group foster homes

a must read!

All right guys! I know some of you have read either The Foxhole Court and/or The Raven Cycle. Some of you may or may not also have read Aristotle and Dante discover the secrets of the universe? Yeah? Right?

I’ve got something for you: Silent by Sara Alva

It’s a must read I accidentally stumbled upon yesterday. It’s this absolutely beautiful, yet heart wrenching and unique novel about a gay kid, Alex, that gets thrown into the foster care system where he meets this other guy, Sebastian, who’s mute. It’s about dark pasts, survival, love and coming out.

After I finished it I looked it up here on tumblr and could hardly find anything. NOTHING. And it actually broke my heart a little since it’s such a beautiful story and truly deserves more attention. SO READ IT. It’s not even 4 USD on smashwords. And it’s so so so worth it!

And after you’ve read it? TALK TO ME <3

”Alex’s life as a teenager in South Central LA is far from perfect, but it’s his life, and he knows how to live it. He knows what role to play and what things to keep to himself. He’s got it all under control, until one lousy pair of shoes kicks him out of his world and lands him in a foster care group home. Surrounded by strangers and trapped in a life where he could never belong, Alex turns to the only person lower on the social ladder than he is: a “special” mute boy. In Sebastian, Alex finds a safe place to store his secrets—those that sent him to foster care, and the deeper one that sets him apart from the other teenagers he knows. But Sebastian has secrets of his own, and when tragedy rips the two boys apart, Alex will stop at nothing to find the answers—even if it means dragging them both through a past full of wounds best left buried. It might just be worth it, for the slim chance at love.” [goodreads link

(this is in reply to a cliche au prompt that I accidentally deleted about highschool au Cassian sneaking into Bodhi’s bedroom at 1.00am)

-Bodhi lives in a group foster home because of shit that happened in the past

-that same shit also has a tendency to wake him up in the night screaming and shaking

-he only joined Cassian’s high school that year and didn’t know anyone before

-Cassian was the first person who talked to him and they connected instantly

-it was only two weeks into the first semester when Bodhi woke up sobbing and without thinking grabbed his phone and called Cassian

-as soon as he heard what was going on Cassian didn’t even hesitate to grab some clothes and sneak out of his house, phone still clutched against his ear. it didn’t matter to him that he barely knew the kid, this guy was clearly distressed and had no one to turn to

-the group home was only a five minute walk away but climbing to the window of Bodhi’s third floor bedroom proved…tricky

-for an hour or two he stayed and hugged a shaking Bodhi and stroked his hair and whispered soothing things to him

-neither of them mentioned it at school

-it began to become a regular occurrence; Cassian made Bodhi promise to call ever time he couldn’t sleep or woke up or was just feeling a bit down

-he kind of enjoys the risk of sneaking through the window

-one night Cassian falls asleep and they are both woken by Bodhi’s alarm clock, wrapped in each other’s arms

-soon after, Bodhi asks him on a date

-as always, Cassian says yes

"Group home"? More like group house.

If you’re a teenager and for some reason it is decided you can no longer live with your parents or guardian you will probably enter the foster care system. However you most likely won’t live in a foster home you will be placed in a group home because nobody wants to take in a teenager. A group home is usually a house where usually up to 8 kids live at a time with staff that changes every shift. I don’t see how they can call this a “home” what it is, is a house and a everyday reminder that I’m in the system, A system that doesn’t care about you or your well being. I’ve been in the house about a month and not once have I gotten a call from my social services worker checking to make sure I’m alright. As if being in foster care didn’t make it hard enough to be a normal teenager you’re really isolated from other kids besides school which makes it hard to keep friends. In my group home we are barely allowed out and when we are its either to the library or mall 2-3 times a week for 2-3 hours. How can we be expected to have a healthy social life that way? Many group homes don’t even allow cell phones or iPods luckily mine does. I can’t even imagine how damaging that is to those kids they literally have such a minimum level of social interaction. The system is making it to easy to feel isolated, lonely and depressed. It sure doesn’t feel like a home when everything from the cabinets to the bathroom remained locked and you have to ask a staff to open them for you. It doesn’t feel like a home knowing when you’re at school staff is going through your whole room. It doesn’t feel like home when majority of the staff is there to receive a paycheck and doesn’t care about you. There is only a small amount of privacy, I at age seventeen can’t even take my birth control pills without staff handing it to me! The staff talk to each other and suddenly everyone knows your “story” as to why your there. You’re expected to deal with unfair rules and disrespect from staff without saying anything or you’ll receive a consequence. You get an allowance of ten dollars per week if my family didn’t come visit and provide me what I need I’d be screwed. Its sadly the reality for many kids living in group homes they don’t have anyoneto aide them like I do. I have learned that social services doesn’t care about us kids, are voices, are concerns, all they care is about sticking us somewhere because that’s their job and what they get paid to do. The system needs to change if the goal is to help these kids be successful regardless of their housing situation.

people don’t talk about modern!newsies headcanons enough like 

-they work at Barnes and Noble
-Katherine is an aspiring author/literature student who really loves her maxi skirts and Pinterest

-Davey takes up a part time job to help his parents pay the bills but he gets stuck babysitting Les so he sets him free in the children’s department of the store-
-Jack totally runs an aesthetic blog 

-that’s full of lots of pictures of nature
-and stills from old western movies
-the lodging house is probably a foster group home 

-store manager Wiesel overworking them and cutting their hours

-Spot Conlon works at like Books-A-Million on the other side of the mall
-Jack Kelly in skinny jeans, a flannel, and a beanie
-I’m putting it out there that Crutchie and Davey are total theatre geeks and probably cried watching Les Mis together or something

Go ahead. Be mad.

Client: I don’t like you anymore.

Me: I wouldn’t like me right now either if I were you.

Client: ….Whatever.

Me: You’re mad at me because yesterday I had to be a hard-ass. Do you think I enjoy being a hard-ass?

Client: *now laughing a little* ….No?

Me: Why was I a hard-ass?

Client: Because I was on the roof…

Me: And?

Client: …and I tried to AWOL.

Me: And?

Client:…. I punched staff.

