This tent contains one such wonder, advertised with simple but mysterious words. This marker swirls and glistens in the moonlight, coaxing you inside to discover its secrets.

Stepping through the tent flap, brisk air tickles at your face - the first sign of what’s to come. Twisting through the interior are all manner of transparent structures, arranged in neat beds. The Ice Garden - just as promised. Each creation appears impossibly delicate and fragile, and by all logic, should be impossible on a warm summer’s night. There are lilies and roses and daisies, sculpted topiaries, winding vines, flowers that remind you of an illustration you once saw of tropical flora. A raised bed of cacti and succulents sprawls along one wall. Opposite, an apple tree, laden with fruit, arches gracefully at the edge of a silver-stoned path. There are little crystalline plaques, too, for all the plants whose names you’d never begin to guess: Shooting Star. Gayfeather. Anemones. Candelabra Primrose.

Every inch, every label, every petal, is made of ice.

Even at the Circus, such a thing should be impossible, This tent may be slightly, inexplicably cooler, but it’s by no means chilled enough to maintain this icy wonder. Though you know you shouldn’t touch, you can’t help but graze your fingers along an icy petal, just to make sure it isn’t cleverly blown glass. It’s a joyous mystery when they come away cold and wet, the sculptures revealed as ice in truth.

There’s no explanation for the Ice Garden - how it can exist at this edge of the Circus, seemingly unburdened by the laws of nature.

The longer you spend in the sparkling, colorless chill, the more you come to realize that beauty doesn’t need an explanation anyways.

———

Killian - 

I know it’s not quite the update you were asking for, but I still feel compelled to share - something wonderful and charming and amusing, and so delightfully human. I couldn’t quite resist writing to tell you. 

I could be wrong - but I believe a little fanclub has sprung up to trail the Circus. You’ll think it silly, Killian, but I am starting to recognize faces here - not of Circus members (I am not nearly so unobservant, or so rude not to recognize them by name after all these years!) but of visitors. There are a handful I could swear are coming over and over again. I’ll have to ask, next time I notice.

(Not that I can begrudge them of such - I certainly would be doing the same, in their shoes! It’s just that the fortunes get rather repetitive. I should probably let them know that the stars of fate do not change nearly as quickly as they seem to believe…)

There’s a certain awe, or maybe more like peace, that they wear on their faces as they move about the grounds that’s unique from all the other looks I see - almost like they’re coming home. I certainly know something about that - I think so many of us do. It’s wonderful, really - the way these visitors love the Circus so much that they feel compelled to return time and time again, joyously retracing the same paths over and over. It’s clear they love this place the way we do. Isn’t that just what we wanted, anyways? To make something for others to love, to play a part in bringing it to life? 

(Yes, I obviously remember that you’re also doing this for your mysterious competition - but I don’t believe someone makes something so beautiful without a generous dose of love as well. Don’t try to deny it, Killian - you know I’m always right.)

I hope you are well; no other news from here. As always, I’ll let you know if anything changes. 

Best wishes,

Belle

——— 

In time, the Circus gains followers.

It was probably inevitable, in a way; as the Circus winds its way across the world, through large cities and small towns, it touches countless lives as it goes, some more impactfully than others. There are those who visit once, and remember it fondly; those who take the opportunity to visit whenever the Circus is in their area, and look forward to it; and those who hold the memories close to one day tell their disbelieving grandchildren.

And then - there are the Rêveurs.

The Rêveurs start almost like a book club - groups of people who meet to reminisce about their favorite attractions, all the sights and smells and tastes that make the whole experience unforgettable. In time, the groups morph; they begin to go to the Circus together, and then travel to visit other Rêveurs when the Circus comes to their area. Particularly eloquent members begin to write into their local newspapers and magazines, beautiful editorials that convey love and wonder and coax thousands of others through the twisted iron gates. It becomes an entire movement, based off of a shared love, of people coming together to experience the Circus over and over again.

It is easy to spot the Rêveurs, if you know what you are looking for. In one of the editorials, an adherent mentions his own preferred way to experience the Circus - to blend in as much as he can, in all black and white, while still setting himself apart from those who bring the experience to life by adding a single touch of red. The trend catches on quickly; wandering the grounds, it is easy to spot splashes of red in the crowd, handkerchiefs peeking from pockets and roses or carnations in lapels and gloves and ribbons in hair. 

Some Rêveurs make sure to visit new attractions each time they visit; some prefer to see the same over and over, lingering in the acrobat tent or on the carousel for hours. In a way, they prove that there is no right or wrong way to experience the Circus - there will always be new things to see, and old favorites to return to. 

The members of the Circus are aware of the Rêveurs, too. Indeed, there are benefits to being in the same audience with that little flash of red, as performers bring out their best, most dazzling tricks and attempt new daring feats. Watching carefully, one might see a vendor slip a cup of cocoa or an extra serving of toasted nuts to a man or woman with that bare hint of color. All visitors to the Circus are valued, but the Rêveurs are treasured, in a different way, that makes every person involved in the endeavor want to do just the slightest bit more to bring the experience to life in a new way. 

The performers and vendors and other members of the Circus are its engine, in many ways - but the Rêveurs just might be its heart. 

———

Killian - 

I just realized that it’s been a while since my last letter - two months, I believe! Everything is perfectly fine here, I assure you. In fact, I haven’t written because there’s been nothing particularly notable to report. I’ve been watching for new additions, just as I always do, but nothing has appeared. Ah, well. We must be in a quiet stretch on that front.

Meanwhile, the Circus trundles onward, as it so often does. This week, we’re in Morocco. I’ve never been - and oh Killian, it is wonderful. The air is hot and dry and tinged with all kinds of spices that I can’t quite identify. And the food! A little group of us went and wandered in one of the markets, trying things from the stands. I’ve never tasted anything like it. What boring lives so many people lead, happy to stay on their own little island and pretend they know everything. This is so much preferable. The weather is a wonderful respite, too, from the cold I know must be sweeping through now that December is well and truly here.

I do not know if we’ll be home for Christmas; I rather doubt it. I’ll miss our usual holiday feast, but I trust that you’ll have a lovely time with your brother instead. My regards to Liam, as always.

Yours &c.,

Belle

———

Killian is lucky, in a way. After all, he has Belle and Liam, who both know about this competition. They’re his support system, the people who keep him grounded to life outside of all this - especially Liam. Lord knows Mr. Gold has never sought to do that. He doubts Miss Swan has that. Maybe he’s wrong; for her sake, he hopes he is. How lonely it must be to keep that secret, otherwise. 

Liam’s apartment is like a sanctuary at the end of a long day, where his brother waits with dark spiced rum and a roaring fire. Sometimes they venture out for dinner; some nights they stay in, and have the landlady send up something to eat. Mostly, Killian enjoys the peace of being in company that never expects more of him than he’s sure he can give. All Liam expects is companionship, and maybe for Killian to come with a nice bottle of spirits every so often. Killian can more than handle that. 

(They do not mention that Liam does not seem to age, the same way all those attached to the Circus do not. If his brother has even noticed, he remains blessedly silent on the subject.)

“Do you wonder sometimes,” Liam asks one night, “what would have happened if you hadn’t been selected by Gold? If you had turned him down?”

Killian shrugs. They’re in the middle of their third drinks - just the time for philosophical questions like these. “Not really,” he admits. “What’s the use? It happened like it happened. You wouldn’t have as nice a place as this, that’s for damn sure.”

Liam snorts, and the atmosphere turns more jovial for a few minutes as both men indulge in a drunken laugh before things turn thoughtful again. “If you had to do it all over again… would you?”

“I would,” Killian agrees. “We were a couple of scrappy orphans, no prospects, nothing. I’ve never been given a reason to truly regret it.”

“Then I’m happy for you, brother.” Liam tops off their glasses and raises his drink in a toast. “To good decisions, then!”

“To good decisions,” Killian echoes. “Or at least ones we haven’t yet regretted.”

———

Some attractions are more conventional in name, their promises familiar and comforting in that way that the expected can be. But this is the Circus, and conventional simply doesn’t exist here in the same way. 

You enter another tent to discover a hall of mirrors. It is a common enough attraction, at its core, one you have seen in other carnivals and street fairs. But true to the promise of the Circus, this version of such a fun house classic is more than you’ve ever seen. There are tall, full length mirrors, as you’ve come to expect, but small mirrors too, clustered on tables in every nook between their larger counterparts to reflect the lantern light in every direction. The mirrors don’t just distort your own reflection either; in addition to mirrors that cause your reflection to look taller or shorter or wider, there are mirrors to make you look older or younger, mirrors which change your hair, mirrors which duplicate your visage over and over again until you appear to be surrounded by a crowd of your own self in the mirror. There are even mirrors which somehow make it appear that you are someplace else entirely - by the seaside, the water slowly soaking your shoes, or in a fragrant flower garden, or wandering amidst ancient ruins. It is a clever trick, and one you won’t pretend to understand. In your heart, you never want to, for fear of ruining the illusion.

The world feels bright and new under the moonlight as you exit back outside the tent, like the hall of mirrors has helped you find a new way of seeing.

(And maybe, you realize, that’s the entire point.)

———

Killian takes small comfort in the fact that Mr. Gold seems pleased with his efforts. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows that somehow he’s supposed to demonstrate his abilities and magical knowledge on the canvas that is the Circus, but that only tells him so much. Killian adds attractions when he can, crafting things like the Hall of Mirrors in careful dioramas before sewing the plans into his master book, but it’s so hard to know if he’s on the right track. 

Mr. Gold has never been particularly involved in Killian’s life, and that doesn’t change now that the competition has well and truly begun. As a child, Killian had been largely self-taught, relying on the books that his teacher provided and the man himself only dropping in periodically to test his knowledge and comprehension. This feels like much the same thing; once a year, Mr. Gold will appear in Killian’s office after one of the Circus dinners, or outside his flat door without warning. There may be a polite inquiry about what Killian is currently working on, especially if the visit occurs in his cramped and ruthlessly organized office; more often than not, there isn’t. Killian will make polite inquiries about his mentor’s health and business, all of which are carefully avoided. Mr. Gold will state that he is satisfied with the work of his student - exactly that, and nothing more. 

Killian never expects an expression of pride; after all, he’s never received anything of the sort in all the years he’s been under his teacher’s direction. Theirs has always been a distant relationship, if it can even be called that. 

“How will I know I’ve won?” Killian dares to ask on one of these visits. “What do I have to do?”

“You’ll know, dearie,” is all his teacher will say. “Trust me, it will be very obvious.”

It is not. 

But Killian works onward, carefully building and manipulating things. Who knows? Maybe, one day, he’ll understand. 

———

The relationship between the members of the Circus and the Rêveurs has always been unusual. If it weren’t for the fact that the two groups are inextricably linked, and indeed obviously treasure one another, the interaction almost might be called respectfully distant. There exists an unspoken, but obviously adhered to, separation between the two - that there are Circus folks and there are Rêveurs, and they do not socially interact. Though a vendor or performer might, surreptitiously and casually, mention an anticipated next stop to an awed visitor with that single splash of red, they will not be found together in the light of day, strolling in the public parks or sharing a coffee in one of the cafés. The Rêveurs, largely, prefer it that way; the mystical quality is somehow kept alive when the people of the Circus only seem to dwell within its gates.

Of course, Emma has never been one for formality, or fitting in with the rest of the crowd. 

If pressed, she’ll claim that Marco is an anomaly - a man who fits between both worlds, and therefore special. It’s her own kind of loophole in the intricate rituals of the Circus and the Rêveurs. 

(No one ever presses, though - to do that, they’d need to know that Emma writes to Marco in the first place.)

Marco, in truth, has been involved in the Circus since the very beginning - though he did not always know it. An Italian by birth, living in Germany and creating exquisitely crafted cuckoo clocks, Mr. Marco Gepetto had been the very man contracted by Mr. Booth, the architect, to build the massive timepiece at the front gates, back when this whole endeavor was still coming together. Marco hadn’t been aware of that, at the time; all he’d known was that an Englishman had offered him a frankly absurd amount of money and next to no direction, only to create something unusual and extraordinary for a circus venue he was helping produce. With his rambling imagination and careful craftsman’s hands, Marco had more than delivered, creating the masterpiece Emma has found comfort in watching many times. 

That clock had always haunted him, he’s tried to explain to her many times during their correspondence, his mind running wild wondering exactly where it had been installed. Mr. Booth had sent a note declaring the producers delighted by the result, and Marco had never heard a peep again. Emma cannot blame him for wondering, truly, after all the months he had invested in the clock and all the personal touches he had poured in. The truth, he confides, is that he believed - nay, believes it to be his greatest work, all the while unaware that so many others were similarly touched. It was only years later that Marco had realized the grand project he had unknowingly helped bring to life, when an acquaintance had insisted they visit the traveling circus setting up just outside of Munich. 

“It was wonderful,” he gushes to Emma as they walk down the streets of Naples several years later, the older man happily pointing out the location of all the haunts of his younger days. “It was more than I ever could have imagined - and so well situated! So perfectly blended with the rest of the design! I must tip my cap to Signore Booth for his work, and all his compatriots.”

Marco had fallen in love with the circus on that first night, as a venue for his masterpiece and as a creation all its own. It was impossible not to, he had claimed later in the first of many editorials and subsequent letters - it was like the Circus called to him, begging him to uncover all its secrets. It may be the work of several lifetimes; perhaps, that’s just the appeal. 

He didn’t particularly mean to spearhead the Rêveurs movement, he’d explained to Emma in one letter. It was simply that he’d fallen in love, with a place and an experience, and wanted to share that with everyone else. It was just that he was the first, the first to not just talk about the Circus but publish his thoughts, that had made him the unexpected figurehead of the group. He’d been the one to come up with the idea of that touch of red, too, though he never admits it unless pressed. 

Letters flood in, from across Europe and the globe, wanting to compare experiences and share in the joy of the Circus. Marco gladly responds; many, indeed, become friends. But none is quite like Emma, who he only first knows as a woman with unusual insight into the Circus when she first begins writing, just another person who reaches out after one of his editorials. He assumes she’s just another of his Rêveur correspondents at first, but her thoughts, so carefully measured but fond, strike a chord somewhere in Marco. A friendship blossoms over dozens of letters exchanged, comparing experiences and details noticed and treasured - until, finally, this summit, as Marco had visited an elderly aunt while the Circus docked along the Italian coast. 

He takes the revelation that Emma isn’t merely some visitor, but a core member of the Circus, with an unexpected lack of surprise. “I wondered if you were rather closer to the matter than you let on,” Marco explains, patting her hand before tucking it into the crook of his elbow. “I shall consider myself uniquely lucky to have earned your friendship.”

And he has. Marco possesses a sharp mind and an affection for the little details that Emma loves, and an easy-going manner it proves near-impossible not to be charmed by. He fills something like a fatherly role, for Emma - always encouraging and delighted to hear about the latest improvements to her show. She doesn’t tell him that all the magic she does is real - but somehow feels that he understands, anyways. Marco is special like that, and perceptive. Somehow, Emma doubts that he’d be much surprised if she revealed the whole mess of the competition.

Marco may be physically distant from the ever-changing Circus grounds, and may not fully know what’s going on - but he’s a pillar of support, all the same, like Emma has never known.

(She only hopes he isn’t one more thing that’s just too good to last.)

——— 

Killian - 

At long last - an update! I feel like it’s been so long since I’ve had anything to report to you. Not that I don’t enjoy our correspondence, of course - it’s always so wonderful to share with you a little slice of my life here and hear from you in return. I simply feel so much better when I have something concrete to report to you, as we agreed.

I’m stalling, though. The truth is… I’m not entirely sure how to put into words exactly what this latest tent contains. It defies description, I find. The little sign along the path reads ‘Wishing Tree’, but that doesn’t describe much, does it? That could be anything. The Wishing Tree, in truth, is… oh, where do I start? It is somehow both earthly and otherworldly. It is both wondrously fantastical and firmly rooted in the soil. It exists both on this plane and in the world of dreams and aspirations. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that it is a contradiction, in the most spectacular way. Most simply put, if I stop beating around the bush, it is like a living, growing wishing well - but so much better than that, in its symbolism. There are no words to do it justice.

If you couldn’t tell already, Killian, I am insisting that you come and visit the Circus grounds next time it is convenient. There is no other way to fully grasp the delight of this latest addition. If I were not so terribly fond of you, I’d offer a hearty ‘Bravo!’ to your competitor - so count yourself lucky!

Yours,

-Belle

———

The Circus’ tents are filled with wonders - large and small, loud and quiet, and everything in between. What unites all the disparate attractions is a mystical quality - one that’s hard to put into words, but that makes every move and every moment greater and more magical than any similar display you may have seen before.

The particular tent in front of you is tall, but narrow, with a delicate wooden sign carefully placed to the side of the silvery-paved path leading beneath the entrance flap. Wishing Tree, it reads in a painted cursive script. An attraction you’ve never heard of.

Lifting the tent flap reveals just what was promised on the placard - a tall, elegant tree, all in the colors of the circus, with white bark and black leaves. The tree’s branches twist and curve around the tent, creating a structure almost reminiscent of a basket. Where it could be grotesque, the way branches stretch and dip around your body, but the effect is somehow comforting - like the tree protects all that it surrounds. It is otherworldly, in the truest sense of the word, an effect only heightened by the clusters of pearly white candles on each branch. By the entrance sits a small table, with a basket of candles and a crisp white card, embossed with a simple instruction:

Make a wish.

A wish is a sacred thing, and this is a place that respects that. After making your own wish, lighting your candle with one of the many already waiting on the tree’s branches, you place it in the highest nook you can reach where two branches join. There’s a profound symbolism to it all - one wish ignited by another, left to become part of a beautiful mass of light, illuminating this little corner of the world in soft and beautiful light. 

(That light will stay with you long after you slip back through the flap of the tent.)

———

At Belle’s urging, Killian makes the trip to see the Circus, and especially this new attraction, when they pass through Edinburgh. It is not precisely convenient - there are multiple trains involved from London, after all - but there’s no real telling when it will next be in the city, and he trusts Belle’s judgement that he must see this Wishing Tree for himself.

She’s right, of course. The Wishing Tree defies all conventional description. There’s a sense of possibility, and hope that just can’t be captured in a simple letter. Killian is sorely tempted to take a candle and light a wish of his own, but ultimately resists. The Wishing Tree isn’t just for some passing fancy - it is for the deepest dreams of one’s heart. As long as Killian is still unsure as to what his own dearest dream might be, it feels more appropriate to refrain from adding his own candle to the glowing branches. There will be time, later. 

His immediate business for the evening concluded, Killian takes the time just to wander the grounds. It’s something he hasn’t had the opportunity to do in far too long - there’s always been something to worry about, something to take care of when he comes to the Circus. This is a bit of a chance to try and experience things the way all their unknowing visitors do - to see the beauty, and the wonder, without analyzing anything further. Once he clears his mind, it’s easy to see the things the way that normal visitors do, the way something special sparkles in the very air.

