#as much as i love them learning to love again with each other in a super soft n sappy way.

[writeriguess]

i love your works and i have a request

bakugou x reader where the reader is the only one who can calm him down? he is arguing with kiri and she only has to look at him to calm him down and everyone is stunned by it

author's note: Thank you <3

Serenity

It was a normal day at U.A., or at least as normal as it could get with Class 1-A. Training had gone well enough, and everyone was winding down, gathering in the common room after dinner. That peace, however, didn’t last long—because Katsuki Bakugou and Eijiro Kirishima were at each other’s throats.

Again.

“You’re so damn stubborn, Bakugou!” Kirishima snapped, his usual easygoing demeanor nowhere to be found. His sharp teeth bared slightly, frustration clear in the way his brows furrowed. “Why can’t you just let someone help you once in a while?”

“I don’t fucking need help!” Bakugou growled, hands twitching at his sides as small explosions crackled from his palms. His crimson eyes burned with intensity, shoulders tense and jaw clenched. “I’m not some weakling who needs to be babysat, shitty hair!”

It wasn’t unusual for Bakugou to get like this. He had a short fuse, and sometimes, even Kirishima’s patience couldn’t keep up. The rest of the class had learned to steer clear when the blond was in one of his moods, but tonight, something felt different. His explosions were sparking closer to the ground, the air crackling with the raw energy of his anger.

“Dude, we’re your friends!” Kirishima pressed on, his voice rising to match Bakugou’s. “We’re not saying you’re weak, but—”

“I don’t need a damn pep talk!” Bakugou interrupted, his voice nearly a roar now. His fists clenched tightly, explosions bursting erratically at his sides. “I—”

You sighed.

You had been sitting on the couch, watching the argument unfold, but now, you decided it had gone on long enough. Without a word, you stood up and stepped between them, placing yourself directly in front of Bakugou.

And then—

You looked at him.

Not with fear. Not with exasperation. Just looked at him.

His breath hitched. The tension in his shoulders sagged almost instantly, and the crackling explosions from his hands flickered before fizzling out completely. His hands dropped to his sides, fingers flexing as though searching for something to do now that they weren’t radiating anger. His brows knitted together, his lips parted slightly, and a deep exhale left his chest as if he had been holding it in this whole time.

The entire room went silent.

The rest of Class 1-A exchanged glances, stunned beyond words.

Kirishima blinked, taking half a step back. “Uh… what the hell just happened?” he muttered, looking between you and Bakugou like he had just witnessed an act of sorcery.

“Did… did Y/N just calm Bakugou down?” Kaminari whispered, eyes wide.

“No way…” Mina breathed, leaning forward as if she needed to see it closer to believe it. “That’s impossible.”

Yet, it was happening.

Bakugou, who had been one second away from either blowing up the room or storming off in rage, now stood completely still, his face unreadable. His sharp, furious crimson eyes had softened, the tension in his body had drained away, and the only thing that had changed was that you had looked at him.

You tilted your head slightly, your eyes searching his, waiting for him to say something.

His jaw clenched. Then unclenched. Then, in a voice much quieter than before, he muttered, “Tch. Whatever.”

That was as close to an admission of surrender as anyone would ever get from him.

Your lips curled into the smallest of smiles, and that alone made Bakugou avert his gaze with a scowl, rubbing the back of his neck as if embarrassed.

The silence stretched, thick with disbelief.

Sero was the first to break it. “Holy shit,” he said, staring at you with newfound awe. “That was… insane.”

“Right?” Kaminari agreed, his mouth slightly agape. “I’ve literally never seen Bakugou calm down that fast in my life.”

“You might actually have superpowers,” Mina whispered, completely serious.

“Forget heroes,” Kirishima said, blinking at you. “You might be a damn miracle worker.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue. “Shut up,” he grumbled, though there was no bite to his words. His usual anger had dimmed into something else—something quieter. Something softer.