Me: So that means what?

Client: ….you had to be a hard-ass.

Me: Yep.

Client: Why can’t you just let me go back home? *large teenage boy now whining*

Me: Because you would end up dead or in jail.

Client: But–

Me: Dead. 6 feet under. Or answering to ‘Bubba’ who thinks you have a pretty face. Neither of which is an attractive idea.

Client: Noooooo. *still whining but now laughing* Why are you so weird? How are you a therapist?

Me: Would you like me to get you a normal therapist?

 Client: HELL NO.

Me: Then you’re stuck with weird.

Client: FINE.

Me: If I make this shot, you have to admit that I’m right.

Client: Pfft. Whatever…You’re not gonna make–

Me: *makes three point shot*



The feeling when you thought all your life you had no family because you were abandoned in a bathroom stall as a newborn in Sunlit Tides and you grew up in group homes and foster care but then you marry a multi-millionaire who has a criminal younger brother who is plotting to kill another millionaire in Sunlit Tides and he uses a beautiful young stripper as part of his scheme but then the scheme goes wrong so him and the stripper have to hide out in your husband’s penthouse but then you almost kill the stripper (who is pregnant) in a fiery car crash and she needs a blood transfusion and your blood is the only compatible blood type in all of San Myshuno and that’s when you discover she’s your LITTLE SISTER!!!!  That’s how Allison feels right now :)

I made the pose for this scene, it’s so nice to make your own poses for a story.

anonymous asked:

Prompt: Ryan doesn't like to talk about his life before the crew and neither does Ray but pent up emotions hurt. Maybe it's time to talk... or scream.

Okay, I’m gonna be honest, this one has been on my mind since you sent it to me. Like I totally hardcore am in love with this one, so I thank you so much for sending it to me Anon:

Ryan’s the only one out at this time of night, shoulders hunched, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. He’s not sure why he decided to go for a walk this late, but there’s only so many infomercials he can watch before he wants to rip his hair out. Walking seemed like the lesser of the two evils, even if Los Santos is eerily quiet that night.

Ryan’s life has never been quiet. He spent the first sixteen years of it in and out of foster homes, group homes, and juvenile detention centers. He’s used to loud and crazy, and he practically thrives on chaos. So, when he gets a moment of actual silence, he tries his hardest to preoccupy his mind before his past catches up to him, but sometimes he’s too late.

Tonight is one of those nights.

He doesn’t know why, but his parents have been on his mind all day. He hasn’t thought about them in years, and even then it had been a passing thought. It’s kind of hard to think about someone he doesn’t know; his mother leaving him at the hospital two weeks after giving birth to him and his father fucking off the moment he found out he was going to be a father.

When he’d been younger, no older than four or five, he used to dream about his mother showing up at his home of the week and taking him off to some random house in the country. In his dreams, they raised cattle (and possibly some chickens), and they were happy and together, but then he’d wake up and remember he was alone.

Other times, he’d dream about tracking his father down and making him pay for abandoning him, but unlike the dreams about his mother, these followed him into adulthood.

Ryan’s life has always been a bit of a cliche. Orphan boy gets abandoned by his parents, doesn’t get adopted, and decides to take up a life of crime. It’s a regular Lifetime movie. Granted, if his life ever became a Lifetime movie he’s going to have a serious talk with the writer of that script. Mainly a long drawn out interrogation in which he demands to know how exactly this person procured information about his life.

Before Geoff hired him, he’d done a lot of freelance work. Different crews, different people, different jobs; anything to distract him from long silences. It’s hard to get trapped in his own head when he’s going about 120 down the streets of Los Santos while cops try their hardest to blow out his tires. He’s been a wheel man, a hit man, a brawler, a body guard; he’s been accused of being a loose canon more often than is healthy. He’s killed, maimed, tortured. He’s been kidnapped, arrested, on death’s door more times than anyone has a right to be, but he’s still around.

He’s not invincible, no one is invincible, and once in a while he has that startling realization that he’s living on borrowed time, but they’re all living on borrowed time. Criminals come with an expiration date, every one of them, it’s just a matter of when exactly his would catch up to him.

Ryan stops walking, looking up at the building he had ended up at, snorting softly. He’s not surprised his feet brought him here, in fact he’d be more surprised if he had ended up somewhere completely different. It’s become a regular thing for him on nights like these, finding himself outside of Ray’s apartment.

He debates whether he should keep walking or go inside, the last thing he wants is to wake Ray up, but before he can continue on his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and looks at the screen, opening the new text message.

your stalking skills need work rye get up here before the neighbors call the cops

Ryan wants to send something snarky back, perhaps something about the lack of punctuation in Ray’s message, but he knows Ray will just send him back a bunch of random emojis so he refrains, putting his phone back in his pocket.

He crosses the street, heading up the steps, pulling the door open. He takes the elevator up to the fifth floor, picking at a hangnail. When the doors open, he steps off the elevator car and walks down the hall to Ray’s apartment.

The door is ajar and when Ryan pushes it open a Diet Coke is shoved in his face. He takes it, offering Ray a small smile, and says, “If you keep this up, I might have to marry you.”

“You couldn’t handle all this awesome,” Ray retorts gesturing to himself. He walks away from Ryan, heading towards his TV, turning off the game he had paused. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Something like that,” Ryan confesses, putting the unopened Diet Coke on the counter. “What about you? You having trouble sleeping, too?”

“Something like that.” Ray’s always been hard to read. It used to bug Ryan endlessly, trying to see past his easy going attitude to gauge how he’s really feeling, but now it’s just another part of Ray that he finds a little endearing.

“You wanna talk about it?” Ray asks curiously, leaning against the back of his couch, crossing his arms.

“Not really. Do you?” Ryan’s not the most chatty person in Fake AH, something he and Ray have in common, but he’s willing to listen.

“Not really.”

Which is kind of hard when Ray’s not willing to talk, but what did Ryan expect? Neither one have been really open about their feelings, did he really think Ray would start spilling his darkest secrets just because Ryan asked? It’s not like he did when Ray asked. He has to face facts, he’s a heavily guarded person who is friends with an equally heavily guarded person. Talking about whatever it is is never going to be a big part of their relationship.