There are still stops to make, of course; Belle would never forgive him if he didn’t pop into her tent. The fortune teller’s tent is made up to be an eye-catching oddity, but there’s still something welcoming about it that always soothes Killian - though maybe that’s just the knowledge of his dearest friend waiting just inside. Just inside the tent flap, dark curtains speckled with silver flecks like stars drape, giving way to a beaded fringe that softly clicks when touched. He’s been known to fiddle with those beads as he sits and talks with Belle, like a soothing sort of fidget. Beyond the beaded curtains sit three comfortable armchairs with a draped table at their center; Belle always does like the romance of reading for couples. There are no crystal balls, or posters about lines on palms; just Belle, the table and chairs, and her deck of tarot cards. Killian knows one of the curtains stretched behind her hides the entrance into her private quarters, where she’s been known to duck for a quick cup of tea, but no one else who didn’t know would see that. The whole effect is decidedly unusual, even mystical, but in a way that feels cozy. It’s like sitting in someone’s living room, sharing a bit of conversation - but the conversation concerns all manner of possible futures, and how they’ll come to pass.

Belle looks like herself, mostly, elegant in shades of white and grey and black and silver. She hasn’t leaned into any of the stereotypes or cliches - no scarf around her head or massive gold earrings or patchwork skirts. She looks like she could be any shop girl, or personal secretary, or even a beloved female relation in her neat dresses in playful patterns, accentuated with pretty bits of lace. There are more formal options in her closet too, he knows, provided by the Circus organizers for her use, but she likes this better; it makes her feel more like herself, and not entirely subsumed by the role she plays. 

“You came!” she crows with delight when he ducks his head past the beaded drapery. He hadn’t let her know he was coming, this time, happy to let it remain a pleasant surprise. Not that it matters much - Belle’s face would light up in delight in the same way, even if he had warned her to expect his visit.

“Of course I did, love,” he assures her with a grin. “You insisted, didn’t you? I seem to remember a very commanding letter, telling me I must come see this wishing tree for myself.”

“Yes, but there was always the chance you would get stubborn on me, or get called away on business for Jefferson, and I’d have to send another three to five letters until I finally guilted you here.”

“Alright, I suppose that’s true,” he admits. He does tend to get rather sidetracked much of the time, especially when there is work to be done and new, exciting ideas to explore.

“Instead, here you are! Only weeks after I wrote. A rare instance of agreeability - there’s hope for you yet,” she continues, only to plow forward before he even has a chance to defend himself. “But tell me - have you seen the Wishing Tree yet? Or did you come straight here first? I’m touched, of course, but really, you must —”

“I’m not nearly so foolish as to come here first, knowing you’d demand my own opinions on the tent just as soon as I arrived,” he teases fondly.

“Wise man. Tell me then - what did you think?”

“It’s everything you promised,” he tells her. “Utterly indescribable. I’m glad you insisted I come.”

The beam that graces Belle’s face at that simple agreement is a sight to behold.

“You’ll stay for a few days, won’t you?” she asks - cajoles, really, though Killian won’t take  any convincing. “It’s been so long.”

“Of course. We’ll have dinner tomorrow, and you can tell me everything you’ve seen since I last saw you.” It’s an easy promise to make, and one he’ll be even happier to keep.

Though Belle is an expected friendly face, one Killian had already built into his loose plans for tonight, the person he runs into as he wanders down the path away from her little tent is rather more unexpected.

“Mr. Jones,” Miss Elsa Frost smiles warmly - a member of the creative team of the circus, whose eye for details had been invaluable in creating this world so many have fallen in love with. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Nor did I,” Killian admits, executing a short and polite bow of greeting. “Especially not here, so far from London. May I escort you around the grounds, if I may be so bold?”

“You may,” Miss Frost says, slipping her delicate hand into the crook of his proffered arm. “I was just about to go see the magician - Miss Swan, was it? I’m told she should have a performance starting soon.”

“Then it will be my honor to accompany you.”

Though Killian has visited the Circus on several occasions in the past years, on business and to see Belle and to examine the creations of his competitor, he’s avoided this tent. It somehow feels like cheating, to watch Miss Swan like this with full awareness that she’s his competitor when she hasn’t been privy to the same knowledge. That’s not to say he hasn’t been tempted; across all the spiraling stone paths, her magic calls to his own like a siren’s song, drawing him in. Tonight, with a companion on his arm, he finally has the excuse to cave. As they approach her tent as others trickle in ahead of them, Killian makes sure to draw a spell around him to mask his own magic like a cloak, the same one he’d used that first day he’d seen her. Even if he feels guilt at the advantage, Killian isn’t quite sure he’s willing to tip his hand yet, no matter how often he’s been tempted. It’s not the time for such a revelation. 

(He doesn’t notice, beside him, the way Miss Frost’s forehead briefly creases as the spell settles around his body; it would not matter if he had, anyways, and the lady is more than happy to hold her tongue on the matter.)

The magician’s tent is small, intimate - a small clearing surrounded by a double ring of chairs. It’s a subtly ingenious way of heightening the drama and the enchantment of the performance: there is, quite literally, nowhere to hide, every angle visible to spectators as they space themselves around the center ring. A lesser magician would never be able to pull it off; it’s lucky, then that Miss Swan doesn’t have to rely on tricks.

Killian is the only one that notices that the tent flap has disappeared, two minutes past the hour. Everyone else is too busy whispering to each other, speculating about where the illusionist is and when the show will start. Unlike the rest of them, Killian waits patiently, knowing that the show has already begun.

No one misses the next trick, as a stream of flame chases around the tent above their heads. Gasps echo from the crowd, in excitement and wonder and no small dose of fear. A handful turn towards where the exit once was, only to discover that the way has been sealed and blocked by chairs during their inattention. Gasps turn to screams, panic quickly catching, until - 

A single figure stands from the audience, a woman with dramatic black skirts and what appears to be a men’s top hat. As she moves towards the center of the ring, she casually tosses the hat onto the seat she had occupied - and as if on cue, the streams of fire chase around the tent once more before plunging downwards, downwards into the hat, which somehow serves to contain the flames instead of catching on fire. As the rest of the audience comes back to their senses, turning their attention towards the slight blonde woman now at the center of the tent, she flicks a finger, sending the hat tumbling through the air to land in her hand, where she jauntily tips the black felt back onto her head and takes a dramatic bow.

And like that, the magician begins her show.

The displays that follow exceed Killian’s feeble memory of her audition, those several years ago. There are little miraculous bits she’s still using - the chairs still levitate, and the hat replaces the jacket as it turns into a beautiful black raven to fly about their heads - but there are new bits, too, as items disappear and reappear and visitors discover all manner of unexpected items in purses and pockets. Somehow, it all flows together seamlessly, one display of ability and control into another. At the very end, the fire returns again, chasing around and around and around her body until she can’t be seen anymore —

And when the flames disperse, all on their own, there is no one to be seen at all. The tent flap appears once again, and they all file out, awed in a way they hadn’t expected. 

It’s beautiful, mysterious, magnificent - just like the woman herself. And Killian can’t remember why he ever stayed away. 

———

Wandering the grounds of the Circus, it is impossible not to notice the statues scattered along the path. Some are monochromatic, fully pristine white or glistening black; some are so vividly realistic, in black and white and flesh tones, as to seem almost lifelike. There are single figures and couples, male portrayals and female, all beautifully detailed and caught mid-action. There is something mystical about them, something you can’t quite put your finger on but know separates them from anything else you’ve ever seen - a feeling that saturates the very air within the iron fencing. 

Examining the statues reveals that the life-like state of the statues is no trick, no clever construction of hard stone and a steady chisel - no, these are merely people mimicking statues by standing so still and moving so slowly as to trick the eye. This isn’t some mere street performer, either, like you might see near the buildings tourists frequent en masse. No, this is something more special, more deliberate, more enchanting. It is almost like a dance, performed on a timeframe only the dancer can perceive. Watching closely, it is possible to see the movement - though it will take much patience. It is easier, in some ways, to pay careful attention to the stance of the living statue at the beginning of a set period, and then see how it has changed some minutes later.

It is said that if you wait long enough, the statues will bend enough to pluck an offering from your very hand. However, it takes a certain kind of person, with a certain kind of fascination, to even try. After all, why spend so long examining statues, when there are so many other wonders to see? 

(Just before you walk away, you could swear the living statue of a young man winks an eye, all in impeccable slow motion - just one more memory of the Circus to treasure in your mind for years to come.)

——— 

The Circus returns when Henry is ten.

Ten is a sensitive age; it’s an age where one is still young enough to be excited about simple, playful things, but believe oneself to be too old to show it. Perceived maturity is beginning to be tantamount at this age, as is the idea of being cool.

Henry, for all his efforts (and a good bit of maturity, in truth), is perceived as neither. 

“The circus is for babies,” Jack Hastings declares in the schoolyard when Henry makes the mistake of mentioning that he’d seen the tents. A keen observer might find humor in the fact that Jack’s proclamation was made as he and the boys played with a collection of small wooden soldiers; the boys, however, are not yet adult enough to see the irony. “I’m not going.”

“I don’t know,” Henry ventures cautiously. “I think I might like to go. It isn’t very often something like the circus comes to town.”

“That’s because you’re a baby,” Jack taunts. “Henry’s a baby! Henry’s a baby!”

“Am not!” Henry bites back hotly before anyone else takes up the chant. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Then prove it.”

That’s how Henry finds himself examining the black iron bars that encircle the circus tents, searching for a way to slip in. It’s a dare - to sneak in, in daylight hours, and come back with something to prove it. Henry had agreed in the heat of the moment. Now, with school over, Henry’s got to do the deed, while all the other boys wait back in the schoolyard.

While Henry remembers the Circus practically crackling with its own special energy, things are quiet in the light of day. He supposes that makes sense; the Circus operates from sunset to sunrise, and it’s still an hour until dusk. Its performers need to rest and prepare and the like, like anyone else, and this is the time they get to do that.

After spending far more time than necessary carefully examining the outer fence, Henry finally finds a little out of the way stretch, framed by the back of two tents with no one in sight. The bars will be a tight squeeze, but he sucks in his stomach and holds his breath, and after a little bit of wiggling, manages to twist his way through. Quickly brushing himself off, Henry searches around for something he can bring back as proof for the other boys. The easiest thing to do would be to tear off a bit of fabric from one of the tents, but he struggles to bring himself to do it. The tents feel special, nearly sacred, somehow; it would be the worst kind of crime to ruin them in any way. Maybe, if he ventures a little further in, he can find something else —

“What are you doing?” a girl’s voice sounds, interrupting Henry’s thoughts. 

Whirling around, Henry is met by a blonde girl he could have sworn wasn’t there before, about his age, dressed in a black and silver striped dress. He didn’t know people his age were allowed to join the circus; it catches his attention nearly as much as the look on her face. Though her words are accusing, her face only shows curiosity. 

That does nothing to temper Henry’s shame, for better or worse. He didn’t exactly count on getting caught, after all. “There was a dare,” he blurts out. “To sneak into the circus.”

“Well, you managed that,” she observes. 

“Yes.” The silence sits heavy between them. Henry knows he ought to leave, but also feels like he can’t. “I’m sorry,” he finally cuts in - practically begs - once the quiet gets too much and he can’t take that curious stare anymore. “I can slip back out again, or pay the admission, or —”

That finally makes her smile - a bright, lovely thing that makes something stir within Henry that he’s never felt before. “It’s quite alright, Henry. You don’t need to leave. Nick saw you coming.”

He has many questions about that - how she knew his name, what in the world saw you coming means - but he reaches for the easiest first. “Who’s Nick?”

“My brother,” the girl beams. “Twin brother, really. I’m Ava.”

“It’s very nice to meet you.” It’s obvious that there’s no real point in offering his name; Henry is curiously less concerned about her unnatural knowledge than he figures he really ought to be. 

“Likewise,” Ava replies with that same smile, offering her hand for Henry to awkwardly shake. 

(For the first time in his life, he’s left wondering if he should have kissed the back of her offered hand instead. Then again - that sounds gross.)

“Come with me,” she commands with a little nod of her head. Even knowing he ought to slip back through the fence, Henry can’t help but follow, pulled along in a way that he doesn’t quite understand. “You picked a good day to come - Nick says the Circus will be closed tonight for inclement weather,” she adds with a hand waved towards the quickly gathering clouds.

“Yes, they just called it,” adds a different voice - another boy, this one also their age and with a remarkable resemblance to Ava. The biggest difference, really, is the boy’s light brown hair, a contrast to her cheery blonde. It’s obvious this is the twin brother she mentioned - Nick, who somehow knows things.

“He was there, just like you said, Nickie,” she laughs. “I don’t know why anyone bothers to doubt you.”

“They don’t know better,” Nick shrugs.

“Nick has a gift,” Ava explains. “He sees things that others don’t - and they always come true.”

“Oh.” Henry isn’t really sure what to say to that, honestly. He doesn’t disbelieve it, really - Ava did know things she shouldn’t have, without what they claim being true - but he’s a little too flabbergasted at it all to say anything more comprehensible. Besides, if such a thing were to be true - well, it makes sense that it’d happen at the Circus. Where else is magical enough to shelter people with such talents?

Ava breezes right past it though. That must be characteristic of her, if the way her brother stifles a smile is any indication. “There’s always a party in the acrobats’ tent whenever the weather is too bad to open. It’s the biggest, you know.”

“You can come too, if you want,” Nick adds.

Despite the tempting offer, Henry frowns. “I’m not part of the Circus, though. Won’t anyone mind?”

“Circus people are welcoming,” Nick shrugs. “They won’t mind.”

“Besides, everyone thinks we need friends our own age,” Ava chimes in. 

As the sun starts to creep below the horizon, Henry lets the twins lead him across the circus grounds. He wants to go, really - besides, there’s no reason not to. There’s no one waiting who will care if he doesn’t show up for dinner, or even for bedtime. 

(Nick probably already knows that as well; perhaps that’s why neither of them ask whether he needs to be home.)

The inclement weather party is a different kind of marvel than the otherworldly splendor of the open circus that Henry remembers. It seems like everyone is crowded into the tent as raindrops start to patter down upon the canvas, yet somehow the space never seems claustrophobic. Half the collected mass is in their black and white and silver circus clothes, while the other half wears street clothes in all manner of colors and styles. Laughter colors the air, as small groups congregate only to disperse and remingle again. It feels like a family, like a great big reunion, even though Henry is sure they’re not all related. 

(Then again, maybe family doesn’t have to be linked by blood and genealogical trees; maybe family is something that can be crafted with those you choose and care for.)

Ava tugs on his arm before he can get too lost in his thoughts and marvelling at the spectacle of the tent. “You should meet Emma,” she says. At her side, Nick nods in genial agreement. “You’ll like her. She’s the magician.”

She doesn’t quite bodily haul him across the tent space, but it’s close. Henry would complain, but it isn’t hurting; he can tell she’s just eager to share her and Nick’s world in a way she hasn’t with outsiders before. At least, Henry hopes she hasn’t shared all this with outsiders before; Henry’s never really had the chance to be special. It’d be a nice change. 

Eventually, she halts in front of a cluster of women - three brunettes and a blonde. All smile fondly as Ava approaches with Henry in tow. “Emma, I want you to meet someone!” Ava bursts out as they pull to a stop.

“I can see that,” the blonde chuckles as her companions move away. Henry’s distracted for a moment by the movement of the other three ladies, but forces his attention back to meet the magician’s eyes.

And it’s her - the nice lady from the last time he was here. Henry’s face flushes red as he remembers his youthful question - Are you a princess?. She still looks like a princess, four years later, only in a burgundy dress with her hair in a simple bun instead of her sumptuous black and white dress from the last time they met. He can see the moment recognition sweeps across Emma’s face, and knows she remembers too. 

“Henry, was it?” Emma smiles down at him. Somehow, he manages a nod of confirmation. “It’s lovely to see you again, Henry.”

Ava’s face drops a little in disappointment, and a hint of confusion. Seems this is one thing her brother’s visions didn’t reveal - or at least one thing he didn’t share with her. “You know each other already?”

“Only a little,” Henry hastens to explain. It somehow feels very important that Ava know he didn’t deceive her in this way. 

“Henry and I briefly crossed paths the last time the Circus was here - what, four years ago?” Henry nods again. Emma and Ava and Nick and the rest of the Circus may have been to so many places since them that they don’t remember exactly how long it’s been, but Henry could probably tell them down to the day if he just had a couple of minutes to think. “He was kind enough to let me escort him back to the front gates. I must say, I didn’t expect to see him here tonight, though… is there anything I ought to know?”

“No!” Ava assures quickly. It’s not remotely convincing; Henry barely manages to smother a smile as she continues her blatant evasion. “We should go get a little something to eat. Come on, Henry, let’s go!”

To be fair, the spread that Ava leads him to - Nick pulling up the rear, laughing - is very impressive. There are all manner of little finger foods to carry with him, savory and sweet, and an older lady the twins call Granny who presides over the whole thing and makes Henry take another sandwich. All of the circus members - and it feels like Henry’s introduced to every single one - seem to treat the twins like a niece and nephew, or maybe even children. There’s an affection in the air amongst everyone that’s almost palpable, and like nothing he’s ever encountered before. It’s hard not to feel a little jealous of his new friends; it’s everything he’s ever wished for himself. 

Eventually, he’s dragged across the grounds to what they’ll only call the cloud room after a stop by Emma again for a set of umbrellas that seem to actively repel water. 

“It’s my favorite spot,” Nick explains as they shake off their umbrellas just inside the tent flap in a dim antechamber. Henry had barely caught a glimpse of the signage before he’d been bustled inside; Atmospheric Wonders had been less than illuminating a descriptor. “Ava’s is the carousel.”

“I like the animals,” she shrugs. “They’re interesting.”

“Yeah, well, so is this,” her brother quips back. “Henry, look.”

And when Henry does - it’s more than his imagination ever expected.

Somehow, there are dozens of fluffy clouds floating within the confines of the tent, the top of the peaked canvas not even visible for all the clouds in the way. They come in all sizes, all winding around a central, silvery structure with a platform at the top and a slide spiraling back down to the ground. Somehow along the stretch from the ground to the indiscernible peak, the stripes shift into a night sky gently dappled with stars. It’s mystical, and marvelous, and unlike anything he’s ever imagined. 

Henry has barely processed what he’s seeing before Nick takes a flying leap onto a cloud hovering at chest height. Miraculously, it somehow holds his weight, bobbing gently in the air under the change of balance but showing no signs of capsizing.

“It���s really very sturdy,” he calls from his perch, grinning with glee. “There’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”

Carefully, Henry steps onto a different cloud hovering about his knees; that’s less distance to fall if there’s any problem. Under his feet, the cloud isn’t exactly firm, or stable - it’s more like if you try to step onto a mattress - but he can also feel that he’s not at risk of crashing down. Somehow, it’s just as safe as Nick promised. 

(How did he miss this before? Now that Henry’s here, he’s not sure he ever wants to leave.)

Ava clambers up onto a cloud somewhere between him and Nick, abandoning grace to pull herself to standing. “It’s a newer tent,” she explains, brushing her skirt free of imaginary cloud dust and casually reading Henry’s mind. Maybe her brother isn’t the only one with special powers of sight. “It only went up a couple months ago, right, Nick?”

“January,” he confirms. “Just after the new year’s party.”

“Not a lot of people know about it yet - but it’s one of our favorites now. Nick and I like to come on the nights we’re not busy with other things.”

Across from them both, Nick obviously grows impatient with all the chatter, leaping to another, higher cloud. “Race you to the top!” he yells back, quickly becoming obscured from sight as he scrambles higher and higher.

Ava stretches her hand across the divide to help him forward. “You’re going to love it,” she beams.

Henry takes her hand, gladly, and lets a smile crease his face even as hers stretches impossibly wider. 