You simply shrugged, turning back to the couch and sitting down again like nothing had happened. “You guys overreact too much,” you said lightly, leaning back into the cushions.

“We overreact?” Mina scoffed. “You just tamed a whole-ass dragon with one look.”

Kirishima shook his head with a small chuckle. “Man, that was wild.” He crossed his arms, his frustration from before already forgotten. “But hey, at least it worked.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bakugou grumbled, rubbing his temples. He was still looking at you out of the corner of his eye, like he was trying to figure out exactly how you did what you just did.

The others continued murmuring about it, but you just shot Bakugou a small smirk before focusing back on your phone.

And despite himself, despite all the eyes on him, despite how infuriatingly obvious it was that you had some kind of effect on him—Bakugou didn’t look away.

He just sighed, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and sat down next to you, the tension completely gone.

Like it never existed in the first place.

[evermoreness]

wingman | james potter

pairing: james potter x reader!

summary: james definitely has a crush on you, but he won't admit it. so his best friend sirius steps up to be his wingman.

masterlist

If Sirius Black had one true passion in life—aside from pranks, Quidditch, and being generally insufferable—it was meddling. Specifically, meddling in James Potter’s disastrous love life.

The problem wasn’t that James lacked charm. No, James was overflowing with charm, much to the dismay of every professor at Hogwarts. The problem was that James refused to acknowledge that he had feelings for you—his best friend, his ultimate rival, his favorite person to annoy.

And, as Sirius often pointed out (loudly, in the middle of breakfast), you were just as bad.

Which is why, after months of watching you and James dance around each other with an infuriating amount of tension, Sirius decided enough was enough.

It was time for some intervention

Step number one

It started in Transfiguration.

You strolled into class, fully expecting to take your usual seat next to Lily, but before you could sit, a strong arm slung around your shoulders.

“Ah-ah,” Sirius drawled, spinning you around and gently shoving you into the seat next to James instead. “New seating chart, love. Professor's orders.”

You frowned. “Professor McGonagall never changes the seating chart.”

“She does now,” Sirius said, smirking before plopping down beside Lily, effectively blocking your escape route.

You turned to James, who was lounging in his chair, grinning like the cocky little git he was. “Look at that. You’re stuck with me.”

You groaned, turning to Sirius. "You look suspicious"

"When do i not?" Sirius said, grinning like he was planning something.

"Fair point." You said, before turning to James. “Merlin help me,”

James gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “How dare you? I am an absolute delight to sit next to.”

“You poke people with your quill and hum off-key when you’re bored,” you shot back.

“I serenade,” he corrected.

“You butcher perfectly good songs.”

James leaned in, his face just a little too close, and smirked. “Admit it. You’d miss me if I wasn’t here.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your heart did a stupid little flip. “Sure, Potter. I’d be devastated.”

“You could just admit you love spending time with me,” James offered.

You scoffed. “Or I could stab you with my quill.”

James leaned in, lowering his voice to a teasing whisper. “Kinky.”

McGonagall just ignored them all, she had learned a long time ago she couldn't keep up with the Marauders antics. So she just let them. It was best for her mental health. But she still could hear you and James bickering every time she turned to write something on the black board.

James, completely unbothered, leaned closer to you, elbow on the desk, chin resting on his hand. “Well, you heard the professor. We’re partners now. Best get used to staring at me all class.”

You rolled your eyes, flicking his forehead with your quill. “Merlin, you wish I stared at you.”

James grinned. “You’re staring at me right now.”

You huffed. “Because I’m contemplating how best to Transfigure you into a ferret.”

Sirius cackled from behind you. "Oh, young love" he said, making you and James glare at him.

"Don't you have a boyfriend to annoy or something?" James asked, rolling his eyes.

"Remus is recovering from the full moon, idiot" Sirius said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He was about to say something more but McGonagall glared at the three of them.

McGonagall sighed again. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

At least, step one of Sirius' plan was definitely a success.

Step number two

The next part of Sirius’s plan required a little more... creativity.