An idea suddenly creeps up on Ryan and he wonders why he never thought about doing it before. “Huh.”


“Come on,” he says and turns on his heel, heading out of Ray’s apartment.

“Where are we going?” Ray asks, hurrying to catch up, barely taking the time to shut his door.

Ryan doesn’t answer, too preoccupied with his plan. He finds what he’s looking for after a few minutes, yanking the door open, and turns to face Ray. He grabs his shoulders, giving him a quick smile, and asks, “Do you trust me?”

“If I say no are you gonna throw me off the roof?” Ray replies sarcastically but returns the smile. Ryan snorts, letting him go, and turns back towards the roof access door, heading up the stairs.

It’s breezy outside and cold, and Ryan immediately regrets this plan, but he’s committed. He walks towards the ledge, looking down at the street below, and he hears Ray say, “Uh, you’re not…” he trails off. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ryan responds turning to look at him. “I know we don’t talk about our pasts for a reason. We’re not like the others, and I doubt we’ll ever be, but maybe this will help.” He gestures to the city behind him, hoping Ray gets it, but knowing he’s not making enough sense for anyone to get it.

“The city?”

Ryan puts his back to Ray, takes a step back, and screams into the night air. “FUCK YOU!” His words echo back at him and he takes a deep breath and yells again, “FUCK YOU!”

He’s not sure who exactly he’s yelling at; maybe it’s his father, perhaps his mother, maybe it’s his five-year-old self deluding himself into thinking he could ever have a normal childhood, but it feels good. It feels great.

Ryan feels their shoulders brush as Ray moves to stand next to him, and suddenly they’re just two boys standing on a rooftop screaming at the top of their lungs. It’s not an ideal solution and their pasts will still be lingering in the back of their minds come morning, but for tonight, for right now, they’re just Ryan and Ray.

And that has to count for something.

Okay, I listened to this song on repeat while writing this. And thanks again for this prompt.


“High Class $treet Bitch” isn’t just a tumblr name..its really who I am!! I raised myself I’ve been on my own since I popped out the cooch… i have a ZERO TOLERANCE FOR BULLSHIT Nobody helped me learn the shit I know now I had to learn the hard way.. When I got in the game I didn’t even have a phone at 1st.. No internet…no real friends only fake ones….I just had to FIGURE SHIT THE FUCK OUT

I was living in a group home (foster care.. I was a ward of the state so I literally had NOBODY) When I was younger I went out with one of my old friends from the group home we were smoking and drinking and shit…. I loved the fast life… I never went back to that shithole after i left!! I ended up meeting a nigga who was way older but I didn’t care because I was grown in my mind and the nigga was finee afff and he had $$$$$ I liked him… He liked me + ends up taking my virginity he was a boyfriend or so I thought… I didn’t know at the time but he was grooming me to get in the game since he met me A bitch was living fast always smoking weed, popping pills, drinking and fucking..I was a bigggg hoe for free im ashamed when I think back on it… My bf started getting in my head saying shit like “you’re soooo pretty and skinny” “you can get rich off these tricks out here” “you have long hair and a pretty smile"…. I didn’t think I was pretty at the time soooo I ate that shit up… It took him a long time to convince me but eventually he ended becoming my pimp I was 18 by then and my whole life changed… I wasn’t starving anymore I got paid each and every time I opened my legs or got on my knees I had money to buy clothes instead of always wearing the same shit.. I had no problem getting up to get that trap everyday it didnt matter if i had to stomp or post to get it He really taught me alot of shit about men …. The do’s and donts … showed me how to keep myself up, had a bitch making at least $1000 everyday, Taught me how to drive, cosigned on my 1st car for me & put it in my name so even if he got mad at me he couldn’t take it from me.. He was a good nigga he never hit me or cursed me out no wild shit like you see on TV all pimps ain’t guerilla pimps but thats a whole nother post make a long story short he ends getting locked & I left him…. He laced me w/ the game and helped me get on my feet I was grateful but I wasn’t about to wait years on him & send my trap to jail…he can’t invest in me if he’s away.. I been doing my own thing ever since & I’m good & it but shit I might get under somebody else instructions 

I don’t regret none of my past it made me into who I am today and I’m glad the shit happened the way it did I came from nothing and I built myself into a queen bitch who stands on her own 2 feet and I make shit happen

I said all that to tell y'all that the game is sold not told… All this free game on here y'all better take advantage of it I HAD TO PAY TO LEARN THE GAME that’s why I get irritated when someone wants simply because they asked.. if you wanna get in the shit and don’t wanna work then it ain’t for you.. If a girl has no idea about tumblr & has no friends in the game she’s gonna either get a pimp or madam or join an agency to get the game what do those 3 things have in common… YOU HAVE TO PAY..ain’t shit free especially in this industry and that’s just the truth. Lazy hoe’s will never prosper nobody’s gonna spoonfeed you for free and they shouldn’t!!!

There are posts on literally everything on here: how to start, how to budget fast money, how to market yourself, how to suck dick….. READ THEM & RE READ THEM If you wanna be a hoe you can’t have thin skin, you can’t be weak and you have you stay on your game at all times you won’t have somebody to hold your hand all the fucking time

Information is valuable…why you think college costs so much… I can tell you everything I fucking know but if you don’t get your ass up you won’t get those red bottoms, that condo and that range Rover you want.. Its called sex WORK for a reason

Hey guys I’ve already asked for abuse stories and misunderstood triggers to be sent to me in asks but now it’s time for a positive one, although it’s much less common. Can people plz send me their stories of how they got out of their situation? Emancipation stories preferred cuz I’m getting emancipated lol but I also wanna hear about group homes, adoption/foster care, or just turning 18 and getting away. I know a lot of you are still in an abusive situation so I wanna give you guys something to read about.

TITLE: Don’t Keep your Heart in your Pocket


AUTHOR: iwasthefirstavenger

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine being a pickpocket who lives on the streets, and one day when you try to pickpocket, someone, you later find out that person was an agent of shield. Fury is impressed with your skills. He makes a deal with you that he’ll give you a place to live, a job, etc, but only if you can steal Loki’s plans. 