He does love it, just as she promised. The view from the top is spectacular, like something out of a fairy tale, an impression only magnified by small tufts of cloud still hovering around, inviting them to lounge. It would be a good place just to sit and think, Henry thinks, if you lived with the Circus and had that chance. 

Time passes both quickly and slowly at the top of the tower as the three of them sit and talk for what must be hours. Henry feels as if he’s known the twins forever, not just a night - like he fits with them, somehow, in a way he never has with his schoolmates or the other children at the Home, and can’t explain.

(It’s the same feeling he remembers from the first time he visited the Circus, four years before. Of belonging. Of home.)

All too soon, things much end, however. As the conversation encounters a rare lull, Henry sighs heavily, knowing he must draw this to a close. 

“I have to go,” he tells his companions - now friends, he thinks - with the kind of regret that’s practically palpable. 

Ava nods sadly; Henry scrambles to his feet to help her do the same. It’s what a gentleman would do. “We know. But this was lovely.”

“And you’ll be back,” Nick says decisively. “I know it.”

It’s not worth arguing with the boy with a gift. 

Getting down from their perch takes a little more boldness. Technically, there is a slide they could all take advantage of, but Nick won’t let that stand. 

“You’ve got to jump, Henry,” he cajoles. “It’s so much more fun. You feel like you’re flying!”

“More like falling,” Henry mutters. Even if he knows that Nick wouldn’t try to hurt him, like some of the boys at school might, looking down from this height makes his stomach turn. 

Suddenly, a soft hand slips into his own. Ava, who slipped up beside him while he was distracted by the height. “We’ll do it together,” she promises, and somehow - Henry finds himself nodding.

Nick lets out a wild whoop and throws himself off the platform, gleefully tumbling down and down. Ava squeezes his hand tight, just the once, and then she’s running too, bringing Henry with her as they leap. It feels like he’s left his stomach up at the top, but it’s a little freeing too. At the bottom, a particularly soft cloud cushions their fall, surrounding them like a hug. Henry even finds himself laughing along with Ava and Nick as they pick themselves back up. 

Ava walks him back to the main gates under the marvelous umbrella, Nick letting them go on their own after offering Henry a jolly wave goodbye. The door in the iron bars opens without even a squeak, letting the both of them slip through. 

“I don’t want to leave,” Henry confides, the words spilling out of him almost without permission. “I don’t want to go back to the real world out there.”

“You’ll be back,” Ava promises. “We’ll see each other again - I promise.”

He wants to believe her - he does. But it’s a mean world out there, and he’s long since learned that nothing is guaranteed, and —

Ava presses up on her toes to drop a quick kiss on Henry’s lips - his first. It’s just a little peck, really, but it makes them both blush and sends something hopeful in his soul soaring above all the other negativity. 

“To seal it. The promise,” she explains.

No explanation was needed, really - not to the perfect ending to this dream of a night.

(He does not return to the Circus this time, the Sisters punishing him with extra chores when he sneaks back into the Home long after bed checks. Though he would like nothing more than to return back to the Circus and his new friends, he somehow can’t regret it. Every moment was worth it.

Later, he finds a single glove, white with shiny black buttons, tucked into his pocket - proof for his dare. He never shows it off to the other boys; the little scrap of fabric is too personal, and too precious. Instead, he tucks it into the old cigar box he keeps all his treasures in, amongst the perfectly round stones and colored bits of glass and a brightly colored birds’ feather. Let them think he never managed it. They’ll forget soon enough anyways. 

We’ll see each other again, Ava had promised - and Henry intends to wait.)

——— 

There’s a new attraction at the Circus again, Killian - the most wonderful carousel. There’s the usual carved horses, of course, all wonderfully detailed, but there’s all manner of other creatures too - giraffes and elephants and a particularly clever ostrich. There’s even some mythical creatures too. I’m particularly fond of the gryphon, though I suspect you might prefer the dragon. There’s even a bench seat with a kraken twining around it! It’s truly charming; the kids love it, obviously, but it’s wonderful to see the delight of grown men and women too. I believe I saw a young couple squabbling over the cow yesterday; the lady won, of course. Wise man. 

If you hadn’t guessed already, the carousel is very obviously a creation of your winsome competitor. The ride travels through an enclosed portion at the back, ostensibly to parade the figures and their riders past a scrolling display of landscapes; however, having ridden the thing myself (I couldn’t resist, Killian! And obviously chose the gryphon, though I was tempted by a polar bear), it’s obvious that this tunnel somehow bends reality, stretches the track much further than it should ever go. Magic is obviously at play, here, though I believe the visitors are too enthralled (and, as usual, too oblivious) to realize. 

There’s something else a little unusual about the carousel: Mr. Booth’s part in bringing it to life. He was here in Brussels to oversee installation, or I might not have believed it. You know as well as I that usually, new installments just… pop up, without explanation. His craftsmanship is evident in the construction, too, if you know to look - the smooth curves and the intricate carvings and the way the peak of the striped roof stretches up towards the sky. It’s lovely, really, and undeniably a joint effort between Mr. Booth and Miss Swan. 

Does that mean he’s aware of her abilities? I can’t say for certain, but I have trouble imagining otherwise. It could be interesting to see if you could enlist him in a similar effort - though of course, that’s entirely up to you. I’m merely reporting your opponent’s most recent move on the chessboard, so to speak.

(Do come see the carousel, though; I promise you won’t regret it.)

Affectionately yours,

Belle

———

Killian folds Belle’s latest letter carefully, considering her words as he meticulously files the pages away, just as he always does. The new carousel sounds beautiful, of course; Miss Swan’s creations always are. The fact that she enlisted August Booth to create it captures his attention the same way it had Belle’s. That’s something he never considered - drawing upon others’ skills to create something that is not entirely mechanical, but not fully dependent on magic either. He should have thought of it sooner - after all, the Circus as a whole operates in a similar way, weaving enchantments in amongst all the physical manpower needed to bring the whole thing to life. It sets Killian’s mind running in other directions, other ideas that could be brought to life in the same way. And if Booth is aware of the things Miss Swan can do… perhaps he can serve as an intermediary, of sorts, in a way that could bring this competition to a new level.

But Killian is a patient man, a planner through and through. It’s his greatest advantage in his employment and in this game. So before he lets his imagination run away with him, drafting things that can never come to fruition, he calls upon Booth at his office to test the waters of what is possible. 

“I didn’t expect to see you, Jones,” the other man says, smiling genially as he comes out from around the back of his heavy wooden desk to offer a handshake of greeting. 

“It was a bit of an unplanned visit,” Killian admits as he seats himself in the offered chair. 

“Well that’s quite alright. What can I do for you? Is this about the Circus, or are you finally looking to build something more comfortable than that little flat of yours?”

“It’s about the Circus.” Killian lets his gaze glance around the room before he speaks further, considering his next words. Though the furniture in the office at Booth’s architecture firm is heavy, with dark wood and intricate carvings and tall bookshelves lining two walls, the whole thing manages to avoid a feeling of claustrophobia due to a stretch of tall windows along one wall. A panel of stained glass is installed in the middle, with beautiful swirling patterns in all kinds of colors. The whole effect is a little whimsical, while somehow still ordered and elegant. In that moment, Killian can see exactly why August Booth was chosen as a partner to produce the Circus. 

Drawing his attention back to Booth, Killian finds the man patiently waiting for him to start speaking, prompting him to gather his thoughts. “I understand you had a hand in creating a new attraction - a carousel.”

“Ah yes,” August smiles. His tone is fond, almost like a parent speaking of a favorite child. “Marvelous, isn’t it? Though, of course, I can’t take full credit - or even most of the credit, really.”

“So you’re aware of others’... unusual contributions, shall we say.”

Booth makes an amused, guttural noise from the back of his throat. “I may be a skilled designer, but not nearly enough to create space that’s not there. And I’m not nearly oblivious or egotistical enough to believe I can. Besides, Miss Swan was involved from the beginning. The carousel was her idea.”

That’s one question answered. “So how much did Miss Swan tell you about her… abilities, I suppose? And her influence on the Circus?”

“A rudimentary explanation, I believe - just as much as I needed to agree to assist her. All her illusions are real, true magic, and she’s engaged in a competition to be played out at the Circus.” Realization suddenly lights his eyes. “I suppose that makes you the competitor, then? She didn’t seem to know who they were.”

“Aye, I am. And I would appreciate it if you would keep that fact between us. This particular game doesn’t precisely encourage familiarity between contestants.”

August waves him off. “Of course. Now, are you here just to talk about the carousel - or do you have something else in mind?”

“You read my mind,” Killian says, letting a smile spread across his face. “I have an unusual idea, one that I think you can be of assistance with.”

———

Emma should have known that her opponent would hear of the carousel, and of her partnership with Mr. Booth. What she hadn’t expected was for Mr. Booth to send her a letter, detailing an idea her competitor had brought to him.

One they want her involvement in as well.

It’s a simple idea, on the surface - a maze of rooms. Its brilliance is in how it allows the two of them to interact and compete directly as they build off of each others’ ideas. Once the maze is brought to life, once visitors enter the tent, they reach a hallway lined with doors, each leading into other rooms with other doors, and so on. Some will be hidden; some will be obvious. It is entirely up to Emma and whoever she is competing against to build out each room, testing the limits of imagination and reality and magic. 

It’s like a puzzle on a massive scale - each piece fitting into others which in turn fit into others. It’s fascinating to see the things her opponent comes up with over time - creations that play with structure, with scale, like golden bird cages and a room where everything appears so large as to dwarf the viewer. She treasures exploring each one, finding all the hidden doors and discerning the way everything fits together. 

Emma has a niggling feeling that this is not exactly how their competition is supposed to play out - but as she opens another door, she can’t bring herself to care. 

——— 

Maybe it’s ridiculous - but Killian feels like he comes to know the lovely Miss Swan a little better through the room maze and each addition she crafts from her imagination.

She focuses on creating an atmosphere, he finds - the little things that make each space feel like an environment, rather than a room. There are lush green jungles and arid desertscapes and the illusion of a lovely rose garden. He wonders if she feels trapped; all the illusions of open spaces make him think she might. 

He can tell she truly loves the circus in all the little details she weaves in, too. It must take her incredible effort, but it’s worth it to see how leaves glisten with dew and the barest scent of earth or flowers tickles his nose and heat or chill dances along his skin. There’s pride to be found in the work she creates - all the things that take each room of the maze from the illusion of a space into something tangible and believable as its own natural world.

She’s smart, too: the hatches and doors out of her rooms are cleverly hidden, and often require searching for a key first. Killian thinks she might be trying to stump him, for all the time he spends searching for the way out in some rooms. Would she laugh if she could see him? Is he reacting in exactly the way she anticipated, or even intended?

(Would he even mind?)

He’s not such a fool as to fall a little in love with his opponent in the rooms that she builds, but he does delight in receiving these little insights to her personality. It reminds him that Miss Swan is more than his opponent - she’s a person, and one he’d love to know under other circumstances.

Only time will tell whether that makes things easier or harder.

———

To no one’s particular surprise, Regina does not approve of the maze.

“This is a waste of your time,” she proclaims to Emma on one of her rare (and never welcomed) visits. “You’re supposed to be competing, not… collaborating.” She spits out the word like it’s a profanity; who knows, it likely is in her mind. Emma wouldn’t be entirely surprised. 

“Isn’t this just a different way of competing?” Emma asks. Truthfully, she doesn’t see the fuss. “I’d think it would be easier to compare, when we have to share the same structure. Well, even more than we usually do.”

“This is not how things are supposed to work,” Regina snaps. “I didn’t train you to be so stupid about this, Emma. You know better - this is… frivolous!”

“I like it,” Emma says, letting her voice display a quiet defiance. “I think it’s wonderful.”

That’s why she’d led Regina to the maze in the first place, instead of simply taking tea in her compartment as usual - a little childish thought that maybe her mentor would see all the careful crafting she had put into each chamber. That maybe she would appreciate this unusual way in which Emma was stretching her abilities beyond what she thought was possible, challenged by the necessity of working around someone else’s ideas in the most literal, compressed way. That maybe she would be proud.

Pride, at least for others, is not something that’s in Regina’s vocabulary, however - something that Emma has never been more aware of than in this moment, standing amongst the hedges of a shifting maze within a maze. It’s an ever-changing creation, one that Emma had been particularly proud of.

It’s easier simply to wind their way to the closest exit than to attempt to convince Regina any further; Emma has long since learned her mentor is an immovable force. If Regina hasn’t been swayed by the creativity and brilliance of seeing the maze in person, no words will do it. So they’ll exit the maze and slip back into the backstage rooms, where Regina can berate her about her work ethic and how it seems like Emma doesn’t even want this while still failing to offer any concrete details or advice, until Emma can make her escape to perform another show, displaying her abilities to a kinder audience. That’s how these things always seem to go, and now that her foolishly hopeful little bubble has been broken, there’s no reason they won’t go that way again. 

Then again, there’s alway room for surprises and changes from the norm; Emma should know that, after so many years here at the Circus. As they exit into the chilled night air, Emma - and more importantly, Regina - clearly didn’t expect to run into Mulan as the sword swallower wandered back towards her own lodgings.

Most days, Emma almost forgets this other source of magic buzzing around the circus. It’s like white noise, almost; something Emma is subconsciously aware of, and can focus on when she chooses, but fades into the background most of the time. They’re friendly, but not quite friends - happy to spend time with one another, but rarely seeking each other out. Mulan is closer with Ruby, or with Belle. It’s easy, in that way, for Emma to forget the higher force that binds the two of them together - Regina herself, who has been a teacher to both of them. 

It is visibly obvious the moment they catch sight of one another: both straighten to their most rigid posture, Regina’s face shifting into something even more haughty than her usual mien, and Mulan shifting to something cool and dangerous. The air between them practically crackles with restrained magical energy, sending the hair on Emma’s arms to stand on end. Emma sends a silent thanks to whomever may be listening that this meeting occurred firmly in public; while the confrontation is primed to be bad as it is, she wouldn’t relish being forced between them in a private setting. Or a dark alley.

For all of the danger sparking the air, it is almost anticlimactic when each party finally finds their words. “Regina,” Mulan says, coolly polite and with the barest incline of her head. Regina only jerks her chin in a broken nod in response. 

And then they’re moving their separate ways, the whole thing over. Maybe it’s better that way; it would be a pity if the Circus was razed to the ground, after they’ve all put so much effort into the venue. There’s a story there, though, one Emma doesn’t know but can’t help but wonder about. She’ll have to ask Mulan, later; she knows very well that asking Regina will bear no fruit. 

(She never does, of course, just another intention lost to time and her mentor’s berating. Not that it would have done any good, anyways. Mulan keeps her secrets locked as tight as the most impressive safe.)

———

Emma knows Belle, of course - they’ve both been with the Circus for more than a decade, and Emma isn’t entirely self absorbed. They’re even friendly, in that way two people who work together but aren’t particularly close can be. But never once in all that time can Emma remember actively seeking the other woman out - for her skills or anything else. 

Belle’s particular skill unsettles Emma, she supposes. It feels a little hypocritical - Emma has magic, after all, she shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable about fortune-telling. There’s something about the talent to see glimpses of the future, however, that has never sat quite right in her mind - that has always made her ever so slightly uncomfortable. It’s not Belle’s fault; Emma knows as well as anyone that sometimes, these kinds of gifts choose their recipient instead of the other way around. 

There’s something in the air, though, something Emma can’t quite identify. There’s a niggling feeling of anticipation, like a reverse deja vu, where Emma knows something is coming, but doesn’t know what or how or when. She’s never been particularly good with that kind of uncertainty, searching for control wherever possible. It’s that search for control that brings her to Belle, seeking answers anywhere she can find them. Unusual times call for unusual measures, or some other such cliché. 

Emma goes at night, while the Circus is open, in between her own performances - just like any other querrant. It’s a simple thing to blend into the crowd - after all, no one is expecting  the illusionist to wander among them, especially in a dark coat and skirts turned crimson red with the touch of a finger. It takes no magic at all to slip down the silvery paths and duck into a tent labeled Fortune Teller: Feats of Fate and Prophecy. 

Belle snaps into character as soon as Emma brushes past the beaded curtain welcoming visitors into her space, only to relax again as she recognizes Emma’s face. “What a lovely surprise,” she comments with a pleased smile. “Sit down, sit down. What can I do for you, Emma?”

“I was hoping for a reading,” Emma explains as casually as possible - as if this is no great favor. Still, it shoots the brunette’s eyebrows up towards her hairline in surprise. 

“I must say, I didn’t expect that,” she comments. “I don’t believe you’ve asked such a thing of me before.”

“I haven’t felt the desire before.”

“Ah. You must face some kind of crossroads, then.” 

“Truthfully, I am not even sure enough to say that much,” Emma admits. Summoning a few coins into her hand, she pushes them across the table - payment for services rendered, as is typically custom in Belle’s little nook. “I hoped you might be able to shed more light on the matter than I can currently discern.”

Belle pushes the coins back. “Keep your money. Consider this a gift for a friend. Now, shall we?” As soon as Emma nods, Belle begins shuffling the cards - a quick, hypnotic motion, as each card flies past again and again. Once she’s satisfied with the shuffle, she carefully fans the cards across her table, face down. “Pick a card to represent yourself, if you please.”

Emma contemplates her options; truthfully, the tarot has never called to her, and this moment is no different. After some short examination, she selects one barely visible towards the left-hand side.

Belle chuckles a little as she turns the card over - and Emma can see exactly why, as soon as she sees the card. The Magician. 

“Now, this card often represents a plethora of abilities or options you may not be fully aware of, especially in the face of impending change or disaster,” Belle explains. “And that may still be the case. However, under the circumstances, I suspect this card is supposed to be taken rather more literally in this particular reading, Madame Magician.”

Belle shuffles again, before cutting the deck into three portions and directing Emma to select one. Replacing the selected stack back at the top at the pile, she quickly doles the cards back out, in practiced patterns and an unexpected elegance. There are flashes of cups and swords on the cards between them, interspersed with picture cards of women and wheels and a couple reaching for one another.

(Emma does not think she has the time for whatever a card like The Lovers may symbolize.)

“I see what you mean,” Belle says after a long moment. “There are significant changes here - in circumstance, in thinking, and in feelings. Whatever knot you have been working at in your mind will begin to unravel - one change that will spur many more. Now these changes - they seem imminent.”

“How imminent?”

Belle cocks her head, examining again. “There’s rarely an evident timeline that I can see,” she admits, “but I would wager in the coming weeks or months.”

Emma nods. It’s not really an answer - but it feels like validation, somehow. Like someone else can sense that something is on the horizon. 

“Now, I asked about a crossroads, before we started,” Belle continues. “The changes that are coming - they will not be your crossroads. This will not be the moment you have to make that decision. But each change will compound upon each other until it leads you to that crossroads - a choice you’ll make that will change everything, again. It will not be for some time yet, but those seeds are being sown now.”

Emma nods slowly, taking it all in. There is an odd comfort in Belle’s words, even as Emma tells herself not to put too much stock in it. “Thank you,” she finally says. “Is there anything else you can see?”

Belle shakes her head ruefully. “Not that I can see now, no. But I’ll keep looking. Sometimes, these things make themselves clearer given a few hours to think on them.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

Emma ponders the words as she emerges back into the night. A momentous change to come seems inevitable - both from her instincts and Belle’s own readings. All that’s left to do is brace herself and face that change with an open mind and courage.