Which is how you and James ended up in detention, standing outside McGonagall's office, glaring at a very pleased Sirius Black.

“Explain. Now,” you demanded.

Sirius shrugged. “Professor McGonagall may have received an anonymous tip that you two were planning to sneak into the kitchens after hours.”

“We weren’t,” you said flatly.

“Well, you should’ve been,” Sirius said, looking entirely unbothered. “Really, it’s your own fault for being so predictable.”

James groaned. “For Merlin’s sake, Padfoot.”

“Oh, don’t act so ungrateful,” Sirius scoffed, draping an arm around James’s shoulder. “I’m simply giving you both what you want. Quality time. Candlelit settings. Romance.”

“You’re sending us to detention,” you deadpanned.

“Exactly.” Sirius grinned. “Do you know how many legendary couples started with forced proximity? This is the perfect setup.”

James scoffed, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “You’re delusional.”

“And you are hopeless.” Sirius turned to you, wiggling his eyebrows.

You crossed your arms. “And what exactly do you gain from this?”

“An evening of uninterrupted flirting, obviously.”

James scoffed. “We don’t flirt.”

Sirius blinked. “Right. And I’m the Minister of Magic.”

Soon enough, Sirius was gone, and McGonagall assigned the two of you to polish the entire trophy room. Without magic. Which was, quite frankly, a crime against wizardkind.

“I think I’ve inhaled enough dust to choke a hippogriff,” you muttered, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn smudge.

James, sprawled dramatically on the floor, groaned. “This is actual torture.”

You snorted. “Oh, please. You’ve been lying there for twenty minutes. I’m doing all the work.”

James grinned lazily. “I’m providing emotional support.”

“Oh, how noble.”

“I try.”

You rolled your eyes and flicked a damp rag at him. He yelped as it smacked him in the face.

“Oi! That’s rude.”

“I’m so sorry, did I offend the Great James Potter?” you said, smirking.

James leaned on his elbow, smirking right back. “Oh, love, you offend me constantly.”

“And yet, you keep coming back.”

James’s smirk faltered for half a second—just long enough for you to notice.

His hazel eyes flickered over your face, something softer in them now. Something that made your heart do a completely unnecessary little flip.

Before you could overthink it, James groaned and rolled onto his back dramatically. “I cannot polish one more bloody trophy.”

“You’ve polished one,” you pointed out.

“Exactly!”

You snorted. “Oh, poor baby, suffering through a whole hour of detention.”

James gasped, clutching his chest. “You wound me.”

“Oh, shut up and hand me the polish.”

But James didn’t move. He was staring up at the ceiling, brows furrowed.

“Oi. Potter. Earth to James.”

James blinked and turned his head to look at you.

“Have you ever thought about it?” he asked suddenly.

You frowned. “Thought about what?”

He hesitated. Then smirked. “How gorgeous I am.”

You groaned. “Oh, for the love of Merlin—”

“I mean, really,” James continued, grinning now. “It must be exhausting for you, being constantly exposed to this level of handsomeness.”

“Exhausting, yes,” you said dryly. “Mostly because of your ego.”

James laughed, and it was so genuine, so warm, that you almost forgot why you were annoyed in the first place.

Almost.

By the time detention ended, you were both covered in dust, exhausted, and slightly delirious.

You both stumbled out of the trophy room, stretching like freed prisoners.

“Well, that was awful,” James said cheerfully.

You sighed dramatically. “If I never see another trophy again, it’ll be too soon.”

James turned to you, smirking. “You know, we should really thank Sirius for this.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpanned. “Maybe hex him as a thank-you.”

James grinned. “You do have the best ideas.”

You smirked up at him. “I know.”

James’s smirk softened slightly. His hazel eyes flickered down to your lips—just for a second.

Your heart definitely did not stutter. Absolutely not.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then James cleared his throat. “So.”

“So,” you echoed.

James shifted on his feet, then suddenly grinned. “Race you to the common room?”

You snorted. “Please. You’d lose.”