RATING: teen and up

You hear a footstep and are instantly on edge.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t come to hurt you.”

Loki’s voice is unusually sincere. You flash a quick smile. “You startled me is all. I didn’t expect to see you in a place like this.”

You’re sitting cross-legged on the facility’s roof, cheerfully ignorant of the drop just behind you. It’s quiet, and if you tip your head back you can see the stars, things you’re not really used to in the city.

Loki steps closer. “And I didn’t expect to see you. What are you doing out here?”

Keep reading

(1/6) “I grew up in a household where you were beaten for small things. Like breaking a dish. Or asking for food. My mom was very religious, so she’d take us to church and we’d listen to the pastor talk about love. Then she’d still take us to the back room and beat us. I ran away when I was thirteen. I lived in group homes and foster homes in every borough. When I met him, I was working at the supermarket. I was sixteen. He was sixteen years older than me. He had a car. He was handsome. He’d do little things to make me laugh. He’d wait in a long line just to buy a stick of gum from my register. He gave me compliments. I’d never been complimented in my entire life. He called me smart. And pretty. And nice. He brought me flowers. I’d never experienced anything like that before. I felt so alone at the time. I was living at the group home. I didn’t have anyone to teach me about life. I wanted a family. I wanted a protector.”

ok i just have really strong feelings about modern au eponine livin the inner city gang life and dreaming about getting out.

(im just going to leave these feelings right here)

For Practical Purposes Only -CS AU

Another in the Emma and Killian get married- for practical purposes only - until it’s not - series


“I found him.”

He saw the name Henry Mills on the manila folder she tossed onto the coffee table before she disappeared in the deep recesses of his couch. He racked his brain, trying to remember which skip this was, but nothing came to mind.

“And what was Mr. Mills’ crime, love? Are you anticipating a struggle?” He never doubted that Emma could take care of herself. The woman was a force to be reckoned with when it came to apprehending the men and women of Boston who felt they could skip out on their bail. But he wished that she took fewer chances all the same.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off the Red Sox game, knowing Emma would fill him in on the details of the case, as well as her plan for luring the suspect into a meeting that would allow her to get the handcuffs on. She was brilliant at that.

Her silence at his question signaled that something about Henry Mills was out of the ordinary.

Keep reading

Swan Queen Week - Day 1

Title: The Divinyls Never Sang About This
Fandom: Once Upon A Time
Pairing: Swan Queen
Rating: Explicit / NC-17 / NSFW
Warnings: Masturbation & voyeurism (kind of). It’s pure filth, is what I’m trying to tell you.
Prompt: Bed Sharing for Swan Queen Week
Word Count: 1420
Summary: The problem was that Emma was hopelessly and utterly in love with Regina, and sleeping (or in Emma’s case lying awake) in the same bed as her was sending Emma’s mind and body into overdrive. It was torture. Delicious, awful, terrible, delightful, torture.


3456 … 3457 … 3458 … 3459 …

Emma sighed in frustration. This was pointless. No amount of sheep were going to help her fall asleep, of that she was sure. Perhaps she should switch to something more relevant to her life these days, like unicorns or dragons? Although that probably wouldn’t do much good either, because it would do nothing to tackle the cause of her insomnia - namely the woman sleeping soundly in bed next to her, none other than best friend, co-parent and mayor - Regina Mills.

Keep reading

Feels Nice (Daryl Dixon imagine)

imagine: pre-apocalypse, you and daryl live in a group foster home. since you’re turning eighteen, you have to leave, and daryl becomes distant and irritable because he doesn’t want to be left alone. the night before your birthday, you promise to come back for him.

an: an anon requested an imagine based on the song fast car! also ive been wanting to write an imagine loosely based around the movie ‘short term 12’ so i merged the two together. in case you haven’t seen the movie, grace and mason are supervisors at the group home. also please watch the movie its so good.

a bit of background: this is a pre-apocalypse imagine in which 17-year-old daryl has been sent to a group home by the authorities because they suspect his dad of abuse. the reader, who has been in the group home for two years and is slightly older than daryl, is intrigued by daryl and manages to befriend him. so all this has happened and the imagine starts six months into daryl’s stay at the home and four months into their friendship.

  “As most of you are already aware, Y/N is turning eighteen and will be leaving us,” Grace announced, flashing a kind smile at me while picking at a hangnail.

  I nodded and raised my eyebrows irreverently, making brief eye contact with Grace before flicking my gaze back towards Daryl, who was sitting on the sofa opposite. He was scowling at his lap and tapping his fingers restlessly on his knee. He’d been like this for a while, ever since Grace had reminded me a month ago that my birthday was coming up, and Daryl had been within earshot. The few words he’d spoken to me in the past weeks were surly and one-syllabic. Obviously Daryl had never been much of a talker, but he’d reached a new low. Daryl shut himself away in his room, only gracing the lounge with his presence when he was forced to by group meetings. Whenever he could he plugged in his earphones and turned up the volume so loud that we could hear every lyric. And, if my interpretations were correct, it was all because I was leaving.

  We were friends; the kind of friends that shared earphones, that snuck into each other’s rooms late at night to swap stories, that smiled because the other was smiling. I drew, and it was a sign of Daryl’s fondness for me that he grudgingly sat still for portraits. I kept the few drawings I had of him tucked away in my pockets, so there was never any risk of them being mistaken for trash during room checks. It was safe to say that Daryl and I were close. It seemed to me that I was the first person Daryl had ever been close to, so I assumed that was why he had become so closed-up at the thought of me leaving him.

  “Any requests for food, Y/N? At the party?” Grace said.

  “Um,” I muttered. A party was the last thing on my mind. “I dunno. Cake, I guess.”

  “Any particular flavour?” she probed.

  I remembered when one of the other kids left two months ago, and they’d had chocolate cake. Daryl had loved it; I think he ate three slices. “Chocolate,” I said decidedly. I concentrated on Daryl, searching for a twitch of a smile at the mention of his favourite cake, but there was nothing. If anything, he scowled harder.