The weeks and months to come may change everything - and Emma intends to be ready for it. 

———

We’ll be back in England next month - just in time for the rains, I’m sure. As if they ever stop. I anticipate many inclement weather parties in my future, and I don’t even need the cards to tell me that. 

Speaking of which - be on the lookout for something, Killian. Change is in the cards and in the air. Something is on the horizon, and I think it’s best you be ready for whatever that might be.

We’ll have tea one afternoon next time I’m in town, and you can buy me an absurd amount of books. I have several recommendations to give you from the last batch. I expect you’ll feign interest and the time to read, just as always, but I don’t particularly care. You’ll do it because I’m your friend, and you love me.

Yours &c., 

Belle

———

That same feeling of anticipation, of something in the air, only intensifies when the Circus returns to London for a short stretch. It’s been growing ever since Emma spoke with Belle, becoming more urgent as time goes by. A breaking point must come soon - though what that will herald, Emma doesn’t pretend to know. There’s no use continuing to worry over something that will only reveal itself at the right time.

Emma throws herself into rediscovery instead, wandering all those places she used to know. It’s hard to call London home, even though she grew up here - that designation has only ever belonged to her cramped and cozy little train compartment - but the city is familiar in a way that’s comforting. She spent the first 24 years of her life here, after all; even trapped under Regina’s thumb, she was able to discover little corners of the city all her own, park benches and cafe tables and backstage theater rooms. 

(She doesn’t intend to visit her benefactor during this stop, if she can at all help it; bringing Regina into things always invites trouble that Emma would rather avoid.)

It’s raining on their first day in town, of course, like her own meteorological welcome. Emma smiles a bit at the thought of the clouds and raindrops and wind whispering a hello - though truthfully, she’s seen odder things. She’s orchestrated odder things. The soft patter of raindrops on her umbrella is almost soothing as she walks down the cobbled streets to a favorite remembered cafe. Emma loves the Circus with every fiber of her being, both as her creation and as her home; still, sometimes it’s nice to escape for an afternoon and enjoy the anonymity of people watching or reading a nice book. Some days, she wants that distance; to be just another face in the crowd.

The afternoon passes quietly and uneventfully with her tea and scone and a silly novel. It’s easy to blend into this little corner of London, tucked into the corner of a quiet street off the main road. Emma has always liked this place, and tries to visit whenever she’s in the city; it’s something about the way that light dapples through the wide windows at the front, always perpetually just the slightest bit grimy, like dirt had accumulated just as soon as some poor soul had taken the efforts to clean them off. The used bookstore just across the street is a wonderful bonus too, where Emma sometimes finds unexpected treasures. Here, she can be just anyone else - no expectations, no grand fate. Just a woman at a weathered table. 

All too soon, the clock on the wall chimes 4pm, prompting Emma to gather her things to leave. This time of year, even though spring approaches, the sun still sets early, heralding the opening of the circus’ wide gates. Emma is lucky enough to set her own performance hours during the night, generally aiming to do three or four shows in an evening; however, it’s still important that she’s fully ready for the evening by the time the first visitors trickle into the grounds, regardless of the fact that she won’t make her own dramatic entrance for at least another half hour. 

As she bustles out the door, she mentally runs through her checklist for the night of tricks she might like to perform. That’s the freeing thing about performing with real magic; not having to depend on mechanics means that she can improvise, that every single show can be different as she feeds off the audience and her current whims. 

She’s so busy running through her possibilities for the night that she doesn’t notice she’s grabbed the wrong umbrella - not at first, at least. It’s just one amongst a cluster of black fabric in the umbrella stand, each nearly identical to each other. Emma’s put a special charm on hers that repels the rain; that slight buzz of magic is the only thing that differentiates hers from all the others. She picks it out by the feel alone, absentmindedly, before exiting into the deluge.

Something is off, though - something she realizes the further she walks from the cafe and comes back to full awareness. The charm on the umbrella is wonderfully effective, as always, but there’s something… wrong about the magic. Emma’s own magic has a particular warm feel to it, one that largely fades into the background of her mind until she barely notices it. This, though… the buzz continues, like a pricking or a tickle under her skin. Foreign.

Not hers.

Realization draws her up short. This umbrella - clearly imbued with powerful magic - magic like her opponent would possess - in the cafe at the same time - 

A polite clearing of the throat causes Emma to whip around, revealing an unexpectedly familiar face: Jefferson’s assistant, the handsome one, who she remembers lurking at the edges of ballrooms and the back of theatres and in the densest of crowds. Jones - something with a K. Or a C? Kelvin? Carson? No —

“Excuse me, Miss Swan,” Killian Jones smiles warmly, “but I believe you have my umbrella.”

[omg-imagine]

⊱ Drabble #7 ⊰

Pairing: Jack Traven x Reader

Prompts:

24 - “I never want you to think you’re anything less than my top priority.”

Words: 1.5k

Warning: Angst

Requested by @ladyreapermc​ ♡

Swirling a glass of red in your hand, the meal set on the table had long grown cold; the half-eaten food on your plate remaining untouched in the last two, lonesome hours. The clock ticked quietly on the dining room wall, filling in the spacious silence as time quickly approached midnight. Reaching your third hour alone, you morosely concluded that Jack had forgotten about this evening’s anniversary dinner. As hurt weighed heavily in your chest, you decided to call it a night, seeing no point in hoping and waiting anymore, especially since this wasn’t the first occurrence.

And it probably wouldn’t be the last.

Once the food was stored away and the table was cleared of dishes, you headed to the bathroom where you stripped off the lovely dress you had purchased for this special occasion. The salty tears in the corner of your eyes didn’t fall until you stepped into the shower, your stifled cries masked by the steamy water cascading down your body. You took several breaths as the heat soaked into your skin, eventually calming your tense self and letting your mind briefly fade into dullness.

The sad truth was that you were used to this ache, the pain which gripped your heart like a vice. Though you loved Jack profoundly, you couldn’t help but feel as if you were second to his career. It became more apparent in the past three months, resulting in a string of hurtful arguments that never seemed to end. As of late, you barely saw each other despite living under the same roof. Jack often left the house early in the morning and would come home in the dead of night, too exhausted to offer more than a mere “hello” to you in passing.

It was difficult and unbearable. For a while, you wanted the relationship to survive, but you were nearing the end of the rope. After tonight, you were beginning to doubt that things would change. Perhaps Jack wasn’t ready to commit himself to a forever with you, not when his job was this demanding and dangerous. The thought of it was disappointing, but you didn’t want this kind of life. You didn’t want to force him to make an unfair decision; to choose between you, his fiancée, or the career he had worked so hard for.

Fresh from the shower and now dressed for bed, you were sitting on your side of the mattress, holding in your fingers the diamond ring Jack proposed to you with over a year ago. It symbolized his love, dedication, and commitment to you, a meaning that was starting to lose itself through the bitter words and the stinging tears. You could no longer look at it and be reminded of the future you would share with Jack. Instead, all you could see were years of longing and regret, a sad ending to what once began as a happy story.

“Hey,” a gruff, weary voice sounded by the door, and you swiftly glanced up to see Jack standing there, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans and his face showing remorse. “I’d apologize to you, but I already know that won’t be enough.”

Fist closing over the sparkling ring, you then exhaled a shallow breath as Jack crossed the room, slowly dragging his feet towards the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight when he came to sit down beside you, a deep sigh escaping his lips. You could tell that he was tired from a grueling day at work, and the last thing he wanted was to pick a fight; to upset you more than you already were.

“What do you have there?” Jack probed lowly, your eyes still refusing to meet his.

You opened your hand carefully, the glint of the shining diamond capturing Jack’s attention almost immediately, his expression becoming worrisome. Shakily, you extended your arm towards him, the precious ring in full view as it laid in the center of your palm. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Your confession hung heavily in the quiet air as Jack tried to make sense of your words. Upon realizing what it all meant, he tilted his gaze upwards as you did the same, his dark, pleading orbs locking with yours for the first time that evening. You could clearly see the utter fear washing over Jack’s features, his eyes glazing with a thin glassy layer of tears as he held onto the last shred of control. But when you slipped the ring into his empty palm, his whole world now crumbling around him, Jack was unable to contain his emotions any longer.

“Y/N,” he spoke with an unsteady voice, your breath stuttering out at the sound of your name trembling from his lips. “Please, I know things haven’t been okay, but I don’t want to lose you, baby. I-I’m sorry for everything. Just tell me what I can do to fix it; to fix us.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to fix us,” you responded, hopeless. “You’re never home. Even when you’re here, it feels like I’m living in this house by myself. All we do is fight about the same damn thing over and over again. I’m not a priority to you, your job is, and I understand that now. As much as I love you, I can’t stay and hope for change. So, this is it. I’m done, Jack. I’m walking away.”

It hurt. It hurt to say those words, and it hurt even more watching a tear roll down Jack’s face. It was often rare for you to see him cry, and as he silently sat there, firmly clutching your ring in his hand, you swore that both of your hearts were breaking at the exact moment in time. Pushing yourself off the bed, you had barely moved when Jack caught you by the wrist, holding you back.

Turning your head around, you found Jack standing tall behind you, urging your body towards him. When you didn’t move, he stepped forward, his arms wrapping your fragile frame in a comforting embrace. Surrounded by his warmth, you sobbed into his broad chest as Jack held you close, shedding several tears of his own. You felt him press his lips to your forehead before he pulled back, bringing his thumb up to lightly stroke your cheek, willing you to open your eyes.

“Please, Y/N. Give me a chance,” Jack implored, tone soft as a delicate whisper. “I love you more than anything, even more than this job. If you stay, I promise that I’ll make it up to you. I’ll tell them to cut my hours so that we can have time just for ourselves. Please, just stay. Don’t leave, don’t quit on us now.”

Gnawing at your bottom lip, you blinked your reddened eyes to stop the tears which only burned. You couldn’t think straight, your thoughts surging like a ferocious storm as your head and heart long sought an answer.

Meanwhile, Jack’s unwavering gaze continued to beg for redemption, to bring back the happiness and adoration both of you once shared; the times filled with great laughter and love. He was hopeful that he could reverse the damage, desperate for you to give him a second chance and make things right again. 

And despite the bleak months of pain, you still wanted try. You still wanted him. 

“Okay,” you murmured after much contemplation, offering Jack a small smile. “Let’s work this out.”

“We will,” he assured softly, his right hand reaching down to grasp your left. Slowly, Jack raised your fingers up to his mouth, planting gentle kisses across your knuckles, which had you sighing. You watched as he lifted his other hand, holding your engagement ring between two digits. Smoothly, he pushed the diamond rock down your third finger, and for a second, you took in its beauty, unaware that Jack was admiring you the same way.

Glancing back up, Jack leaned forward until his tender lips touched yours. Completely chaste at first, the sensuous kiss grew deeper as time ticked away in the background, the two of you lost in each other’s taste and touch. Suddenly, Jack pulled away breathlessly, his chest rising and falling in tandem with yours.

“I never want you to think you’re anything less than my top priority,” Jack avowed to you, eyes shining with pure fondness. “So, I was thinking of taking a week off from work, maybe even two if they’ll let me.”

“And do what?” You questioned with a raised brow.

“To celebrate our anniversary, of course. We could also start planning the wedding which we still need a date for. And if you want, we could even take a trip somewhere; get out of LA for a bit and relax.”

Chuckling at his enthusiasm, you encircled your arms around his neck, resting your head on his shoulder. “That all sounds lovely.”

“Good,” Jack agreed with a smile as he softly swayed with you. “Where do you want to go? Name any place you want, and I’ll take you there.”

“It doesn’t matter where,” you replied, realizing that this was everything you ever wanted in life; happy and content, being loved by Jack wholly and adoringly. “I’ll go anywhere, as long as I’m with you.”

Permanent Tags: @penwieldingdreamer​ @keandrews​ @feminine-machinegun​ @fanficsrusz​ @thehumanistsdiary​ @rdjloverxxx​ @flaminasteroid​ @lussdew​ @unaspiringwritings​ @planetkt​

[juniorgman187]

Luck of the Universe (Spencer Reid Screenplay)

Season 9 Reid deserves more recognition. Definitely one of my fav looks/seasons. So I wrote about it :) 

Summary: Years after Spencer saves Maggie’s life, they reunite unexpectedly. Maggie thinks it’s fate; Spencer does not. She challenges him and says they’ll meet again, even without intending to. They do meet again, but not under favorable circumstances. Maggie’s life is in danger and Spencer must save her . . . again. 

Couple: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid Category: Angst, Fluff, Screenplay Content Warning: Profanity, pregnancy, miscarriage, abduction, violence, death Word Count: 10.5k

DISCLAIMER: This was originally a screenplay but was adapted to have a more cohesive appearance on Tumblr. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

Spencer Reid sits outside a cafe to enjoy his beachside view from a coffee shop. Foreign to California’s sun, Spencer has aloe and sunscreen packed with him. He even wears sunglasses wherever he goes. While he patiently waits for the arrival of his coffee, he reads The Narrative of John Smith. The exact copy that Maeve gave him over a year ago. 

Serving his coffee is Maggie. This event will single handedly change both of their lives forever. 

MAGGIE: Let me know if I can get you anything else. 

As she sets down the cup, Reid thanks her, and out of politeness, he tilts his head forward ever so slightly so that his glasses will shift to the bridge of his nose. This way she can see his eyes. And when she does see his eyes, they are so familiar to her, but she can’t place where she remembers them from. Spencer notices her looking at him.

MAGGIE: Oh sorry, you just looked really familiar. 

SPENCER: Actually we have met before. I’m the agent that, um, saved you.   

Maggie stands there for a moment in complete disbelief. 

MAGGIE: Oh my God, yes! No, I totally remember you now. Wow. Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner I’m -

SPENCER: Maggie. 

Maggie peers down at her name tag and gives him a funny look.

SPENCER: No, I genuinely do remember you, and I didn’t just read your name tag. Um I have what’s called an eidetic memory. I’m able to recall things with high precision, even if it was a brief period of time on one occasion. 

MAGGIE: Really? That’s incredible. I wish I could say the same. All I could remember after being resuscitated was your eyes. I meant to thank you, by the way, for saving me, but at the time I was too in shock. I went to the police department the next day trying to find you, but you weren’t there. And as it turns out, it’s not so easy searching for a pair of hazel eyes. 

Spencer smiles. 

SPENCER: I’m Dr. Spencer Reid. I’m a Supervisory Special Agent with the Behavior Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia.

Hearing his name completely changes her. She says it to herself in disbelief. For years she’s wondered who he was, and now she knows.

MAGGIE: So what brings you back to California? 

SPENCER: We finished a case here earlier. I’m just killing time until I go back by reading.

MAGGIE: May I?

Maggie extends her hand to ask for the book politely. Spencer hands it to Maggie. She recognizes it almost immediately. 

MAGGIE: Oh, I love Arthur Conan Doyle. This is just one of those novels I wish I could read again for the first time. 

Spencer doesn’t respond, he’s just so enamored by the way she thinks and speaks. She misinterprets his silence as a sign that he’d rather not keep talking. 

MAGGIE: I should probably let you get back to reading. I wouldn’t want to keep you from the opinionated Everyman John Smith. I hope you have a safe travel home.

Maggie begins to get up from her chair.

SPENCER: Wait um, I don’t normally ask this, but I still have a few hours until my flight and I’d really love to keep talking with you so do you think maybe we could go somewhere or -

MAGGIE: I would love to, but I’m working until the closing shift tonight. 

SPENCER: Oh okay. 

Maggie is conflicted. Against her better judgement, she agrees. 

MAGGIE: You know what? I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere. 

Excitement rises in Spencer. When Maggie goes into the coffee shop, he tries to contain himself. He fixes his hair and straightens out his cardigan and tie. Maggie comes back out. 

MAGGIE: Ever been to the pier?

. . . 

Maggie and Spencer are looking out onto the ocean from the pier. It’s one of the rare times that they aren’t being swallowed by a huge crowd. It’s just them, a few other people, and the sunset. An ocean breeze blows through, making Maggie shiver and bump into Spencer. 

MAGGIE: My bad. Sorry. 

SPENCER: Do you want my - 

MAGGIE: No, no I’m fine. 

Spencer ignores her statement and drapes his cardigan around her. Though she would never admit it, it sort of smells like him - and it’s the most comforting smell in the world. 

MAGGIE: It’s beautiful isn’t it?

Maggie says while looking out to the sunset.

SPENCER: Yeah, it is. 

He says while looking at her. 

After a couple seconds, she notices him staring, looks at him, smiles, and nudges him. 

MAGGIE: It’s getting late. We should head back. 

Spencer follows close behind as Maggie leads the way. 

MAGGIE: I wish we could’ve hung out longer, but I don’t want to leave Tony running the shop alone for too long and I wouldn’t want you to miss your flight. 

SPENCER: For what it’s worth, I enjoyed the little time we did spend together. 

MAGGIE: I did, too. 

SPENCER: So maybe, when I’m back here, we could make plans. 

MAGGIE: I’ll look forward to your return then. 

Maggie and Spencer walk a little longer in a comfortable silence, until finally they’re back at the coffee shop. 

MAGGIE: Do you have a pen?

Spencer hesitates for a moment, but ultimately, has to place his hand on Maggie’s hip to retrieve the pen inside the pocket. This gesture startles her and causes her to remember that she was wearing his cardigan. 

MAGGIE: Oh sorry, I forgot that I was wearing this.

SPENCER: No keep it. It looks better on you anyway. Consider it an early birthday gift. September 8 right?

MAGGIE: How did you- Oh right. Eidetic memory. 

Spencer hands her the pen and Maggie reaches for a napkin from the table and writes her number on it.

MAGGIE: So if you’re ever insanely bored at 3 a.m. or you’re not busy saving someone’s life, call me. 

Spencer takes the napkin. 

SPENCER: Will do.

He tries to mask how excited he really is. 

Maggie heads back inside, but stops herself at the door. She turns back to Spencer.

MAGGIE: (genuinely asking) Do you know how often people reconnect without intending to after years of not seeing each other?

SPENCER: Not very often I suppose. 

MAGGIE: This could very well just be a huge coincidence, but it really feels like some luck of the universe that I’m talking to you right now. And I think we’ll be seeing each other soon again. 

Spencer’s intrigued. As a doctor, he’s pragmatic. Romantic notions such as destiny and luck - he wasn’t a believer of. Even God, he was skeptical of. But he wanted to see Maggie again, even if that meant he had to agree that it was fate after all.

SPENCER: And if we don’t?

Maggie pauses to answer his question. 

MAGGIE: Then we will eventually. 

Before Maggie opens the door, she notices Spencer pulling money out of his pocket to pay for his coffee. She stops him.

MAGGIE: It’s on the house. 

She says with a small smile that’s returned with a grin that creeps upon Spencer’s face. When she fully enters the cafe, Spencer is left alone with his thoughts. 

. . .

It’s the next day. The BAU is seated at the round table. Penelope is presenting the case. Reid’s momentarily distracted. He plays with the napkin in his book. It’s the napkin with Maggie’s number on it. His fixation lasts for so long that he misses the presentation entirely. It’s only when JJ asks him a question directly does he tune in and snap out of his trance. 

REID: What was the question?

Reid shifts in his seat uncomfortably and tries to hide his confusion by opening up the case file. 

ROSSI: You’ve been awfully quiet this morning. A little too quiet. Care to share?