James gasped. “Oh, is that a challenge?”

You smirked. “You tell me.”

James took a step closer. “Winner gets bragging rights.”

You took a step closer. “Loser has to buy Butterbeer next Hogsmeade trip.”

James grinned. “Deal.”

He started running before even counting to three, and you really tried to get into his pace but he was much faster than you. James got in front of the painting that guarded the Gryffindor common room, breathless, you got there second, just by some seconds of different.

James grinned, looking far too smug. “I win.”

You gaped at him. “That’s cheating!”

“Strategic advantage, love.”

“Oh, you’re insufferable—”

James laughed, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the common room. “Come on, loser. You owe me a Butterbeer.”

You groaned, but you were smiling. “You’re impossible, Potter.”

James squeezed your hand. “You love it.”

And, Merlin help you, maybe you did.

Step number— Intervention!

By the end of the week, you had reached your limit.

You slammed your hands down on the Gryffindor table, glaring at Sirius. “I know what you’re doing.”

Sirius, mid-bite of toast, blinked innocently. “Doing what?”

“Every time I turn around, James is right there. Transfiguration. Potions. Detention.”

Sirius smirked. “Weird how that keeps happening, huh?”

You jabbed a finger at him. “Admit it.”

Sirius leaned back lazily. “Admit what? That my best mate is tragically in love with you and needs a little push?”

James, who had just sat down, immediately choked on his pumpkin juice. “SIRIUS!”

You and James turned bright red at the same time.

“I—You—” You spluttered, words failing you for the first time in your entire life. “He is not—”

Sirius just grinned wider.

James, still coughing, thumped his chest and pointed an accusatory finger at Sirius. “Mate. What the hell.”

“Oh, please,” Sirius scoffed. “We all see it. You two are basically a couple already.”

Remus, sipping his tea across the table, nodded. “He’s not wrong.”

Sirius put an arm around his boyfriend. "Thank you, Moony, at least one person on this table actually supports me"

Remus gave him a look "I never said that"

Sirius gasped in mock horror "Hey! I told you all my plans to make those two," He pointed at you both "Start dating and you actually said it was a good idea"

Remus just swallowed a piece of bread "You have no actual proof i said that"

James buried his face in his hands. “Merlin, kill me now.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “We are not dating.”

Sirius waved a hand. “Yet.”

You and James simultaneously threw a piece of toast at him.

It bounced off his head. He didn’t even flinch.

Sirius just grinned. “Give it a week.”

Step number... five?

The Gryffindor common room was unusually peaceful that evening. No firework explosions, no magical pranks, no Sirius Black laughing maniacally while being chased by McGonagall. Just a cozy fire, the occasional page-turning of a textbook, and the low murmur of students finishing their homework.

It was exactly the kind of peace Sirius Black found unacceptable.

He leaned over to Remus, whispering conspiratorially, “It’s time.”

Remus, who had been this close to finishing his Transfiguration essay, sighed. “Time for what?”

Sirius grinned wickedly. “Operation: Get James Potter a Girlfriend.”

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sirius, for the love of Merlin—”

But Sirius was already in motion, zeroing in on James and you, who were currently seated across from each other at the Gryffindor table, mid-banter as usual.

James leaned back in his chair, twirling his quill between his fingers. “You keep looking at me like that, love. Starting to think you fancy me.”

You scoffed, flipping a page in your textbook. “Oh, absolutely, James. Nothing gets my heart racing like watching you struggle with fourth-year level Charms.”

James gasped dramatically. “You wound me! I am excellent at Charms.”

You smirked. “Oh, of course. Remind me again, how many times did you accidentally set your own tie on fire last week?”

“Once,” James muttered. “And in my defense, the spell was successful. Just...with extra flair.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Hopeless.”

Sirius plopped himself down between you two, grinning like a madman. “Wow, the flirty tension in this room is suffocating.”

Both you and James immediately groaned in unison.