  “Chocolate it is, then,” Grace said. “Mason’ll get on that,” she added, twisting round in her chair to grin at Mason, who also worked at the home. They thought they were surreptitious, but everyone knew they were dating. It was kind of cute.

  Daryl suddenly jumped up from where he was sitting and stormed off down the corridor.

  “Daryl!” Grace called. “The meeting’s not over!”

  “Fuck you,” Daryl said under his breath.

  Grace was used to teenagers saying things under their breath, however, and she heard every word. “That’s a level drop! Watch the kids will you, Mason?” she said before going after Daryl. He slammed the door to his room, and Grace walked faster, as we weren’t allowed to have doors closed.

  I exhaled through my nose and chewed my lip anxiously. Something had to be done.

  Over the next six days, I made many attempts to get Daryl alone, but that was difficult with twenty other teenagers and an open door policy. In fact, it was impossible. Time rushed by and all of a sudden it was the day before my eighteenth birthday. I knew I had to change tactics if I wanted to talk to Daryl before I left. How could I move out without saying so much as a goodbye to the only person I could call a friend?

  At 12:04 a.m. I lay awake in bed, my eyes boring into the beige ceiling, which was a few shades lighter than the beige walls. Everything was beige. When I finally heard the door of the night supervisor’s room click shut (they were allowed to close doors), I waited for another ten minutes and then slipped silently from under the covers.

  Daryl’s room was three doors down from mine. The quiet pad of my socked feet on the carpet, the incessant tick tock tick tock of the clock in the lounge, the hum of the set alarms that would warn of someone running away if they went off; these sounds merged together in my mind to create a roar of noise that would surely wake everyone up. But no one did. An eternity passed before I reached Daryl’s door.

  “Daryl?” I whispered as I pushed the door further open and then clicked it shut behind me. I was breaking umpteen rules: up after lights out, girl in a boy’s bedroom, door closed. That didn’t matter now, though. Nothing mattered apart from Daryl.

  Moonlight washed out the room, highlighting Daryl’s curled-up body on the bed. He faced the wall, so I couldn’t tell whether or not he was awake. “Daryl, are you awake?” I sat on the edge of the bed, my weight dipping the mattress so that Daryl’s back brushed briefly against mine. He quickly shuffled closer to the wall. That and the glint of his open eyes let me know that he was completely awake and just ignoring me.

  “It’s my birthday tomorrow,” I said, stuck for anything else to say.

  Daryl was silent, but his breath quickened and he moved further away. The space between us was cold and buzzed with a thousand unspoken words.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” I asked softly, wringing my hands together. I reached out and touched Daryl’s arm. Electricity flowed between us for the brief second that my fingers made contact with his skin; then Daryl tensed up, and he jolted his arm to get rid of my hand. And still he said nothing.

  “Fine,” I said tearfully. “Don’t talk to me.” I stood up abruptly and stomped towards the door, forgetting that I was supposed to be quiet. “But I care about you. And if you cared about me you wouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Y’don’t,” Daryl mumbled, his voice rough and scratchy from disuse.

  “What?” I said with a note of exasperation. Like I said, Daryl wasn’t exactly one for words, and when he did speak he did so as vaguely as possible.

  “Y’don’t care about me. If ya cared y’wouldn’t be leavin’. You’re just another person leavin’. Everyone fuckin’ leaves.”

  I inhaled deeply and took tentative steps back towards the bed. “I have to leave. You know we can’t stay here once we’re eighteen. If you were the older one you’d have to leave me.”

  Daryl pulled his knees up closer to his chest and sniffed before burying his face in his arm.

  “But… I’ll come back for you,” I said, a lightbulb of an idea flaring up inside of me. “I’ll come back. I’ll make some money out there; I’ll get a job and then I’ll buy a car and I’ll come back for you. We can go somewhere. Anywhere.”

  Daryl lifted his head from his arm and tilted it slightly to look at me. The light dancing in his eyes may have just been the reflection of the moon, but to me it was more: hope, bliss, forgiveness.

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.” I felt the urge to plant a kiss on Daryl’s cheek, but I knew he wouldn’t react well to that, so I settled on resting my hand on his. Unsurprisingly, he stiffened, as he always did at the slightest touch, but he didn’t bat my hand away. Progress.

  The next few days passed in a blur of cake, confusing paperwork, and numerous goodbyes. Two days after my birthday my social worker dropped by to pick me up and drive me to the apartment that had been found for me.

  “Bye, Y/N. You’re a great kid,” Grace murmured as she reeled me in for a tight hug. “You can come back to visit any time, you know that, right?”

  “Good luck out there, bud. We’ll miss you,” Mason said with a lopsided smile.

  “Bye. Thanks for… looking after me, I guess.” I suddenly felt very uncomfortable. I’d lived in this place for two years and trusted Grace and Mason more than I’d ever trusted my parents, but the past few weeks had made me feel so disconnected from everything around me.

  Grace pulled away from our hug and Mason dived in for his. I rested my chin on his shoulder and scanned the room, searching for the one face that mattered.

  Daryl was leant against the far wall with his arms crossed and a moody look shadowing his face. As soon as I made eye contact with him, his features softened and a tiny, sad smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

  I’ll come back, I mouthed. I must have told him that a hundred times over the past days. The night I’d made him that promise, I’d stayed up until dawn, hatching a meticulous plan that meant he would only be alone for less than a month. If everything worked out the way I wanted it to, Daryl and I would be driving away from this place in a matter of weeks.

  My social worker opened the door and held it open for me. Daryl didn’t come and hug me, and I didn’t expect him to. All I got was a brief wave, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn’t looking for it. But it was enough. Throughout everything, the image of Daryl waving, hope flooding his eyes, stuck with me and kept me going.

  Things didn’t work out the way I wanted them to. Firstly, I couldn’t get a job for two weeks, and my only income was the grant that the government had given me. None of that could be saved up; I barely had enough to buy food after putting aside money for bills. When I finally found a job at a local convenience store, it didn’t pay as much as I had hoped. I couldn’t save enough to buy a model car, let alone a real one. It turned out that I really didn’t have a very good idea of how the world worked.