REID: Nothing. Just thinking. 

He’s lying and they all know it. The team exchanges suspicious glances.

REID: Sorry, Garcia, could you repeat it one more time?

GARCIA: Why of course! Anything for you, Boy Wonder. A week ago, Brynn Dryer disappeared from her home late at night. 48 hours after she was reported missing, a couple jogging past a lake found her body. In the M.E’s report, there was a terrifyingly large amount of evidence that she was brutally beaten and clubbed. The official C.O.D was blunt force trauma to the head and the lake was nothing more than a disposal site. Less than a day later, Eliza O’ Hara went missing after someone invaded her home. Yesterday local P.D found her in the middle of a  field by the highway. Same M.O. The police department is anticipating that when you land, another girl will go missing. 

Spencer notices something. 

REID: Wait, can you put their pictures side by side?

Garcia does so. Spencer makes a connection. 

JJ: What is it, Spence?

REID: The similarities between the two victims are uncanny. Notice the eye color, skin tone, hair style, even down to the freckles they have.  

BLAKE: Alright so he’s got an aggression toward brown eyed, tan brunettes with bangs and freckles. 

ROSSI: And I have an aggression toward telemarketers but you don’t see me clubbing them to death. 

HOTCH: The cooling off period between kills is getting shorter. He’s escalating and we’re going to put a stop to this before he hits his stride. Garcia, you’re coming with us. Wheels up in 30.

The team is leaving the round table. 

. . .

The team is on the flight. 

HOTCH: JJ, as soon as we land, I need you setting up a press conference to let the women in the area know to be vigilant. After that, we’ll interview the family’s of Eliza and Brynn. I need Blake and Reid working on the geographical profile. Dave, you and Morgan will take a closer look at the bodies and see if you can’t gather more information. And Garcia, 

GARCIA: Yes, sir?

HOTCH: Find as many more connections between these women as you can, and contact any other women who fit the victimology. 

GARCIA: Yes, sir. 

ROSSI: Apparently, it'll be 101 degrees when we land. Remind me again why people live in California?

Reid perks up. He didn’t even know he was going back to California. But now that he does, he’s even more on edge. 

. . .

Reid works on the geographical profile, while Blake assists from her chair. There’s something off about Reid, and she’s about to find out what. 

BLAKE: Hey, you alright, Reid? You seem like you’re a million miles away. 

Reid stops working on the map. He turns around to face Blake. 

REID: I met this girl yesterday. She was actually a former victim I resuscitated. And before I left, she said she had a feeling we would see each other again soon.

Spencer pauses and purses his lips. 

SPENCER: She looks just like the other victims.

BLAKE: So you’re worried that when you see her again, it’ll be because of this case. 

REID: Do . . . do you think I could call her? To let her know. 

BLAKE: I’m not saying I wouldn’t want to break the rules if I were you, but I can’t, in good conscience, advise you to let her know what’s happening. By doing so, you’re giving her an advantage other people don’t have. If she tunes into JJ’s press conference, I’m sure she’ll be safe. 

REID: I thought Maeve was gonna be safe too. Look how that turned out.  

Blake is at a loss for words. Here she is, the linguist, and yet she can’t find the right words to tell Reid to comfort him. 

. . .

JJ sits beside Garcia as Garcia sets up her system. 

JJ: Spence has been acting really weird today. 

GARCIA: So it’s not just me! I knew something must’ve been wrong because earlier on the flight, I asked if he wanted to play online chess with me and he said no. Can you believe that? I know he’s all anti-tech and everything, but he’s never passed up a game of chess. So that’s why I’ve already done some digging.

JJ gives Garcia the face of “You shouldn’t have done that.” 

GARCIA: Okay, but before you say I shouldn’t have, you should see this. 

Garcia pulls up a small window on her computer to show to JJ. JJ is shocked. 

JJ: A three hour call with his mom last night? Could’ve just been his regular check in.

GARCIA: See that’s what I thought, too, but look. 

Garcia scrolls further up the call list. 

JJ: He hasn’t called his mom in months. 

GARCIA: We all know Reid tells everything to his mom. Something must’ve happened yesterday. 

Unbeknownst to Garcia and JJ, Reid walks in. 

REID: Hey, guys - what’re you looking at?

It’s too late now. Reid’s already seen it.

REID: You’re keeping tabs on me now? How long have you been monitoring me? Huh?

Anger possesses Reid. 

GARCIA: Just since this morning. I only looked at your call history briefly. 

REID: Unbelievable. 

JJ: We were just worried about you. We all are. There’s obviously something going on. 

REID: So then ask me about it. Ever thought of that? 

JJ: We’re sorry. 

REID: Yeah no, I’m fine, thanks for asking. 

Reid storms off from JJ and Garcia. 

. . .

Hotch, Rossi, and Morgan all meet Garcia, JJ, and Blake before delivering the profile. Spencer’s missing.

MORGAN: Where’s Pretty boy?

BLAKE: I thought he was going to talk to Jennifer and Garcia.

GARCIA: He did, but something happened . . . he was upset and left. I thought maybe he went back to working on the geo-profile.

HOTCH: Garcia, when did you last speak to him? 

GARCIA: Oh, I don’t know, sir, um, maybe fifteen minutes ago?

HOTCH: Morgan, go find Reid. We’ll deliver the profile. 

MORGAN: Where should I be looking?

BLAKE: He went to a coffee shop yesterday. I’m not sure which one, but it’s a start.

. . .

Reid is frantically entering the coffee shop. He scans the room for Maggie but doesn’t see her. 

TONY: Hey, what can I get for you?

SPENCER: Is Maggie here?

TONY: Who’s asking?

SPENCER: (flashing his badge) I’m Dr. Spencer Reid with the FBI. Let me ask you again, where’s Maggie?

TONY: Didn’t show up today. 

SPENCER: Did she call in sick?

TONY: Nope.

SPENCER: When was the last time you saw her?

TONY: Last night when we were working the closing shift.  

SPENCER: Do you know how she got home?

TONY: She walked. I tried to offer her a ride, but she said she likes to walk. Something about clearing the mind. 

SPENCER: Did she walk alone?

TONY: Mhm. 

Spencer’s mind swirls. He is living his worst nightmare all over again. When he turns around and sees Derek pulling up. Reid rushes out of the coffee shop and hops into the passenger seat immediately. Derek doesn’t even question it. 

REID: Drive. I need Garcia on the phone. 

Derek dials her.

GARCIA: Did you find Rei-

REID: (cutting her off) Garcia, I need you to look up Magnolia Tate. Get me her address. 

MORGAN: What is it, Reid?

REID: She didn’t show up to work today. Her coworker said the last time he saw her was when she was walking home. She fits the victimology. Garcia, the address? 

GARCIA: 178 Citrus Boulevard. Be safe. 

REID: Thank you, Garcia. 

GARCIA: Of course. And, Reid?

REID: Yeah?

GARCIA: I’m really super-duper sorry about earlier. 

REID: It’s fine. I know you guys were just looking out for me. 

Reid can sense Garcia smiling through the phone so he promptly hangs up knowing their business is resolved. 

MORGAN: Reid, there is a good chance this could just be a coincidence. 

REID: I’m telling you - nothing with this girl is just a coincidence.

MORGAN: Well, have you called her yet?

REID: No.

MORGAN: Then call her now, Reid. 

REID: I can’t. 

MORGAN: Yes, you can. 

REID: I can’t. 

MORGAN: Why not?

REID: I’m scared that if I call her, I won’t be able to stop, and I’ll want to keep talking to her, but I can’t do that. Not when I know what it’s like loving something death can touch.

MORGAN: Is this about Maeve?

REID: It’s always about Maeve! Morgan, I watched her die in front of me. And just knowing that right now I could be in the same position -

MORGAN: Listen, I know how guilty you feel about Maeve. Man, I feel guilty about her, too, but you gotta understand that if this is connected to our case, you’re gonna save her. Trust me on this. 

REID: Yeah, okay. 

MORGAN: So how do you two know each other?

REID: She was actually a previous victim of ours. Nearly a decade ago, I performed CPR after her ex-boyfriend pushed her off the boat, bound and gagged. They were out on the lake watching the Fourth of July firework show, but a witness recognized her from the news, which ultimately saved her life. Prior to that, he killed practically all of her next of kin because he believed they were responsible for the restraining order she filed against him. 

MORGAN: Why’d he risk taking her out in public?

REID: He was recreating their first date. How do you not remember this? 

MORGAN: Actually, now that you mention it, I do remember the case. Cause you made that stupid joke that he was trying to reignite a spark.

Reid makes an offended/sad face. Morgan smiles.

REID: You know, taking into consideration how much emotional trauma we’ve been through combined, there is a very real possibility that our relationship would be, for lack of a better word, doomed. She has no parents, my mom has schizophrenia. We’ve both been held hostage. I’ve been hospitalized, and she’s potentially been abducted for a second time. 

MORGAN: Seems like the perfect fit to me. 

REID: I’m being serious. 

MORGAN: I am, too. 

REID: Statistically, 40% of all long distance relationships end up failing in some way, including relationships where the partners are married. And of that 40%, 70% of these failures occur because of unplanned circumstances that happen to one of the participants in a relationship. Unplanned circumstances are practically a part of our line of work. Not to mention, most long distance relationships survive on two in-person visits per month. But relying on getting two cases in California per month is completely unrealistic. 

MORGAN: Kid, you can give me all the statistics and numbers to convince me why you shouldn’t be together, but the one thing you haven’t said is that you don’t like her. 

REID: Fine, I don’t like her. 

MORGAN: Then why am I driving to her house?

Reid pauses, not ready to admit he’s wrong. 

REID: Because this could be a lead on the case. 

MORGAN: Whatever you say, Pretty Boy. 

After a long period of time, Reid finally speaks.

REID: At first, I only noticed her because she looked like Maeve. Even when we were talking, it felt like I was talking to Maeve again. But then, she surprised me. She said that seeing me again felt like a “luck of the universe.” That’s when I realized, she’s not a girl who reminds me of Maeve. She’s her own person. She’s Maggie.

MORGAN: See that wasn’t so hard now was it?

REID: I will crush you.

. . .

Morgan and Reid are walking up the flight of stairs to get to Maggie’s apartment. 

MORGAN: Remind me again of the plan. Because realistically, she could just be playing hooky or be out somewhere else. 

REID: Once we get to her apartment, if she’s not there, I’ll call. 

MORGAN: Have we thought about what we’re gonna say if she is there? Oh sorry ma’am, we thought you were kidnapped.

REID: I’ll figure it out. 

Reid and Morgan are in her hallway. Morgan knocks on her door, but the door moves when he knocks on it. It’s open. Morgan and Reid exchange glances. Morgan reaches for his gun as he cautiously opens the door wider to enter. When they do, there’s no one inside. But there was an obvious sign of a struggle. A glass vase has been smashed.

REID: Call Hotch. I’ll call her. 

Morgan goes to the side to let Hotch know.

REID: (to himself) Please pick up. Please pick up.

MAGGIE: (her voicemail) Hey, it’s Mags. Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone right now, but if you leave a message I’ll call you back when I can. 

Hearing Maggie’s voice almost makes him want to break down in tears, but he composes himself. 

MORGAN: Reid, we gotta go. Garcia found something. 

. . .

Hotch, JJ, Blake, Rossi, and Garcia are all together in the conference room while on the phone with Reid and Morgan. 

MORGAN: What’d you find, Baby Girl?

GARCIA: Well after doing some digging, I unearthed Marcus Linden and Toby Forthword. Who are they you may ask? Good question. They are Eliza O’Hara and Brynn Dryer’s sons. And you’re probably thinking, they have children? Yes indeedio they do. The reason I didn’t find this earlier was because when Brynn and Eliza were teen moms, they set up closed adoptions for their sons before they were born. I’ve been trying to find any contact they might’ve made with the agency or their kids since the adoptions, but I haven’t been able to. I thought that was weird, but I started searching for other women that fit the criteria, and would you believe - there was one. 

The pause Garcia takes before saying it, tells Reid it’s Maggie. 

GARCIA: Magnolia Tate.

Reid is at a loss for words. His mind is trying to wrap about what he’s hearing, but it’s all so much. 

HOTCH: Could you find any more connections?

GARCIA: A week before the abductions, all three of them went to a clinic for women who were pregnant or planning to be. 

Reid bites his lips as he tries to grasp it all. 

REID: Is she pregnant? 

All of them know who he’s referring to. 

JJ: Spence . . . they all were.

If Reid’s jaw could be on the floor, it would. Even Morgan winced as JJ revealed the news. A moment of silence falls over the group as they all feel for Spencer. Hotch is the first to speak after nearly a minute of not.

HOTCH: Apply those precedents to teen mothers in the early 2000s and cross it with women that gave birth to sons who ended up in the system instead of being adopted. 

MORGAN: Baby girl, look at kids that are around 18-20 now. He would’ve been recently freed from the system. He’ll most likely have a history of anger management issues or disciplinary issues. 

ROSSI: The mother might also be recently deceased. 

JJ: There’s your stressor.

BLAKE: With the death of his biological mother, he wouldn’t get the answers he wanted. He’d look for them from the women that his mother is similar to. Brynn, Eliza, and Magnolia all serve as surrogates. Garcia, he’d be aiming to work in the system. Not only would he want to prevent other kids from going through what he did, but it would also explain how he found them. 

JJ: You know the fact that all three women were pregnant could account for his anger. To him, that’s the ultimate form of betrayal. Giving their son up, only to have another child in the future to keep.

GARCIA: Got it. 

Spencer is still trying to process. He stays quiet as he fiddles with the napkin. It almost appears as though he might tear it.

. . .

Maggie’s balled up in a corner, hugging her knees. She’s badly beaten. She’s bleeding, her eyes are swollen from crying and she’s looking down at her stomach. The unsub is standing, watching this.

UNSUB: Don’t cry, Magnolia. I wouldn’t have done that if you just answered me. 

MAGGIE: You killed my baby!

UNSUB: And I’ll do more if you don’t answer me!

MAGGIE: Please . . . I can’t give you the answers you want. I’m not your mother. 

UNSUB: If you don’t answer me, I’ll hurt your little boy. I’ve been watching him very closely. His name is Elijah Martin, cute kid by the way. Quite the over-achieving 12 year old. He’s in soccer and track and field. Wanna see his school picture?

Maggie closes her eyes and turns her head so she doesn’t have to see. 

UNSUB: See, Magnolia, what you’re going through right now, is only a fraction of what I had to go through in my foster homes. I was tortured, bullied, abused. All because that old hag didn’t want to make the sacrifice to be a mother. So answer me this, how could you give him up?

MAGGIE: I may not have made the sacrifice to be a mother, but I did make a sacrifice the day I chose not to be his. I wanted to keep him. I cried when I watched him leave with that other family. But I couldn’t be the mother he needed.

UNSUB: Why haven’t you called him? Or tried to get him back?

MAGGIE: Reaching out would’ve done more harm than good. Not knowing who I am, or who his father was, meant that we could never stand in the way of his future. He can reach his fullest potential - free of mine or Charlie’s hindrance. 

The unsub understands Maggie. She’s gotten through to him. But he still carries anger. He groans in frustration and grabs Maggie by the collar of her shirt.

UNSUB: We’re gonna take a little trip.

. . . 

The BAU is at the local Police Department. Garcia is reading to them what she’s found. 

GARCIA: I know a textbook serial killer when I see one. His name is Ray Lewis-Fernandez. Throughout his time in foster care, he was a troublemaker. He never stayed for more than a month in a group home. Quite a Dennis the Menace, according to his foster families. It also says here that he got caught on multiple occasions trying to get his file so he could find his mother. Her name was Shawna Heights, and I say “was” because she passed away exactly two weeks before he was emancipated. 

MORGAN: So this guy is finally able to find his mother on his own, only to realize he missed her by two weeks. 

GARCIA: Talk about bad luck. But that isn’t even the worst of it. If Ray did do some digging after his emancipation, he would’ve discovered that Shawna had two sons and a daughter only a few years after he was born. 

JJ: Did he try to contact them?

GARCIA: No, but that’s the surprising part. I profiled him wanting to reach out and be one big ol’ happy family, but then I remembered I’m not a profiler.

REID: Wait, that might actually be it.

Everyone is shocked to hear Spencer speak up. 

GARCIA: Wait, I’m right?

REID: Foster families mentioned he’d been trying to find his mother but at the core of its meaning - he’s trying to find family. If his mission is to find family, he wouldn’t stay away unless he had to. Garcia, check if there’s a restraining order on Ray. 

GARCIA: Bingo, Boy Wonder! Malcolm, Shawna’s husband, filed it against him just days after Shawna’s funeral. 

REID: The restraining order means he can’t come within a certain distance of the kids, right? So he wouldn’t risk it all just to have lunch with them or send a letter. Think about it - high risk, high reward. Ray would only violate the order, if he could have them completely. But in order to not get caught, he’ll use maternal figures to lure them. They just lost their mother and seeing or talking to someone so similar to Shawna would make them that much more susceptible. But Brynn and Eliza are both mothers who have given up their sons. This means they know what inadequate guardians look like. They’re aware the kids are better off with Malcolm, and they won’t be responsible for abducting them and placing them under Ray’s care. It would completely go against their own reasoning for giving away their children. Their refusal to help him execute the plan angers him to the point of murder. He isn’t just killing because they’re surrogates for his rage, but because they refuse to help him achieve his goal. 

ROSSI: The kids are his endgame. 

BLAKE: All he’s wanted is a family. Now that he knows he has one that hasn’t already betrayed him, he’ll stop at nothing to have them.

HOTCH: What’s the address, Garcia?

GARCIA: Already sent it, sir. 

The BAU rushes out of the conference room. 

. . .

Maggie and Ray are sitting in his car. They’re watching the three children play - staking them out. Malcolm - their father, is nowhere to be seen. We’re to assume he’s at work while they’re at home. 

RAY: You see the boy with the red hoodie? That’s Malcolm Jr. He’s the oldest. Same age as your boy. Then Evan is the middle child. He’s eight. But the baby - she’s my favorite. Her name is Ariel cause of her red hair. She’s six. 

Maggie smiles for a split second before frowning. 

MAGGIE: You don’t have to do this. 

RAY: And I’m not. Because you will. 

Maggie breaks her gaze from the children to look at Ray with shock. 

MAGGIE: No, no, no I’m not kidnapping them. I won’t do it.

Ray retrieves his gun and points it at her stomach. 

RAY: You had a chance to have your family with Elijah. But you gave him up. Now that I have a chance, you’re gonna help me. 

MAGGIE: What if I don’t?

RAY: You’re smart. Figure it out.

MAGGIE: I will not be taunted with death if I don’t help you take someone else’s babies away. So go ahead, kill me. I’ve got nothing left to live for anyway. 

A gunshot. 

Standing in front of the car, is Malcom with his shotgun. The windshield is shattered by a single bullet that penetrated it. Malcolm fired a shot right through Ray’s head. Maggie is alive and in complete and total shock. Once Malcolm knows he’s dead he rushes to her door to help her. 

MALCOM: You have to unlock it. 

Maggie is forced to reach over Ray’s dead body and unlock the car. When she does, Malcolm helps her exit the vehicle. Maggie’s seen putting pressure on her stomach to stop the bleeding. 

Within seconds of escaping, police SUV’s arrive. Spencer is the first to run out of the car. 

Relief overcomes Maggie. 

MAGGIE: Spencer!