“Sirius—”

“Nope,” he cut you off, slamming a hand down on the table. “I refuse to sit idly by while you two idiots continue this will-they-won’t-they nonsense. So, I’ve decided to help.”

James narrowed his eyes. “Help how?”

Sirius smirked. “Oh, just making sure you two spend as much time together as possible.”

Before either of you could protest, he waved his wand.

Suddenly, the two of you lurched forward, an invisible force yanking you towards each other until your noses were barely an inch apart.

You blinked. James blinked.

“What. The. Hell.”

James tried to lean back, but something—no, Sirius—kept you stuck together.

“Black, if you don’t undo this spell right now, I swear to Merlin—” you started, your face rapidly heating.

Sirius just beamed. “Ah, young love.”

“Padfoot,” James hissed through gritted teeth. “If I hex you right now, will you undo it?”

Sirius shrugged. “Dunno. You could try, but you are currently nose-to-nose with your one true love, so any sudden movements might result in an accidental kiss.”

You and James immediately went rigid.

“You're so dead, Black.” you shouted.

Remus, watching from the sidelines, sighed deeply. “You do realize McGonagall is going to kill you for this.”

Sirius waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, this is romantic. I’ll probably get an award.”

James turned back to you, his lips twitching despite himself. “So… reckon we just stay like this forever? Seems like Sirius has finally found a way to actually make you stare at me all day.”

You groaned. “Unbelievable. I’d rather kiss a Dementor.”

“Ouch,” James said, dramatically clutching his heart. “That’s cruel. I’d at least make a handsome Dementor.”

You huffed, crossing your arms—which was a bad idea, because now your hands were even closer to James’s chest.

Sirius gasped. “Oh, Merlin! Are you about to hold hands? Is this a moment?”

“I will kill you,” James said.

Remus, who was now actively ignoring the situation, muttered, “I’ll alert the authorities.”

Lily, walking past with a book, glanced at the scene, sighed, and kept walking. “You two deserve this.”

James grinned at you. “C’mon, admit it. This is the best day of your life.”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “Hm. Ask me again when I’m not glued to your face.”

Sirius sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. I’ll undo it. But only if you both admit you like each other.”

James and you both froze.

Silence.

You turned to James. James turned to you.

And then, at the exact same time, you both blurted out:

"Absolutely not.”

Sirius groaned. “Hopeless. Utterly hopeless.”

And with that, he flicked his wand, releasing the spell.

The moment you were free, you shoved James off of you, and he—completely unprepared—toppled off the bench and onto the floor with a very undignified yelp, making everyone laugh at him.

Step number 10? (Sirius has definitely lost counting)

It was pouring outside.

The Quidditch pitch was soaked, the thunder rumbled, and the storm showed no signs of letting up. You both had just gotten out of the game, and everything would’ve been fine, except you and James were currently locked in the Gryffindor locker room.

Courtesy of Sirius Black.

James banged on the door. “Pads, you absolute menace, open this door right now!”

Sirius’s laughter echoed from the other side. “Not until you both admit you’re in love with each other!”

You groaned. “You child!”

“Nope, just a genius. Have fun, lovebirds!”

And then—silence.

James sighed, running a hand through his soaked hair. “He’s never letting this go, is he?”

“Nope.”

You both stood there, dripping wet, silence stretching between you.

And then James said, “We could just… do it.”

You turned to him. “Do what?”

James shrugged. “Kiss. Just to get him off our backs.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So now you’re willing to waste your first kiss on me?”

James laughed softly. “I never said I didn’t want to kiss you.”

Oh.

The air between you shifted. His usual smirk was gone, replaced with something softer, something almost shy.

Your heart hammered. “Well… if we have to.”

James took a step closer. “Right. Just to get Sirius to shut up.”

Another step.

“Obviously.”

His hand brushed yours.

“No other reason.”

You swallowed. “None at all.”

And then he kissed you.

It was soft at first, tentative. But then you grabbed the front of his stupid Quidditch jersey, pulling him closer, and suddenly—it wasn’t just to get Sirius to shut up anymore.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and dizzy, James just grinned.