  I worked for three months, completely abandoning my one month plan, and by that point I’d saved up enough to keep me and Daryl alive. Daryl’s eighteenth birthday was in a few weeks, so I had to go back for him somehow, or I would lose him forever.

  The street lamps cast a dusky orange glow upon the sidewalk and the air was bitingly cold. I pulled up my hood, not only to protect myself from the chill but also as a precaution for what I was about to do.

  The street that I grew up on hadn’t changed at all. The houses were the same, and as far as I knew, the people who lived in them were the same. As I approached my dad’s house, I saw the same lawn ornaments, the same curtains drawn in the windows, the same flashy sports car parked in the drive.

  My dad had always had a problem with drink. The money for his sports car had come from gambling, and the rest of the money he ‘earned’ went towards alcohol. My mum had left for a better life when I was eight, not realising that by leaving she was giving me a more terrible life than she could even imagine. My dad had tried to look after me, but the bottle was more appealing than the daughter, and I had been in and out of care ever since then. Part of why Daryl and I had made such a connection was because we had eerily similar childhoods, except the authorities hadn’t noticed Daryl’s mistreatment until much more recently.

  There was one kid in the home that knew how to pick locks, and I’d asked him to teach me just for fun, not knowing that the skill would one day come in handy. Within a minute, I was yanking open the door of my dad’s car, slipping the wire I had used into my pocket.

  As I pulled out of the drive, thankful for the quiet engine that my dad had boasted about when he bought the car, I found myself feeling guilty. Did my dad deserve theft? Was I making the right decision by doing this? I shook my head violently and clenched my hands tightly around the wheel. I remembered the time that, aged ten, I had confronted my dad about his gambling, and his palm left yellow bruises on my cheek. I remembered Daryl’s strained voice whenever he mentioned his dad, and the scars that I had seen when I’d accidentally walked in on him shirtless. I had to do this. For myself and for Daryl. If I didn’t we’d both be stuck in this shitty town for the rest of our lives.

  My heart pounding, I pulled up outside the home, practically fell out of the car and slipped underneath the barrier. My breath came out in uneven tremors and my whole body was vibrating with trepidation. I knew that there were security cameras dotted across the site, so I kept to the shadows and made my way towards the window of Daryl’s room.

  When I reached it, I pressed myself close to the wall and rapped on the glass. A sleepy groan came from inside and a few seconds later it was pushed open and Daryl’s face peeked out.

  “Y/N?” he exclaimed, a little too loudly for my liking. “I thought… I thought you was gone.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It didn’t work. I’ve got money, but it’s barely enough, and I had to take my dad’s car, but I’m here now. I’m here. I came back. We can leave. Tonight.”

  “You’re serious?” Daryl said, rubbing his eyes.


  “Okay. I’ll get my bag.” In the dim light, I could make out his figure pulling a duffel from under his bed. He slung it over his shoulder and had his hand on the door handle when I spoke.

  “You had it packed this whole time.”

  “Uh. Yeah.”

  “You knew I would come back. Deep down.”

  Daryl coughed awkwardly. “I guess. Are we goin’ or what?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  The one thing I hadn’t taken into account was the alarms. When Daryl opened the fire exit door, a blaring alarm sounded, and lights flickered on in the building.

  “Shit,” I whispered. “Come on.” I held out my hand and after a few seconds of reluctance Daryl grasped it. We ran.

  “Draw me.”

  “Huh?” Daryl sat in the passenger seat, one foot on the seat, the other on the dashboard. A cigarette was poised between his lips. 

  “There’s a pad of paper in my bag. Draw me,” I said again. My hands were steady on the wheel; we had managed to get in the car and drive away before anyone had even come outside to investigate the commotion. Now we were heading down the main highway out of town. The lights of the nearest city were pinpricks in the distance, but they were there. We would get there. We would get jobs. We would live.

  “Nah, Y/N. I ain’t a fuckin’ artist.”

  “Everyone’s an artist. Come on. Do it for me.” Keeping one hand on the wheel, I rummaged in my bag for the pad and a pen. “Here.” I chucked them onto his lap.

  “It’ll be shit,” Daryl muttered, but he picked up the pen and flipped open the pad.

  He touched pen to paper and I felt exhilarated. Ours was the only car on the road, so I sped up, breaking 90 miles an hour. I glanced at Daryl; his eyes were flicking from the paper to me and back again. I grinned, and kept my eyes more on him than I did on the road.

  Ten minutes later, Daryl held out the pad for me to see. The lines were rough and smudgy, and the likeness  wasn’t exactly realistic, but everything about it was beautiful, because Daryl had drawn it.

  “You have to sign it. For the art gallery that’ll want it someday.”

  “You’re crazy,” he said. He scribbled his name in the bottom-right corner.

  “I’m not. We’re gonna get somewhere, Daryl. Make something of ourselves. I know it.”

  Daryl shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Definitely.” Daringly, I reached out my arm and wrapped it around his shoulder. Once again, he tensed up at my touch. “Sorry. Do you want me to —”

  Daryl’s muscles started to relax, and he leant back in his seat. “Nah. Feels nice.”

The Stories That Hold Us Up

Writer’s note: So the first part was a response to a post about Killian’s mom and wondering if she was a happy thought for him and if she read stories and such. I think that was posted by @nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable and answered by @scapeartist. Wonderful way to spark my headcanon ideas up. I don’t write really publicly anymore. I have Rheumatoid Arthritis that makes this process very painful, but I was encourage by the response I got after posting a little ficlet, thank you. This took up my afternoon but I am smiling so much right now. I will have to get me a pain pill, but to be able to write again like this was so fun. I am hopefully going to write a flashback and maybe a future daddy!Kilian one shot on the same subject. This was all done today, so sorry for anything that isn’t right, etc. I am just freaking excited I did this! Don’t take advantage of being able to write. One day it might not be there physically, but you still want to in your heart.

Tagging @optomisticgirl cause she wanted me to. @xemmaloveskillianx cause Look at me look at me! and @acrobat-elle for talking to me like one time about writing and didn’t make me feel stupid…which is the way I felt starting out. Thanks to you all for your wonderful stories and sweetness. You all have helped me through crazy dark times unknowingly in life lately.