She stops him before he can hug her.

MAGGIE: No wait! I’m bleeding. 

Spencer ignores this and embraces her. Maggie sobs hysterically when he does. 

MAGGIE: He . . . he killed my -

SPENCER: Shh, I know. I know. I’m here now, okay?

Neither of them pull away. 

MAGGIE: Oh my god. I can’t believe you’re here. I knew I’d see you again. 

SPENCER: Yeah, you did. You were right Mags. 

These words make Maggie shut her eyes and smile. 

Hotch approaches the pair from behind. 

HOTCH: Miss Tate, there’s an ambulance here for you. Let’s get you to a hospital.

Maggie nods as Spencer helps her limp to a stretcher. 

When she situates herself and is lifted into the back of the ambulance, Spencer turns to Hotch. 

SPENCER: Can I - 

HOTCH: Yes, yes, go. We’ll meet you there. 

Spencer enters the back of the ambulance and sits beside Maggie as they ride to the hospital together. 

MAGGIE: You’re coming?

Spencer nods and gives a small reassuring smile. 

Another tear escapes her eyes as she smiles through the oxygen mask to thank him. 

. . .

The entire team is seated in a waiting room. Spencer is standing up and pacing as he waits for the doctor. 

A doctor soon enters. 

DOCTOR: Is there a Spencer Reid?

Spencer comes over quickly. 

SPENCER: That’s me.

DOCTOR: Come with me, sir. 

Spencer follows the Doctor. 

DOCTOR: Luckily, the lacerations didn’t travel far enough to do a significant amount of damage that would require surgery, but we did have to perform a blood transfusion due to the amount of blood she lost. 

SPENCER: How’s the baby?

DOCTOR: It was too early to tell the sex of the baby before she miscarried. She’s awake now and has been asking for you. 

SPENCER: Thanks. 

The doctor leaves as soon as Spencer knocks on the door. 

SPENCER: (quietly) Maggie?

Maggie’s face lights up when she sees him. 

MAGGIE: Hey you. 

Spencer pulls a chair closer to Maggie’s bedside to take her hand and kiss the back of it. She smiles as he does this. 

SPENCER: How are you feeling?

MAGGIE: Is it possible to feel incredibly lucky and incredibly lucky at the same time?

Spencer gives her that small reassuring smile. 

MAGGIE: I’ll be okay.

SPENCER: Good.

MAGGIE: I’m starting to regret not letting Tony take me home. 

Maggie and Spencer share a laugh. 

SPENCER: Yeah, I think you should let him drive you from now on. 

MAGGIE: Yeah, you’re probably right, but I don't think I want to work there anymore. Or even live here for that matter. 

SPENCER: I don’t blame you. 

MAGGIE: I grew up here, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore. 

SPENCER: Where are you thinking of going?

MAGGIE: Well, I completed my bachelor’s degree to become an English teacher, but I never applied to any schools. I think in my gut I knew I didn’t want a job to tie me down here, otherwise I’d never leave California - no matter how much I should. So realistically anywhere that’s offering positions to English teachers is ideal. 

Hearing Maggie’s an English major doesn’t surprise Spencer. 

SPENCER: You know, when I go back to D.C, I can find open teaching positions for you. Moving there would be a big change, but I think you’d feel safer at least.

MAGGIE: I think I would too. And I wouldn’t mind the change. Getting a couple thousand miles closer to you doesn’t sound so bad.

Spencer cheekily grins. 

SPENCER: Yeah?

Maggie nods. 

Hotch enters the room.

HOTCH: It’s time. 

Reid nods and turns back to Maggie. 

SPENCER: I’ll see you soon.

MAGGIE: Can’t wait. 

SPENCER: Goodbye, Maggie. 

He sits up and kisses her forehead. For a moment, he rests his forehead on hers. Maggie smiles when he does this little gesture. 

MAGGIE: Thank you. 

Spencer nods and shuts the door behind him when he leaves. 

With a heavy heart, Spencer leaves the hospital. 

. . .

On the plane back, everyone is asleep besides Spencer and Hotch. 

HOTCH: How is she?

SPENCER: She’ll be okay, but I can’t seem to figure out why. I thought she’d be broken. And I think deep down she is, but when she smiles, she isn’t faking it. 

HOTCH: “Sometimes the ones who have the brightest smiles are the ones who have known and endured deep darkness.”

SPENCER: Dodinsky. (the author of the quote)

. . .

It’s been a week since Spencer has visited Maggie, but he’s back now. Maggie is lying on her hospital bed, with Spencer entering her room. He hides something behind his back.

SPENCER: Knock! Knock! I brought you something.

MAGGIE: Oooh, fun!  

Spencer pulls out headbands with the words “Fourth of July” in block letters. 

SPENCER: Here. 

He slides one on top of her head and puts the other on himself. 

MAGGIE: What’s this for?

SPENCER: Sometimes when we go through something traumatic, we subconsciously link the tragic event with the date it happened on. It happens most often with death anniversaries, birthdays, or in your case, holidays. But I want to make the Fourth of July a good holiday again. So earlier, I asked the doctors if I could take you up to the roof to watch the fireworks. 

MAGGIE: Spencer . . .

SPENCER: Humor me. 

Maggie’s reluctant but she still reaches out her arms to have Spencer help her out of bed anyway. He wheels over the wheelchair to her and she groans. 

MAGGIE: Are you actually gonna make me use that?

SPENCER: I mean, you’re welcome to walk around the hospital with your backless patient gown.

Maggie laughs and complies. Spencer begins to wheel Maggie out of her room and into the elevator that goes up to the roof. When they finally get there, Maggie’s face lights up. There’s a whole picnic set out for the two of them. A blanket with small fixings is laid out for them. 

Maggie rises from the wheelchair and turns around to engulf Spencer in the biggest hug. 

MAGGIE: Thank you. This is like the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. 

Spencer hugs her back even tighter. His hand is on the small of her back, and for a second he can feel her smooth skin, but like the gentleman he is, he tightly wraps Maggie’s hospital gown to cover her exposed skin. A small gesture that to Maggie, does not go unnoticed. 

. . . 

Maggie and Spencer's backs are lying flat against the blanket. They’re in the middle of a conversation where each of them are smiling.

SPENCER: JJ said that Henry wanted to dress up as his favorite profiler, and he came into the office as me. I even gave him my badge.  

MAGGIE: That is adorable! I can’t wait to have kids and celebrate Halloween with them. 

Spencer goes quiet, making Maggie realize what she said. 

MAGGIE: Oh, gosh, sorry I did not mean for that to take a dark turn. 

SPENCER: Do you want to talk about it? 

Maggie pauses. 

MAGGIE: Um, I mean, sometimes I get sad, but for the most part I’m okay. I think I’ve finally accepted that it happened. You know, I’m actually sort of relieved that I didn’t carry the baby full term, because could you imagine how complicated that would be? Yeah, it’s . . . it’s better this way. And I’ve always wanted a family, but if I had that sperm donor’s baby, I wouldn’t have a family, it’d just be me and the baby. But I want my child to grow up with a father, you know?

Yes, Reid does know. He wishes his father was around. 

SPENCER: Yeah, I do. 

MAGGIE: What about you? Do you want kids?

SPENCER: Absolutely. It’s funny because I always say that I could never picture myself leaving my job and I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. But if I had kids, they’d be the exception. I, uh, 

Spencer lightly laughs and looks down. 

SPENCER: Yeah, I don’t know, I just really want to be a dad one day. 

MAGGIE: You’d be a really good dad. I mean that. 

Originally, Maggie and Spencer were both looking up at the sky, but after Spencer turned his head and Maggie turned hers, their faces were only inches away. Spencer licks his lips as he contemplates kissing her. But he pivots. He smiles and kisses her forehead. 

Simultaneously, a firework goes off, startling the duo. Maggie laughs in excitement. 

SPENCER: Did you know that at MIT, one of the lessons they taught students earning their degree in chemistry was how to make a firework?

MAGGIE: You know how to make one? What do they use to make the colors?

SPENCER: Good question. To create certain colors, different physical elements are used. Magnesium creates a bright white light, like that one right there. While strontium and lithium each showcase a different shade of red, like the first one we saw. But the most dangerous colors to form, blues and greens, are formed from barium and copper. 

Spencer’s explanation continues for a little longer. The view above the pair zooms out. They’re just two small people on the roof of the hospital. 

. . .

Spencer is in his apartment. He’s on the phone with Maggie. 

MAGGIE: So I’m looking at an apartment in Manassas right now. It’s only half an hour away from the school and it’s a 45 minute drive from your apartment. 

SPENCER: You’re not very good at changing the subject, Maggie. Even now, I can read your body language. 

MAGGIE: I’m not changing the subject. I’m just mentioning my other options that are unrelated to the one you proposed. 

SPENCER: Wow, is the idea of living with me really that bad?

MAGGIE: No! I would love to live with you. 

SPENCER: But?

MAGGIE: But you’ve already done so much. You’ve saved my life twice, visited me every week I’ve been in the hospital, made the Fourth of July fun again, and helped me find a great teaching job over there. So I am sincerely grateful, but moving in with you would feel like taking advantage of your good heart. You’ve done a lot for me already, okay? I can take care of myself from now on. 

SPENCER: Okay, think of it instead as a mutualistic relationship. We both receive net benefits from moving in. You wouldn’t be taking advantage of me because I’d be gaining something from it, too. I’d have a roommate and my rent would dichotomize. And for you, you’ll only be driving 15 minutes to work instead of 30. 

MAGGIE: Did you ever consider being a lawyer? You’re quite convincing. 

SPENCER: So is that a yes?

MAGGIE: It’s a “Yes I’ll move in with you but only if Plan A doesn’t pan out.”

SPENCER: Promise me you’ll think about it. 

MAGGIE: Okay, fine. I’ll think about it. 

SPENCER: Say it. 

MAGGIE: I promise. 

Spencer yawns. Maggie hears it. 

MAGGIE: What time is it over there?

SPENCER: 11:54. 

MAGGIE: Spencer! Why didn’t you tell me? You should’ve been asleep like two hours ago.

SPENCER: I’ll be fine. I don’t have to be at work until 7.

MAGGIE: You of all people know how bad it is to get less than 8 hours of sleep. I’m gonna hang up now so you can at least get 6. 

SPENCER: Then I’ll call back.

MAGGIE: Then I’ll decline. 

SPENCER: Fine, if I go to sleep, you have to agree to consider living with me as more than a Plan B.

MAGGIE: I already said I would! 

SPENCER: Mmm no. I’m not really feeling it. You have to say it nicely.  

MAGGIE: If you sleep now, I’ll consider living with you as more than a backup plan. 

SPENCER: Music to my ears. Sleep well, Maggie. 

MAGGIE: Sweet dreams, Spencer. 

Spencer lets Maggie hang up. Let it be known, that he has never once ended a call. 

. . .

It’s a few weeks later. Maggie’s finally out of the hospital. It’s official that she has the teacher job - no interview required thanks to Garcia. Currently, she and Spencer are packing the last of her things away into boxes in preparation for the cross country move she’s making tomorrow. 

MAGGIE: I know I’m still a little fragile, but the doctor said I’m all clear to resume normal activities. So would you please let me help you with the boxes?

SPENCER: Mmm, I don’t think so. 

MAGGIE: Need I remind you that I’ve been through worse than packing?

SPENCER: That would violate our designated jobs! I pack the boxes - you label them, remember? 

Spencer picks up a book from her shelf and reads the spine of it. From the looks of how empty the bookshelf is, he’s been packing away the books this entire time they’ve been packing.

SPENCER: By the way, I love your book collection. Very diverse. But the way you’ve organized them is peculiar, though. 

MAGGIE: What do you mean? Each shelf is categorized by genre. 

SPENCER: No, I figured that out, but why not in alphabetical order? Cause, see, you have several books from Dickens, but they’re sporadic on your shelves. And again with Austen and Steinbeck, you have several of their books, so organizing by last name means that all the books by the same author would be together. 

MAGGIE: Alright then, when I move, you can organize my bookshelf. 

SPENCER: Sweet!

MAGGIE: I was joki-

Maggie notices that Spencer actually takes pleasure in organizing her books, so she refrains from saying she’s joking. 

MAGGIE: Can I see a box? I forgot I have stuff on my fridge still to take down. 

SPENCER: Here. 

Spencer hands Maggie a box. Maggie begins to fill the box with her fridge magnets, postcards, and small reminders she put on her fridge. Only one picture is left on the fridge - a sonogram picture. Maggie had completely forgotten it was even there. But she drops the box immediately and pulls it off, placing it close to her chest. 

SPENCER: You okay?

Maggie pauses for a moment cherishing the picture. 

MAGGIE: Yeah.

SPENCER: What is it?

Spencer comes over. 

MAGGIE: I thought I threw this away, but I guess I didn’t. It was my first sonogram. 

SPENCER: Oh, from a few weeks ago?

MAGGIE: No - years ago. This is Elijah’s. 

Maggie smiles when she sees the picture. 

SPENCER: I think you should keep it - the picture I mean.

MAGGIE: Yeah, I think I might. I mean, if it’s stayed with me all these years, no sense in throwing it away now. 

Maggie puts the picture at the top of the pile in the box. 

. . . 

Maggie and Spencer are on the plane heading to Virginia. Reid’s reading and Maggie is sorting through some papers with an earbud in one ear.

MAGGIE: Before we left, I contacted the landlord for that apartment in Manassas weeks ago, but he never got back to me. 

SPENCER: I guess it’s a good thing you have a Plan B then. 

Spencer smirks. 

MAGGIE: Remind me again that we mutually benefit so I don’t feel so guilty that you’re constantly helping me but I can never find the opportunity to pay you back. 

SPENCER: Stop it, okay. I want you to move in with me. 

MAGGIE: I snore really loudly. 

SPENCER: Completely okay. 

MAGGIE: I take long showers. 

SPENCER: Not a problem. 

MAGGIE: Late at night, I’ll get random bursts of energy and get really hyper and bothersome. 

SPENCER: So do I. 

Maggie groans in frustration. 

MAGGIE: I feel like you know the reason why I don’t want to move in with you, but even I don’t know why. 

SPENCER: It’s quite simple actually. You’ve spent nearly a decade living alone. And because of that, you think you prefer isolation over having company. But in reality, you’re just scared. Because the last time you were surrounded by a lot of people, they eventually died, essentially abandoning you. And it might not seem like it, but I know exactly what that feels like. To be scared of abandonment. 

MAGGIE: Really?

SPENCER: When I was three, my dad left me and my mom. And a year ago, my girlfriend was shot in front of me.

Maggie’s speechless. 

SPENCER: You and I - we’re scared to let people in and get attached to them. The reason is because we’re afraid to suffer or let go. So, we think, in order to protect ourselves, we have to stay away from the people we’re getting attached to - which is hard because it is equivalent to avoiding the privilege of becoming happy. So we’re caught in the middle of which pain we’d rather endure - the pain caused by unhappiness and loneliness, or the pain that we know, nobody will ever be strong enough to stand against - the pain of letting go. 

Maggie’s astonished. 

MAGGIE: If our love could’ve saved them, they would’ve lived forever. 

A tear rolls down Maggie’s cheek. Spencer uses the pad of his thumb to brush it away. 

. . .

Maggie and Spencer are at the baggage claim of the Virginia Airport. Maggie yawns and leans into Spencer, who puts his arm around her and comfortingly rubs her. 

SPENCER: Tired?

MAGGIE: Extremely. 

SPENCER: We can get coffee on the way home. 

MAGGIE: Are you reading my mind right now?

Spencer laughs.

Maggie sees her suitcase come through on the conveyor belt. Maggie lifts her baggage up, and they begin to exit the airport. 

. . .

Spencer is driving and Maggie is in the passenger seat, trying to fight her sleepiness. 

SPENCER: Tell me about your parents. 

Maggie’s surprised by not unwilling. 

MAGGIE: My mom’s name was Amina. She met my dad, Sonny, in college, and had me when she was 24, but he took off when she got pregnant. At first, I didn’t mind it just being the two of us, but when I was seven, there was a father-daughter dance at my school. I wrote him a letter inviting him to it. He didn’t show up, of course. Not that I really expected him to, but ever since then, I’ve resented him. My mom used to say that he was the reason why I dated Charlie. She said that I never got to see an example of what a good man looks like or how a girl should be treated. In hindsight, she was totally right. 

SPENCER: How did she react to your pregnancy?

MAGGIE: Well, at first she said she was gonna slap Charlie, but she wasn’t even really mad at me. Instead, she just said that if I wanted to have a future and if I wanted the baby to have a good future, I should set up an adoption. Later that same year, she helped me file a restraining order on Charlie. My mom was always looking out for me. It felt like she always knew what the right choice was.

SPENCER: She sounds like a really good person. 

MAGGIE: And she was. I just wish I told her that more often. Growing up, I thought one day I’d get a job and become rich enough to support the both of us. I’d even buy her a range rover - it was a car she wanted since forever. I never got to do that for her, but she used to say to me, “Some people are so poor, all they have is money.” And I think about that everyday. I was never spoiled or born with a golden spoon, but we were so rich in love. She loved me so much, that she’s the reason I wanted to have a baby. Just days after her death anniversary, I visited the clinic. It’s silly, but I just wanted to be half as good a mother as she was.

SPENCER: I feel the same way about my mom. I wanted to grow up and create a cure for schizophrenia by the time I was 29. And even though I’m far from doing so, I’m not giving up hope that I still can. 

MAGGIE: Does she live here?

SPENCER: She’s in a facility in Vegas. 

MAGGIE: Well, if I ever find myself in Nevada, I’d really like to thank her for raising the perfect son. 

Spencer gaily smiles.

SPENCER: Would you maybe want to visit her with me one day?

Maggie nods.

SPENCER: You two would have a lot to talk about. She was a former professor of 15th century literature. 

MAGGIE: Does she still hold lectures?

SPENCER: She does. I attended one of them years ago. It completely changed my perspective. I realized that I owe all of who I am today to her. 

MAGGIE: Then we have to attend one of her lectures when we visit.

SPENCER: She’ll be so happy when I let her know. 

Maggie and Spencer continue to talk about literature. 

. . .

Now in a coffee shop, Maggie and Spencer are nursing their drinks at a table in the corner of the cafe. 

MAGGIE: Earlier, we were talking about your mom a lot, but on the plane, we spoke about your dad leaving when you were really little.

SPENCER: Yeah, um, eventually he wrote a letter saying that he just didn’t know how to be a dad to me anymore. That and he couldn’t deal with my mom’s paranoid schizophrenia anymore. 

MAGGIE: I’m sorry to hear that. I know it’s not easy growing up without a dad. 

SPENCER: He’s partly the reason I want to have kids. I want to be the dad mine never was.

Maggie nods. 

SPENCER: I’m not as mad as I used to be about it. Over time, I slowly stopped caring about him. 

MAGGIE: As you should. 

SPENCER: Um, we still have an hour before we’re home so-

MAGGIE: Yeah, no of course. Lemme just use the bathroom really quick before we go. 

Maggie leaves her phone and her coffee cup at the table. Spencer sips from his drink but stops when he sees Maggie’s phone ringing. The call’s number has a familiar area code. Spencer instantly recognizes it from Manassas. He realizes that the caller is the landlord from the apartment in Manassas that Maggie said hadn’t gotten back to her. He looks at the bathroom and sees Maggie isn’t back yet, so he declines and deletes the call. 