“So,” he said, “how mad would you be if I told you Sirius left five minutes ago?”

You blinked.

And then you shoved him.

“POTTER!”

James stumbled back, laughing as you shoved him again, harder this time. “You knew?” you accused, hands on your hips, still breathless from the kiss.

He grinned, looking far too pleased with himself. “Well, I suspected.”

“You absolute menace!”

James only laughed harder, dodging as you lunged for him. “Come on, love, don’t be mad—”

“Oh, don’t you ‘love’ me, Potter! You tricked me into—” You stopped mid-sentence, suddenly realizing what you were saying.

James smirked. “Into what?”

You scowled. “Into… into…”

His grin widened, and he leaned in. “Into kissing me?”

Your face burned. Damn him.

James stepped even closer, so close you could smell the rain still clinging to his skin. His voice was lower now, teasing but softer. “You did kiss me back, you know.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Only because you kissed me first.”

He nodded solemnly. “And you’re saying you hated it?”

You opened your mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. “That is not the point.”

James just laughed, and before you could shove him again, he caught your hands in his. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, and suddenly, the air between you wasn’t just playful anymore.

You swallowed. “Potter—”

He leaned in again, close enough that your noses nearly brushed. “I think,” he murmured, “we might have to do that again. You know, just to be sure.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was pounding. “Oh, for research purposes?”

“Exactly.”

And then he kissed you again—this time slower, sweeter. No tricks, no games. Just you and him.

Outside, the storm raged on, but in that moment, all you could feel was warmth.

[sanjarka]

not to be a broken record but it's not quite fair to use the line but peeta wanted them so badly as proof that katniss was forced into having kids, or of her having them for all the wrong reasons. it exists within the context of not only the epilogue but an entire story before it. and i'm not here to convince you to like it. but to try seeing the point at least.

to expand on something i've spoken about before - in the epilogue their children are playing in a meadow from a song she sang to rue, a song that she now sings to her kids, in a meadow not unlike the one she dreams about after the beach kiss (as i drift off, i try to imagine that world, somewhere in the future, with no games, no capitol. a place like the meadow in the song i sang to rue as she died. where peeta's child could be safe)

so the tone in the epilogue can not be tragic and it is not regretful. it is hopeful.

the infamous line previously mentioned is not about katniss's lack of consent in being a mother but about the amount of trust she has in peeta as her life partner, as someone she loves. it's nothing but a connection to another line in the epilogue (where katniss is expressing her worry over teaching her kids about the games and her and peeta's role in them) → peeta says it will be okay. we have each other and the book. we can make them understand in a way that will make them braver.

it is about there not being another person who could've made this decision, this choice, safe (no one has held me like this in such a long time. since my father died and i stopped trusting my mother, no one else's arms have made me feel this safe)

it's about how his his hope made her wish safe (isn't it the thing i'd dreaded most about the wedding, about the future - the loss of my children to the games? and it could be true now couldn't it? if i hadn't spent my life building up layers of defenses until i recoil at even suggestion of marriage or a family?)

it's about how only peeta can give her that (what i need is the dandelion in the spring. the bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. the promise the life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. that it can be good again. and only peeta can give me that)

the choice to be a parent is not easy and careless and it never will be. she's absolutely honest about being terrified of her kids learning about the games, of them being scared and forced to harden like her and peeta were. the pain of the past is not ignored, it is not glossed over, and the nightmares never go away. but there's something else in the epilogue too.

when i first felt her stirring inside of me, i was consumed with a terror that felt old as life itself. only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. carrying him was a little easier, but not much.

how is this katniss being resentful and if she is why would she then have another kid? i've seen some people focus on the terror as it's this ugly thing proving her regret but is it not an entirely realistic feeling to have when carrying someone's life within you and understanding the neverending responsibility in keeping said life safe? there is such beauty in the phrase old as life itself. because it suggests the idea that this is something that isn't inherently tied to katniss's life, to her trauma and to her pain but to lifekind in general. and then the joy! how that terror is only settled when seeing your child eye to eye, seeing them breath and cry and live. it's such a gorgeous, intimate passage trying to let you in the love katniss has for her kids. it's not hiding away the sacrifice and the fear but it's also not hiding away how worth it it can be to make choices that scare you.