*by the way I always use the mobile tumbler version. desktop version be freaking me out.

Killian painfully remembers his mother telling him grand stories that still to this day influence him in profound ways. Rated G


Occasionally, while out exploring with his crew Killian buys things that are out of character for a pirate Captain. Things that only a grown orphan would buy for themselves to bring a slight sense of comfort from a time when they were loved, safe, and thought of.

“Sir, why is there a children’s story book among these atlas books and histories?” Killian’s personal valet of the ship, Willoughby, comments as he puts away the new purchases from their latest adventure. Killian looks down for a moment, trying his best to ignore the spike in his stomach that wants to beg the valet to be careful with his precious discovery.

He unwillingly remembers his mother, and the small, tattered book she read out of every night. She would also read when he and Liam were sick, sometimes for hours at a time, sometimes repeating the same stories over and over again in the same session. He notices this forced nostalgia happens when he finds items connected to his past. It brings on tiny moments of comfort that swells his chest with love and light, but then it turns into such an acute, tortured pain when he can’t forget his many losses.

He finally found something similar to his mother’s treasured book, but also knows it will never be the same or enough. She had written her own stories for her boys in the smallest, most elegant handwriting he’s ever beheld. She was a writer for her boys alone, and he will never be able to recover the stories she made just for he and Liam. He wished he was as a magnificent storyteller as she was.

But this book he stumbled across (and probably paid too much for), had many of the morality tales his mother loved so much. Stories of heroism, honor, and adventures galore. The stories stoked his imagination as a young boy listening, but they helped him survive when he was a slave for years. He was well aware how stories could be more powerful than most would care to think. It was these stories that made Liam even more determined to be the most honorable man he could be, and to constantly encourage Killian to follow his example.

“Who knows?” Killian immediately dismisses the question from his crewman with a shrug. “Perhaps the merchant accidently put it in the pile. The man barely saw out his spectacles.”

The crewman laughs. “Do you wish to keep it then, sir?”

“Why not? Maybe I will save it as a gift one day, or for barter?” He finds himself reaching out for the book, his crewman gives it over, and Killian hustles it to the safety of his desk.

“Gift? To a child? Planning on having a bastard then, Captain?” The valet laughs harshly, and continues to chuckle at his crude joke. Killian is fast as lightening as he rips his sword from his sheath and points to the crew member.

“You ever speak of such dishonor to me again I will have your head. I have no bastard, and if I ever have a child they will be no bastard, orphan, or homeless.” He almost growls as he thinks of a child of his own dealing with any injustices he had. “Do you understand, Crewman Willoughby?”

Willoughby gulps and nods slowly. “Yes, Captain.”

After a moment of allowing his intimidation to last a little longer, he swiftly drops his sword, and cheerfully says, “Good. Now leave me.”

Finally alone he holds his new treasure and opens the book up reverently. A small smile graces his lips as he starts to read the stories that have held him up for so long. He can almost hear his mother’s soft voice reading the words before him.


Present Day

Moving in to a new house always seems like a great idea when you start looking at what is possibly going to be your new home, especially when you are trying to share that home with your True Love. Killian can admit that for a good part of his life he learned to live out of a satchel, or things that were securely put on his person, hence his past habit of wearing multiple layers and having plenty of pockets sown into his clothes.

When he looks around at the Jolly as he tries to determine what he will be bringing into the new house he now shares with Emma and Henry, he feels like that television program he has just recently been introduced to by Emma called “Hoarders”. A show that displays how people can start collecting things in their homes, become unable to let them go, and then end up living in there closed off world with nothing but their things.

Hook chuckles a little at the over dramatic self deprecation. He certainly has never gone that far, and besides everything he owns (pirated, purchased, or procured) usually holds the organization of the navy man still buried deep within him. Honestly, he just wants this task done so he can get home and be with his family, and right now it looks like he has so many things to go through.

Certainly, Killian has never needed much to live, but as a pirate he had an image to upkeep. Unending greed and possession was one of the basic demands of the position he had agreed to. He thinks sometimes to himself that he shouldn’t be surprised he fell into piracy, or the obsession of being materialistic in many ways. Not when he spent so many years poor or in the forced service of another person. When you own nothing and then you are set free onto the world the temptation to have all the things denied to you overwhelms even the most humble man.

It reminds him in a way of how Emma is with food. She has opened up more and more about her childhood. She has told him sorrowful stories of being withheld food for long periods of time by foster parents or her fellow group home foster mates. He can certainly understand this form of punishment, as food was often used as a weapon against him as a slave.

Emma also shares that even if she did get fed regularly sometimes it was the same food three times a day. He can certainly relate to that irritation as a sailor. Her memory of choking down 2 slices of bread, water, and canned beans day in and day out sent a shiver up her back and groan from her lips. He supposed that was this realm’s version of ship gruel. Still, any food is better than no food.

She often eats junk food. Items that have multiple, unnatural colors and taste like no flavor he has ever found in nature. She tells him that is processed and it’s a fake flavor. He doesn’t question any further as he is sure there is some non-magical reason that will go more in depth into this realm’s strangeness than he wants to get into presently. He wants to be a student of Emma now, not this realm without magic.

He will join her sometimes in these delicacies she enjoys so. He loves seeing her smile when he brings bear claws home. He gets excited when she finds something she hasn’t been able to eat in awhile. He feels so content when she is indulging in her comfort foods. He gets completely aroused when she closes her eyes and moans loudly while she luxuriates in the taste chocolate.

He is smiling as he hears Emma’s tell tale steps coming down into the cabin of the Jolly. He is leaning against his desk looking more idle than to task, so he grabs a few things off the surface to look as if he was being productive.

“Hello there, Captain!” She greets him cheerfully.

“Hello, love.” She moves closer to him and gives him a sweet kiss.

“Working hard? Doesn’t moving kinda suck?” Emma grouses. He chuckles at her, as he wasn’t far off from thinking the same.