He wants Maggie to live with him, and knowing the landlord called her back would ruin any chances of that happening. And Spencer wasn’t taking any chances. 

. . . 

Maggie and Spencer are finally at his apartment. They’re climbing the flight of stairs, with Spencer carrying Maggie’s backpack for her - like a gentleman. When they reach his door, Spencer unlocks it and opens it for her to walk through first. In that same breath, confetti comes flying. 

Maggie is startled by this, but comes to realize that the entire BAU is in his apartment. A banner hangs behind the team saying “Welcome!”

She laughs and goes to greet each of them.

JJ: I’m JJ. 

Maggie shakes her hand. 

MAGGIE: Maggie Tate. Nice to meet you. 

MORGAN: Derek Morgan. I’ve heard a lot about you. 

MAGGIE: All good things I hope. 

HOTCH: Aaron Hotchner. 

MAGGIE: Right of course. I remember you from the day you guys found me. 

BLAKE: Alex Blake. Nice to finally meet you. 

MAGGIE: Likewise.

ROSSI: David Rossi. Spencer’s Italian grandpa. 

Maggie laughs and Rossi greets her by kissing each of her cheeks. 

ROSSI: Got any Italian blood in you?

MAGGIE: Oh, I wish. Half Filipino, half Mexican. 

ROSSI: A beautiful mix nonetheless. 

Finally, Maggie meets Penelope. Before Maggie can even say anything, Penelope envelopes her in a huge hug. 

MAGGIE: You must be Penelope!

She pulls away.

GARCIA: At your service. 

MAGGIE: I really like your glasses. Cool color. 

GARCIA: (to Spencer) I love her already. 

Maggie returns to Spencer after all the greetings.  

MAGGIE: Did you know they were gonna do this?

SPENCER: I might’ve. 

Maggie turns back to everyone.

MAGGIE: I wish I would’ve known I was meeting you all, I would’ve worn something nicer than leggings and jet lag. 

They laugh and tell her that it’s not a problem. 

GARCIA: So we thought you guys might be hungry, so there’s chips and guac as well as other little snacks. 

MAGGIE: It’s crazy, because I was craving just that.

Penelope gasps and smiles. She extends her arm for Maggie to wrap her arm around. 

GARCIA: Well then let’s dig in. 

Garcia leads Maggie arm in arm to the food. While Spencer draws back to set her things down. JJ waits up for him. 

JJ: She’s pretty. 

SPENCER: She is, isn't she? And she’s more than that, too. Everytime we talk, she never fails to surprise me with her wit or mind. She reminds me a lot of you. 

JJ smiles as Spencer and her rejoin the group. 

. . .

It’s almost the evening now, and Maggie and Spencer are bidding each guest goodbye. The last one to leave is of course Penelope. But when she does, Spencer and Maggie are alone again. Spencer shuts the door behind Garcia, and turns and presses his back to it and sighs. Maggie exhales too. 

SPENCER: I’m sorry about that. I didn’t think this would last for as long as it did. 

MAGGIE: No, no don’t apologize. I like spending time with them. I’m pretty sure Garcia’s energy cured my jet lag. 

Spencer laughs and walks back to Maggie.

MAGGIE: I think I’m gonna go shower now. Try to wash off the flight from me. 

Spencer nods and leads her to the bathroom. 

SPENCER: Just turn this knob to the left if you want it hotter, and to the right if you want cold water. When you’re done just press down on this. 

Spencer presses on the little knob, and when he does, the shower sprays him with water and sprays Maggie, too. She squeals and begins to laugh when she sees Spencer’s hair is drenched. It’s all stringy and in his face, so she pushes it back to see his smiling face. She leaves her hands around his cheeks, cupping his face. 

MAGGIE: Well that’s one way to get wet!

SPENCER: Oh yeah? What’s the other?

The delivery of his innuedo is so subtly seductive. Maggie dismisses it and laughs instead. 

MAGGIE: Um, just tell me where the towels are and I can bring you one to dry your hair. 

He points her in the direction and Maggie promptly leaves the bathroom. When she does, Spencer sees himself in the mirror and realizes just how ridiculous he looks. But on the inside, he feels doubly ridiculous. He’s so embarrassed from what he just said that his cheeks turn red. 

. . . 

Spencer is cleaning up what was left of the welcoming party. He’s in the kitchen, when he hears Maggie exit the shower. Her hair is damp and stringy, and she’s drying it with a towel. Spencer notices the clothes she’s wearing. She has on sweatpants and to his surprise, his shirt. 

MAGGIE: I forgot my pajamas were with the moving truck. I hope you don’t mind. 

SPENCER: Not at all. 

Maggie thanks him with a smile and walks a little more into the living room. She notices that the couch has a blanket and pillows on it. 

MAGGIE: What is this?

SPENCER: What do you mean?

MAGGIE: Are you gonna sleep out here?

SPENCER: Yeah, why?

MAGGIE: No. 

SPENCER: No what?

MAGGIE: No, you’re not sleeping on your couch in your own apartment. I won’t let you. 

SPENCER: It’s fine really. I’ve slept on it before. 

MAGGIE: Do you not want to share a bed?

SPENCER: No, it’s not about that. I just want you to have the bed to yourself. 

MAGGIE: If anything, I should be sleeping on the couch because I’m a guest.

SPENCER: No, I’m serious. I’ll sleep out here. 

MAGGIE: Okay fine. 

Maggie dramatically flops onto the couch. 

MAGGIE: Then I’ll join you. 

Spencer sighs and shakes his head. 

SPENCER: You’re really gonna sleep on the couch with me?

MAGGIE: Mhm. 

SPENCER: Why are you being so stubborn?

MAGGIE: Why are you being so stubborn?

SPENCER: Are you just gonna repeat what I’m saying?

MAGGIE: Are you just gonna repeat what I’m saying?

SPENCER: You’re acting childish. 

Spencer comes over to Maggie. He stands in front of her, towering over her small figure. 

MAGGIE: You’re acting childish. 

SPENCER: Stop repeating what I’m saying.

MAGGIE: Stop repeating what I’m saying. 

SPENCER: I mean it, Maggie!

She shoots up from the couch and makes a grumpy face to imitate Spencer. Their bodies are so close. 

MAGGIE: I mean it, Maggie!

Spencer takes the opportunity of their closeness and uses it to put his arms behind her back and swoop her up - bridal style. Maggie squeals and tries to squirm out of his arms, but he resists and carries her all the way into the bedroom. He tosses her onto the bed and starts to tickle at her sides. 

MAGGIE: Stop! Stop!

Maggie’s laughing so hard, she’s breathless. 

SPENCER: Not until you agree to sleep in the bed. 

MAGGIE: I want to sleep on the couch with you!

SPENCER: Well I guess I’m gonna keep tickling you then. 

Maggie laughs so hard she’s almost in tears. Suddenly, she sees a window of opportunity to escape. When she does she runs out into the living room. Spencer chases after her through the apartment. Maggie dodges some of his attempts to capture her, but is ultimately outrun by him. He gets her to fall flat on the couch as he hovers above her. Both of them are smiling and breathless. 

SPENCER: You’re not gonna give this up are you?

Maggie shakes her head no. 

SPENCER: Alright, I surrender. But if in the morning, you wake up and find that you’ve magically teleported to the bed after falling asleep on the couch, it wasn’t me. 

MAGGIE: Deal. 

. . .

It’s sometime late at night and Spencer has finished showering. Maggie’s traveling through his apartment and looking at everything closer. She notices he has a record player. And all the records are classical music.

MAGGIE: Interesting record collection. Beethoven, Mozart, and Bach. Why am I not surprised?

SPENCER: Am I that predictable?

MAGGIE: Just a little. Care if I try to expand your music taste? 

Maggie pulls out her phone. After some scrolling and typing, she begins to play “The Night We Met” by Lord Huron. Spencer is unfamiliar with this song, but it’s abundantly clear Maggie loves it. 

MAGGIE: Do you dance?

SPENCER: Oh, no, no. 

MAGGIE: Just dance with me. I’ll teach you. 

The song plays in the background as Spencer shyly approaches Maggie. Maggie puts one arm out and Spencer takes her hand. Then he timidly puts his hand on her back, but with confidence, Maggie slides his hand down to her waist. Maggie puts her hand on his shoulder. Promptly, Spencer and Maggie both peer down at their feet as Maggie leads the dance. She does the classic box step, and after fidgeting around, Spencer gets it. 

MAGGIE: There you go. You got it!

They dance a little more. 

MAGGIE: Do you think you can lead?

Spencer nods, and Maggie lets him lead. As the song reaches the chorus, Spencer finally gets his confidence. He doesn’t have to look down at his feet anymore. He finally looks at Maggie. To her surprise, Spencer spins her and dips her. They stay put in this position. Neither of them break eye contact.

MAGGIE: You sure you don’t dance?

Spencer sheepishly smiles and shakes his head. He brings her up from the dip. Maggie’s flustered from the thrill of dancing with him, so much so that she pulls away.

MAGGIE: So, did you um, did you like the song?

SPENCER: Yeah, I did. 

MAGGIE: You know, that, that could be like our song. 

SPENCER: Our song. Yeah, okay. 

. . . 

It’s the middle of the night now. Maggie is sprawled across the couch, asleep. Spencer is at the table reading. He only has one dim light on so as not to make it harder for Maggie to sleep with a bigger light on. He peers over the couch and sees that she’s sleeping so he picks her up and carries her bridal style again. When he lays her in the bed, she stirs and mumbles. 

MAGGIE: (quietly) Spencer?

SPENCER: (whispering) Sorry, I was trying not to wake you. 

MAGGIE: Can you just sleep in the bed? I don’t want you on the couch. 

SPENCER: Yeah, yeah. I’ll sleep on the bed. I’ll sleep soon, but I’m just gonna be outside reading. Goodnight, Maggie. 

Maggie’s already fallen fast asleep again. Spencer leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. 

As Spencer approaches the table, his reading material can be visibly seen. A thick stack of papers within a manila folder labeled “CONFIDENTIAL.” He opens it to resume reading the contents. On the very front, a scanned picture of a man’s driver’s license is paperclipped to another paper. The name on the driver’s license reads, “S.J Glover.” a.k.a Sonny Jr. Maggie’s dad. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

[benedictscanvas]

all the wrong places [2/7] - spencer reid x reader

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: 2k

Summary: It only takes a moment for Spencer to realise that he doesn’t just want to marry you someday, he wants to marry you as soon as he possibly can. But since he can’t come up with a solid plan, he turns to his BAU family for help in planning the most important day of his life so far. Is that a mistake? Most definitely.

Warnings: Series probably aren’t meant to be exclusively fluffy, but this one practically is! I need some fluff in my life, damn it! There may be some mention of regular Criminal Minds things, some language but mostly just good ol’ Spence lovin’

a chapter every day for seven days! (20-26th July 2020) so please drop an ask if you’d like to be tagged <3

---

Chapter Two - By Candlelight

It had been a week since Spencer’s attempt to propose to you had gone so horribly wrong. And, as it turned out, Derek and JJ had been watching at the time from his desk and Derek had gasped when he knelt down, so JJ now knew everything too. That wasn’t so bad. What was an issue in Spencer’s eyes, was the fact that neither of them had stopped teasing him about it since.

“Spencer,” Derek said on the jet home from the case that they’d been on for that week. Spencer looked up to find him above him, but was already suspicious, seeing as he couldn’t remember the last time Derek had called him by his first name. His suspicions were proved correct when Derek knelt down in front of him, an earnest look painted in his eyes, “I just...need to tie my laces.”

“Your shoes don’t even have laces, Morgan,” Spencer replied coolly, returning to his book, although he was really checking you were still asleep out of the corner of his eye.

Derek simply laughed and took his seat beside JJ again who was trying to glare at Derek in warning but couldn’t help bursting out laughing herself.

“Sorry, Reid, it’s hard to resist. It’s also hard to get the mental picture of last week out of my head.”

“Imagine how I feel,” Spencer deadpanned, still focused on the book. JJ clearly took pity, as she motioned for him to lower his book and he did so reluctantly.

“You can’t let this put you off completely,” she said kindly, “Just come up with a new plan. Something that can’t go wrong.”

“Anything could go wrong. Literally anything I plan could go wrong in some-”

“Romantic dinner, Spence! Just the two of you, some fancy restaurant she likes, the ring. It won’t go wrong.”

Maybe she was right. He did still want to propose to you more than anything, especially having seen the determination you showed on this case. You had been the one to make the breakthrough and the way in which you explained it to the group had him watching you with those dopey proposal eyes that he found himself having to shake off far too often now. Dinner was surely one of the most foolproof plans. So many had done it. It must be a safe (ish) bet.

“Y/N doesn’t really like fancy restaurants,” he said instead, because it was the first thing he could think to say.

“All women do really, even if they say they don’t,” JJ said confidently. Spencer’s nose scrunched up. He really didn’t think you did. But JJ was most likely a better judge of women than he was, he reckoned, adding up the evidence, so he wouldn’t argue.

“I don’t think even you could mess this one up, kid,” Derek said jokingly, though it earned him a sharp elbow in the ribs from JJ.

“Just book a table for that incredible French place tomorrow night and don’t tell Y/N where you’re going. And make sure you tell the restaurant what you’re planning too, they’ll pull out all the stops.”

He wasn’t sold on it. But he wasn’t sold on any of the ideas he’d come up with either and he wasn’t sure how much longer he was willing to wait to call you his fiancee. So he smiled a little half smile at his friends.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

JJ clapped her hands with glee, which woke you up. Spencer simply glared at her, but when you gave him that soft sleepy smile with half-lidded eyes from the other side of the jet, his resolve against her melted away. He asked JJ to google the number for the French restaurant.

Technology had never been his forte, after all.

---

His heart was beating out of his chest, but it had been for hours now, so he felt he was beginning to get used to the feeling.

He put all of his focus and concentration into driving the two of you to the restaurant, trying to ignore how beautiful you looked in your dress, how underdressed he felt for the occasion, how uncomfortable the little box in his pocket was.

The texts he had got from JJ and Derek, wishing him all the luck in the world and, in Derek’s case, telling him not to fuck it up again, did nothing to calm him down. In fact, he got a text from Penelope wishing him good luck too, telling him not to worry about how she’d found out, and then he found himself even less calm than he had been. Now, if this went wrong, he would have three people needing to know the sad, sad story rather than just two.

“You still not telling me where we’re going? You know I’m not one for surprises.”

“You don’t like surprises put together by people you don’t trust completely.”

You hummed at that, amused.

“Very true. And since I trust you more than anyone, I suppose I can let this slide,” you admitted with a smile in his direction, although he didn’t turn to look at it in case he got lost in the reflection of the streetlamps in your eyes and lost his nerve. Or lost control of the car.

“Good,” he said succinctly, then because he couldn’t help himself, “Have I told you how beautiful you look yet?”

“Three times already, and I only emerged from the bathroom half an hour ago,” you didn’t miss a beat, but he could see your fingers tapping a rhythm on your leg that told him he’d still managed to fluster you a little. He took great pride in it, “With your eidetic memory, I would expect you to know that, though, Doctor.”

“Maybe I do,” he said, as he pulled into a parking space on the street near the restaurant, “Doesn’t mean I’ll stop saying it.”

“We’re not going in there are we?” you asked incredulously, leaning over the centre console to look into the darkened windows of the restaurant over the road, “It looks so expensive, Spence!”

“You’re worth it,” he said simply with a mini-shrug, reaching over and lacing his fingers in yours before bringing your hand up to his mouth and kissing the back of it once, twice, “Let me open your door for you.”

He scrambled out of the car and round to your side before helping you out. You were eyeing him suspiciously now, but you took his arm as he led you inside anyway, because it was a chilly night in the streets of DC.

“I’ve not missed an anniversary, have I?”

“That was last month, don’t you remember?”

“I know that,” you said, faux exasperated, “But this isn’t one of those bullshit anniversaries people make up, is it? Like, the first time you gave me flowers or the first time we had sex on the jet.”

He almost snorted.

“We’ve never had sex on the jet, Y/N,” he reminded you pointedly and you wiggled your eyebrows at him suggestively, though it only made him stifle a laugh.

“I was just listing examples.”

“Well, no, it’s none of those things. I just wanted to do something special. You were fundamental to solving this case, and you deserve to be treated.”

How was his voice so calm, when he was so far from it? He had offered you his arm so that he didn’t have to take your hand again because otherwise you might realise how much he was sweating again. He was always sweating now. It was annoying.

“You’re sweet,” you giggled, flustered again, cuddling up to his side as the two of you entered the restaurant and were greeted by a wave of warm air from the indoor heating. It was a relief.

Spencer quickly realised that the place was indeed very, very fancy. Far fancier than he had expected when JJ described it to him. Was this the kind of place she encouraged Will to take her out to? Poor Will. Spencer wouldn’t be coming here again if he could help it, and it had nothing to do with the prices.

“Spencer, I don’t know what half these things are,” you whispered conspiratorially across the table, “And the menu isn’t even in French!”

This had been a terrible idea. Curse JJ. Curse Derek. Curse Penelope too, as it turned out.

“Yeah, I’m struggling too,” he admitted lowly, glancing around at the other patrons. They all fit right in. He did not feel quite so comfortable. But looking at you, you looked even more uncomfortable than him, pulling down the hem of your dress in your chair and fiddling with your necklace. He felt awful.

If he had just trusted himself (rather than JJ) he would never have put you in this situation.

The box in his pocket suddenly felt so much heavier as he realised there was no way he would be taking it out anytime this evening. Not when all his instincts had now focused in on getting you out of here as quickly as he could.

He looked outside the window. Looked back to you.

“You’re a genius and you’re struggling? There really is no hope for me then.”

You were still finding the heart to joke around, but your voice was quiet and he knew if you stayed then he wouldn’t hear any of that raucous laughter he always coaxed out of you at that diner a few blocks away.

A lightbulb moment. The diner.

“You think we could sneak out?”

“What?”

“This was a terrible plan, and I’m sorry, but we could sneak out now and get burgers,” he said hurriedly, watching as your eyes lit up, “If you want?”

“Oh, I want. I definitely want,” you said, the glimmer in your eyes telling him exactly what you were about to do. You stood up, glad to finally have an excuse to leave all these formalities behind you and hollered, “Let’s go!”

There was a clatter where someone dropped their cutlery at the sudden noise. Spencer barked out a laugh and didn’t stop laughing as you began running out of the venue, grabbing his arm on your way and bringing him out with you. The two of you were breathless as your crossed the road to the car and got in. When Spencer glanced back at the restaurant, he saw a man playing the violin making his way to your table. He grimaced. So that was what the place had planned for him. His idea was so much better, even if the ring was staying put.

He was reminded of that fact when you leaned across the car and pulled his face to yours, kissing him with every bit of air you had left after all the laughing. It wasn’t much air. When you were quickly forced to pull away, still gasping and still giggling, you stayed close and he relished the light scratch of your fingernails in the curls at the base of his neck.

“I love you,” you whispered to him, giving him your whole heart as you did so often. His thumb found its rightful place on your cheekbone, stroking back and forth, “Let’s go eat.”

“Let’s go eat.”

And with that you were slipping back into your seat, each of you clicking seatbelts into place with eager haste. The burgers at the diner really were extraordinary, and the milkshakes were perfect for sharing. Although, he bargained, he’d never thought so before you were around. Maybe everything was perfect for sharing with you.