“Yes, I suppose it feels like trekking a never ending mountain, but when it’s done we will finally be home.” He looks over to her with the light in his eyes that has been shining since returning to her.

“Yeah.” She says smiling softly. “Home.” Another kiss, and she is moving to his side where his massive bookshelf is. “Well, let me help, babe. More the merrier, and then we can relax a little tonight.”

He nods and continues his work on his desk, sifting through things that he wants to trash and others that will find a place in his desk in their den.

“Wow, Killian, you have so many books! I know I have seen them over here, but I think we are going to need to get a bigger truck!”

“Many years of exploring and research, Swan. Is that problem?” He certainly hoped not, as he considered those to be quite important treasures in of themselves. The house had to be big enough to contain his library, and hopefully for him to add to it.

“No, of course not. We will make due. I find it really cool.” Her reassuring grin of amusement immediately sets him to ease. “I can’t wait to go through them, and maybe steal a few.”

“Oi, Swan, you knew better than to steal from a pirate!”

“Mmm yeah, sure. I am now officially immune to any repercussion from pilfering from you. True Love, and all.” He drops what he was holding and comes behind her to hold her around her waist.

“Already counting on the rewards of finding my charming, handsome self?” He breathes into her ear and kisses down her neck. He can feel her face smiling, but she keeps her hands and attention on grabbing the books off the shelves.

“Maybe.” She shrugs slightly and looks of her shoulder, and returns to her chore. He buries his face in the warm corner made by her neck and shoulder. He smells her enticing, floral scent, and the temptation to thoroughly distract his love with more pleasurable activities becomes consuming.

“Hey, what’s this?” Emma suddenly asks. He lifts his head, still in the good humor of the moment, until he sees what she is holding.

The storybook he purchased years ago in memory of his mother. His stomach drops to his feet and finds his vision tunneling, focusing alone on the book in her hands. His mother’s image flashes in his mind with the violence of being punched in the nose. He sees her dark, wavy hair curling around his small, boyish hands as she tells her stories. He smells the starchy, earth scent of the root vegetables she would dig up from the garden and boil. He sees and feels the fresh dark dirt still in the cracks and crevices of her worker’s hands, and blunt fingernails. No matter how hard she would wash it seems her beautiful skin always reminded her of her station in life. He hears her soft, wispy voice she delicately pushed past her lips with a small smile only for her children.

That’s why he doesn’t hear Emma, when she tries to talk to him again. “Killian, are you okay?

“What?” He whispers.

“I was talking to you. I was asking you what this was, and why you seem upset. What’s wrong?” She turns in his arms and places her hand on his face, taking his eyes away from the book now in between them. Her brows are drawn together with concern.

“It’s…” He contemplates saying that it’s nothing. He would love to brush it off and pretend the sight of the book wasn’t emotionally affecting still. He hasn’t looked at what he still calls a treasure for such a long time, but so much has changed since then. It feels incredibly overwhelming. He lets Emma’s touch tether him to the present.

“It’s a story book.” He grabs the book from her hand, opens it just as lovingly has he did that first evening with it. “A book I found years and year ago. It, uh…” He stalls again as he takes his hand over the pages. The book is now old, looking almost as old as the original book his mother read to him.

He looks up to her patient, loving eyes, and finds his courage. “This book is very similar to a very special book my mother used to read to my brother and I every night. I don’t have many memories of her, my mum, but the ones that are so devastatingly clear are the times she would sit with us and share these stories.”

The confession of his past has left him feeling exhausted now. He moves to his bunk, and sits down looking at out the bright window close by. It’s strange when past comes back in the harsh light of day. It’s as if the sun is too bright, the room is too small, the air too close. He is used to dealing with memories at night when he is alone, unoccupied. To deal with them in the day when he doesn’t have as many coping tactics makes them feel more like attacks than remembrances.

“Sorry.” Emma sits beside him and puts her arm around him. “I didn’t mean to bring up sad things. I just was surprised.”

“You aren’t the reason for my melancholy, love. I would have come across it at some point during this process.” He places his hooked arm around her as well, and they sit holding each other. Emma lays her head on his shoulder.

“Surprise you say, Swan? Why is that?” He asks her with a playful smile, desperately trying not to sink into the pit of sorrow.

“I don’t know. I mean…fearsome Captain Hook with a children’s book? I guess it just seemed kind of ironic considering what I thought you were like thanks to Disney.” Killian laughed heartily at that. “Did you save it just because of your mom?

“I’m not sure. Baelfire liked to read it every once and while, but it didn’t mean as much to him.” He commented thinking about how Baelfire had more interested in other tales and knowledge.

“Well, is there another reason to keep it now? Like for the future.” Her cheeks are blushing and the tips of her ears are red. She wasn’t keeping her eyes to him consistently. They wandered the room, then would lay on him, and then go back to the book.

He stared at her trying to determine what she was getting at. Was there another reason he would save the book aside honoring his mother’s memory? He thought then of what Willoughby had assumed why he had kept the book, for a child. Was she asking if he wanted a child?

“Well, Henry might enjoy it. Neal is just a baby, but perhaps one day he may want to hear the stories.” He picked up the book again and handed it to Emma. “As for any other child…I guess that would be up to you.”

She looked up to him with her eyes brows lifted. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” He smiled. She twisted her mouth into that shy satisfied smile she seemed to only gift him.

“Maybe…one day.” She looked down then and caressed the book just as he did. “Good thing we aren’t sentimental people at all, right?”

“Aye. I would never claim such.” He chuckled. She leaned in to give him a kiss.

“Let’s go home. We can do more moving tomorrow. Okay?”

“I would love to go home, love.” They stood up and held hands. It brought on a feeling of pride and happiness seeing Emma embracing the book carefully. Perhaps she would want to read some of the passages with him.

“Dinner in or out tonight?”  He asked when they reached the deck of the ship.

Emma swung their hands between them. “I want you all to myself tonight. You got a problem with that?”

“I would be a bloody fool if I did. Regardless, I have a distinct craving for some of your wonderful “junk food” in our cabinets.” He teased as he brought up her hand to kiss it.

“Just be careful, Cap. I am not willing to share everything.”

“Duly noted, love.”