He drove off, trying not to smile to widely at the thought as your hand rested heavy and welcome on his thigh. Silently, he thanked the gods he’d never believed in that the ring was secured firmly in his other pocket.

---

taglist (ily all <3)

@mrs-dr-reid @soda610 @alexxcorona113 @thupidalethea @may-beforejune-afterapril @ilovesupersoldiers @hurricanejjareau @stardream14 @mortallythoughtfulgurl @aperrywilliams @saranyx @anotherspencerreidblog @thegayestdestielshipper @burkgolden​  @reidsmyhusband-emilysmymistress @zozoleesi @baumindss

[sunlitcigars]

Soft!Dallas Headcanons

(Is this a little ooc? Yes. Am I also a slut for Soft!Dallas? 110% also yes.)

(Not my GIF)

Tags: @lastluvbug @disasterinadress97​

General:

 Dallas would never admit it but he has separation anxiety 

It's always why he stays at Bucks because he knows he's not alone and also why he's always at the Curtis'

He's also got PTSD from New York

Certain gunshots trigger memories in him

We all know the boy is touch starved let's be honest

He's subtle about it though like him always swinging his arm around Johnny and/or touching shoulders with Ponyboy or anyone of the gang

He loves the feeling of someone running their fingers through his hair

He really enjoys cuddles

Doesn't really matter what kind they are he just wants someone to hold him and make him feel okay

Always has his shirt tucked in as a habit because back in New York a lot of people would touch up on him 

 When he's nervous or on the verge of a breakdown he either starts bouncing his legs non-stop or starts scratching at his arms 

Will also play with his ring if he has it on

When he's stressed out and doesn't want to bother the gang or anybody else he'll usually go to the lot and watch the clouds go by if it's nice whether 

But when it rains he'll usually be up in his room at Buck's and watch from his window as it passes by (same goes when it's snowing)

He may like rain but he's scared of thunderstorms

Whenever he hears thunder he either puts his knees to his chest and bury his head in his legs or cover his ears or both

When that happens at the Curtis' one of the guys rub his back and pull him close to them until it's over 

 One of the things he's also afraid of is the dark since his whole life has been consumed by it

If the power goes out when he's alone he grabs a pillow and imagines one of the gang or someone so it doesn't seem like he's alone 

If the power goes out when he's at the Curtis' he'll grab someone's arm or hide his face in their shoulders

Can make bombass cupcakes and cookies but no one has ever tried them except for Tim

He actually really likes jazz because it reminds him of a simpler time in his life

Dallas doesn't really like big parties because the amount of loud shouting reminds him of back in New York when either the police would shoot at random gang members or something else

HE'S EMOTIONALLY UNSTABLE AND WE ALL KNOW IT 

Dallas was close to Mrs. Curtis because she was the only women in his life that represented a motherly figure to him 

But when he heard the news about the crash he locked himself up in his room silently crying and never left the room the gang or anyone for that matter saw him for at least two weeks

(The only time anyone saw him in between those two weeks was at Mr. and Mrs. Curtis' fun

NSFW:

He's the type to talk big but is actually really shy in bed

Some people thinks he's the bratty sub type but really he gets flustered so easily

He's packing a 5 ½ to 6 Inches let's be honest here

He's not good with words in bed so if he wants something he'll stutter it out or whisper/mutter it under his breath

He feels so vulnerable laid out naked for the person on the bed 

He wants to feel he's validated enough to know that he's loved by the person 

He won't say it to anyone but he loves the feeling of being filled with cum 

His nipples are sensitive as fuck

Like if someone only played with them he'd orgasm in less then four minutes

D A D D Y  K I N K

H U M I L I A T I O N  K I N K

O R G A S M  C O N T R O L

He's actually really vocal during sex but would muffle his sounds with a pillow or cover his mouth with his hand or bite down on his lips

He whimpers

A lot

If he's feeling special then he'll put on a little show whether that's him strip teasing or touching himself for someone

If he's having a one night stand he prefers to be on his stomach/or hand and knees but if he's in a relationship then he prefers to be on his back so he can look at them and feel comfortable and safe

Hickeys are a huge fuck yes because they remind him who he belongs to and shows people not to try and hook up with him

Another one night stand vs. An actual relationship is that he usually has a cigarette after having sex but if he's in a relationship then he doesn't need one since he already feels content

Aftercare is a huge part for him 

He loves getting pampered and cared for because it's the only time he feels like he doesn't have to act so tough and can relax and let his walls down

FYI he's capable of doing grabby hands just so y'all know

In A Relationship:

He's with the person 24/7

Will low key freak out if he doesn't know where they are and where they went

He's afraid of them finding someone better than him because he feels like he's not good enough for the other person 

Is a little possessive overprotective of the person

If he gets sent to jail he'll give the person his necklace until he's out

He'll also grab something from the person so it doesn't feel like he's completely alone in there

He won't show it but when him and the person are talking through the glass his eyes are filled with loneliness and desperation 

Once he's out he's not leaving their side

Will beat the shit out of anyone who talks shit about his person in a god damn heart beat

He used to be in an abusive relationship so he doesn't let down his walls all the way

If he did something wrong he's always expecting for the worse but then he has to remind himself that they aren't his ex

If him and the person are arguing and they lift up their arm to make a gesture or whatever he will flinch away from them

If they try and leave the bed he'll cling to them like his life depended on it

E X T R A clingy when drunk

He never said I love you so when he said it to the person for the first time he was a stuttering mess

DD/LB: (If you don't like this please don't bitch about it or just simply skip this part)

His headspace is between 4 to 5 years old

Loves when his caregivers call him pet names

Baby boy and prince are his favorite

Likes to color because it keeps his anxiety at a neutral level

Slurs some of his words

Has a fluffy stuffed elephant named Lilac

Finds comfort in his caregivers voice

Clingy

If he wants to be picked up he'll make grabby hands

If he's tired then he'll crawl into his caregivers lap and nuzzle his face into their neck

When he's feeling on the verge of little space in public he'll unnoticeably hold the person's arm 

One of his favorite Disney movie is 101 Dalmatians

Loves to cuddle up in warm blankets

He has a habit of grinding his teeth so his pacifiers help him a lot 

It also helps him whenever he needs a smoke

Or when he needs to bite his lips

Likes bubble baths

His favorite scent to use is lavender :)

Unlike when he's in big headspace he doesn't try and break the rules because when he used to his past caregiver gave him harsh punishments

The first person from the gang he came out to was Ponyboy

One day Ponyboy had to go to Buck's place and while he was in Dallas' room saw Lilac

When he asked him about it Dallas was going to make an excuse but just decided to tell Ponyboy about it

Ponyboy told him he wasn't gonna tell anyone and he kept his word

He kept telling Dallas to tell the gang for a week

It took him a lot to tell the gang he was a little

They all had mixed reactions

All of them were very confused until he explained what it is

(Except for Ponyboy of course)

Darry started to feel more protective over him 

Johnny was surprised because he didn't think of all people Dallas would ever be a little but he was cool with it as long as it helps him

Sodapop is actually really happy about it and he wouldn't mind playing with him when he's in little space

Steve was a little uncomfortable knowing that the reckless hood was a little but he came to accept it

Everyone was waiting for Two-Bit to respond but all of a sudden he just walked out the door without saying anything

Dallas was on the verge of a panic attack and it took awhile for the gang to calm him down

It wasn't until later when Two-Bit came back but this time with a bunch of stuff

He'd gotten Dallas a stuffed animal, bottles, and even a fluffy blanket

Dallas almost started crying ngl

At the end of the day he was just happy his only family accepted him (#supportivegang2020)

When he's in little space the gang tries their best not to smoke or drink around him

On Sundays when they're all not busy they'll watch Disney movies together

One or two of the gang members is alway with him when they're out in public 

With The Gang:

Ponyboy:

Ponyboy reads to Dally whenever he sees him having a bad day or getting nervous 

Whenever Ponyboy reads to him Dallas either has his head in his lap while Ponyboy occasionally runs his hand through his hair or has his head on his shoulder 

On the occasion Dallas tags along with Ponyboy to the library and sometimes picks out a random book he finds interesting or Ponyboy would like and show it to him

Secretly he hopes that Ponyboy would read it out loud to him 

Darry and Soda won't allow him to go to Buck's but if Dallas calls and says he needs him he will not hesitate to go out the door to care for his boyfriend

 If Ponyboy has track Dallas waits for him until it's over

Going to the lot has become a weekly thing for them

When Dallas isn't looking Ponyboy would sneak in a paper that has a poem on it in either his jackets or his pants

Since Dallas never really went to school he has a hard time reading huge words or some so when he's reading over Ponyboy's shoulder he'll ask him

"What's that word?"

"This one?"

"Yeah."

"Absquatulate?"

"Oh." 

Ponyboy finds it fucking adorable

Sodapop:

Sodapop would take him to Dairy Queen and get sundaes and park somewhere with a nice view or park in the parking lot and watch the cars go by

Dallas often goes to the DX and wait until his shift is over 

Sometimes Sodapop will randomly put his hat on Dallas

Whenever girls try and flirt with Sodapop, Dallas either gives them a death state or tell them to fuck off and say he's taken

 When Dallas starts crying Soda will wipe away his tears with his thumbs and kiss his cheeks

Jokingly gave Dallas a promise ring he found somewhere not expecting him to actually wear it but was surprised when he saw it on Dallas' finger

If they're at a party sometimes Soda wanders off but once he sees how uncomfortable Dallas he is he's immediately back at his side

Ponyboy and Darry have walked in on them cuddling on the couch SO MANY TIMES

One time they walked in on them making out heavily Darry had to cover Ponyboy's eyes

Sodapop thinks Dallas looks H O T in his flannels

Darry:

Dallas would always steal borrow Darry's shirt because he feels comforted by it whenever Darry's at work

He absolutely loves it when Darry wraps his arms around him and would always snuggle closer to his chest

(If you really think I'm gonna let Patrick Swayze's singing voice go to waste you're very mistaken)

Whenever he's having a hard time sleeping Darry would usually sing to him until he falls back asleep

Or when Dallas is on edge Darry will hold him close to his chest and sing to him softly until he feels calm again 

Dallas loves Darry's morning voice because it's so low and low key a turn on

When they're out in public Darry would hook his finger around Dallas' belt loops on his jeans to keep him close to him

Some people don't fuck with Dallas as much because they know if they do they'll have to deal with Darry and no one wants to do that unless they have a death wish

If Dallas starts acting up in public all it takes is for Darry to whisper in his ear "behave" 

Darry once talked about the type of flowers his mom liked and kept in the house then a few days later when he got off work he saw the flowers he was talking about in a vase on the dining table with a paper attached saying "Don't ask where I got the flowers and vase"

He almost started crying right then and there

When Dallas is drunk he'll cling to either Darry's chest or back like a koala

One time one of the gang walked in on Darry cooking while Dallas just clung to his back but they didn't say anything in fear of waking up with their dick cut off

Johnny:

Surprisingly Johnny gets protective over 

He will now hesitate to throw down when someone starts talking crap about them

If they're out in public Johnny's always holding Dallas' hand 

Or if they're at the Curtis' Johnny would glance at Dallas every so often to see if he's okay

They both helped each other let their walls down 

When Johnny sees Dallas on edge or not at his best he nudges his head against his shoulder or on his face in hopes of cheering him up (it works more often than he thought it would but he ain't complaining)

 Johnny sometimes shows Dallas some of his favorite places around town

They've fallen asleep in the lot cuddled next to one another multiple times

Johnny tops Dallas sorry not sorry

Sharing cigarettes like kisses

Johnny mindlessly puts his arm in front of Dallas whenever someone's trying to pick a fight

Everytime Dallas talks bad about himself Johnny will be like not on my watch and will do everything and anything to make Dallas feel better

Dallas has a hard time sleeping at night knowing Johnny's with his parents

3AM conversations about the what ifs of life

Two-Bit:

Two-Bit will crack jokes to Dallas when they're alone together about how much of a softie he really is

But if anyone else made fun of Dally he'd beat the literal shit out of them

Also tells bad pick up lines to him even though they're already boyfriends

"Do you have a name? Or can I call you mine?"

Dallas would usually say something back but would low key be blushing

Always trying to make Dallas laugh because he loves it when he does

Would totally smack Dallas' ass in front of the gang

 Respects Dallas' boundaries when he's not feeling it

Ms. Mathews is actually really fond of Dallas 

His sister gave him the whole "hurt my brother and I'll hunt you down" talk

He didn't take it seriously but he keeps it in the back of his head

Dallas is the only one to see Two-Bit's hair without grease and he will play with his hair for hours on end

Two-Bit once fell asleep to Dallas playing with his hair and when he woke up he was still doing it

If they're watching Mickey Mouse Dallas is always on Two-Bit's lap

When he sees Dallas upset he'll do voice impressions of random people (Dallas finds it stupid but it always lightens his mood)

Steve:

Whenever Dallas' on the verge of having a breakdown Steve will drive Dallas around town to calm down

Soft music would be playing in the background while Steve either rubs Dallas' thighs or hold his hand

Dallas would run his finger around Steve's tattoo whenever they're cuddling

Dallas loves laying his head on Steve's chest because it's both soft and muscular 

When he does Steve softly plays with his hair

Whenever he leaves for work he wraps his shirt or jacket around him so Dallas could sleep better

Steve is really observant so whenever he sees something wrong with Dallas he always asks if he's okay

Will glare at anyone who's eyeing his Dallas

Never ever takes his anger out on Dallas

(God will have to fight him if he does)

Dates at the drive in movies and later eating at the diner

They'd always park where they won't get noticed so they can sneak in a few make out sessions here and there ;)

When they go to the diner Dallas kinda feels bad because Steve's always paying for their meals but he always reassures him it's okay

Him and Dallas constantly flirt when he visits the DX

Sodapop finds it amusing and annoying but as long as his best friend is happy he couldn't give a shit

~

Please reblog or comment!

 Let me know if you want to see more and if you'd like any to be turned into a short fic 

Also huge shout out to @lastluvbug​ for helping me come up with most of these ideas! (Thank you for saving my braincells)

[feliciohno]

I'm back but not without a quick psa

Okay ik I do like these little psa bullshits all the time and I am sorry and ik only like maybe 5 people care I'm just the kinda person who feels the need to over explain constantly even though ik I don't have to. Anyways, this is hopefully gonna be a quick thing and done but I just need to talk a little bit about my coming back and some changes to the blog so lets go.

So, I'll be honest, I'm not fully ready to come back. Just being frank but the only reason I'm coming back after about a month is because I wanted to take part in a Chaggie month during may and this is the blog I use for that kinda stuff. But I didn't want to reopen the blog and then just post about Hazbin cause honestly I'd feel bad. I know I say time and time again that this blog isn't JUST Hetalia but I'm not dumb, I know what you guys followed the blog for. And it's not that I blame anyone because where the content isn't only Hetalia it tends to be mostly Hetalia.

If it wasn't for the Chaggie month I probably would have stayed away longer ngl. Don't get me wrong, I do feel much better than I did when I first left. I just still don't feel great. Without getting too much into it, my brain doesn't really do great things sometimes. Whenever something bad happens to me it often will latch those emotions to things in the moment. Sometimes it's stuff like food or a song but a lot of times it's shows and characters and ships. It sucks cause it very often tends to hit special interests the most. There really isn't a special interest I have that I can enjoy without issue except maybe bats. And ik this is typically a trauma response but like? My brain recently has started to do it outside of trauma? Like I'm pretty sure I haven't gone through any trauma recently?? So idk man it's dumb and hates me. Anyways, there's still some characters and ships and stuff for Hetalia that I really can't look at without panicking lmao. But honestly it's okay. I'm kinda use to this kinda stuff by now?

Basically my hiatus was so I could step away from people and just like the show by myself. I blocked tags, I only interacted with the show and drew stuff for it when I felt like I wanted to or could. I only talked about the show with an extremely small select group of friends and even that was on rare occasion. There's a word for what I was trying to do but I can't remember it rn it's like re-something therapy. But whatever so yeah. And honestly? It was working really well. It's still working really well. I feel better than I did before. But like? It's still not great. There's gonna be stuff that still messes me up. This isn't the kinda thing that goes away over night and I knew that going into my hiatus. But! You guys stuck with me (from what I can tell) and I genuinely thank you all for that! So like yeah I am coming back to the blog including Hetalia posting. I'm probably gonna keep the tags blocked though and only look at like certain mutual content and stuff. Just stuff that I know for sure isn't gonna idk set me off (I desperately don't wanna call any of this stuff triggers cause then that's admitting how much they actually emotionally affect me and I'm not even gonna go there lmao).

That's basically it in regards of my hiatus BUT now I gotta talk about some changes to this blog. Nothing huge just two minor things.

The first thing is this blog is now my Problematic Media blog AND my blog to put Gore/N S F W content on. The main reason for this is I got accepted to be an artist on a blog called @/ponydoodles (if you like mlp related content go give it a follow :> ). One of the rules though of being an artist is the main blog you use and that is associated with your mod title can not have any extreme gore or N S F W content on it. Which like, I don't blame them for making that a rule. The mlp fandom has a lot of bad rep cause of older and probably even still modern fans. I have my own opinions on that kinda stuff but that's neither here nor there. So yeah! Any content of mine that is too suggestive or gory will be posted here no matter the source. Please make sure to block any tags of stuff you don't wanna see. And just a quick note, I will not be tagging N S F W content as such because those posts get blocked and it's FUCKING annoying. Instead I will be using the tag NSFT (not safe for tumblr) which from what I've seen is what most people are using these days. As for gore I always do my best to make sure everything is properly tagged with more intense or triggering content.

The last small change to this blog is this- I will no longer be posting about non blog related content on here. Lemme explain a little. I'm sure a lot of you noticed that I tend to make little posts here and there about myself, my life, cartoons just anything on my mind. The problem with this is I ended up almost killing my main blog @hext00ns because I was never fucking using it. And because I never used it for so long I don't get much interaction from people on that blog but I did start to get it here. From there it was a loop. I'd post more on here, causing less attention on my main, causing people to interact more with my side, causing me to want to post more on my side and less on my main. And honestly? It actually made me kinda depressed? In a weird way? It's kinda dumb but Hextoons is like my brand. Being the weird cartoon freak that knows way too much about animation and anything involving it has always and will always be my main and in some cases only personality trait lmao. It's also where I post my original content which is really important to me. So, here's what's gonna happen. I'm only gonna be posting about content that pertains to the sources and content that I use this blog for. Any other content or blogging or whatever will go on my main @hext00ns So like if you liked that kinda stuff or if you like other cartoons, anime, and video game stuff, just god please go follow that account. Genuinely. I promise that blog is full of the same F- bullshit quality all my content tends to be.

And one last thing cause I feel like some people are gonna be curious, yes you can still talk to me about Hetalia and send asks and shit. I still love asks and interactions more than life itself and that hasn't changed. It really is what motivates me to do shit. Comments, tags on reblogs, asks, this kinda stuff puts a fire under my ass to continue and create content that, I assume, you guys like. I'm always open to that kinda stuff on either blog. And where yeah, Hetalia kinda makin' me sad still just a bit, I am better. And honestly? I have the physical ability to just? Not check my notifs for a day or so if I need a short breather or I'm not feeling up to it? Like tech is so amazing how you can exit out of apps and windows like wow guys it's so crazy (/s/j).

So yeah, your fruity little Italian is back from superhell what's up bitches