I'll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. that's when i make a list of every act of goodness i've seen someone do. it's like a game. repetitive. even a little tedious after more than twenty years. but there are much worse games to play.

how is this supposed to be so much more bitter than sweet, how is this anything but a love letter to peeta, to her kids, to everything she gained after everything she lost. why would she be so afraid of losing it all if it doesn't matter and why would she make a choice to believe in the kindness of people if the life she has now is something she has no say in and something that at best she feels indifferent towards to?

and obviously you have a right to feel whatever it is that you feel. i hate even having to say this cause who am i to give you a right to feel any type of way. i'm not trying to push my feelings onto you and tell you that this story must work for you, that it must make you feel hopeful. that if you're not satisfied you just have to read it again. stories don't work that way.

but to imply that the intention of the story is for the reader to be left hopeless is wrong. and sure, maybe that intention doesn't seem that profound you, maybe it is not interesting and maybe you think is boring. and maybe you think that katniss and peeta wouldn't realistically have this life path, or have kids, and maybe you think the end is too predictable and too expected. and that's okay. whatever life you have lived is going to affect what stories you find deep and what stories you find shallow and so maybe, this is that story for you. the story that you don't get. the story that doesn't work for you. and that's okay too. but to be so convinced that its intention is to present katniss's life as something so very miserable that she didn't choose but just let happen around her is wrong.

[a3therc0r3]

Boiling Blood

co-creator: @dragonspoems

summary: you wrote poetry during your time on Philos in your and Sylus’ own language; the poems found their way onto Earth and are now highly sought after, working to be decoded and being sold in auctions for billions. When Sylus learns about the poems, he immediately knows who wrote them, recognizing their language instantly. He has now made it his goal to hunt down as many of these poems as he can while simultaneously searching for you. 

content: sylus x f!reader, angst, past-relationship, pre-relationship, poetry, spoilers for sylus' myth

word count: 2,261

a/n: this is my first ever time posting on tumblr so i hope you enjoy!! i have some more fics coming in the near future(fluff, i promise-) also HUGE thank you to my amazing friend and collaborator @dragonspoems who not only wrote the poem in this fic but also gave me the idea for this fic!! go show them some love! this fic was also posted on ao3

first part is from sylus' POV

Appearances can be deceiving. For example, on the outside, one may see a violent lion, while on the inside, there is simply a shaking kitten. On the outside, one may see a calm, collected, well-kept man who sips occasionally on the venue-provided wine; swirling it around his glass in boredom. On the inside, his mind is racing, his eyes scanning the crowd and glancing back down to the list of goods. His knee bouncing as each item is sold off in a painstakingly long manner. Couldn’t they just get to what was important? What everyone was truly here for? Of course they couldn’t, you have to save the best things for last. 

Sylus watched as other guests whispered to one another, sharing rumors about the ancient writing that everyone was anticipating. They would lazily raise their paddles to pass the time, betting on a much less interesting artifact. A protocore here, a painting there, all while mumbling to their friends about the bits of this writing that had been released to the public. Hushed voices muttering about the beauty, the romance of the words. His beloved’s words. His. No one else’s. They didn’t deserve to read her literature, didn’t deserve to even attempt to translate their language. They didn’t watch from far away when she scribbled in a notebook. They didn’t know how her hands would smell of ink when she touched his face. They didn’t know anything and they never should.

Sylus’ grip on the list had tightened unconsciously to the point that his nails pierced through the paper. It had practically crumpled in on itself, his chest heaving as thoughts spun out of control. The masked twins beside him glanced at one another before leaning in slightly and whispering, 

“Boss? Are you alright?”

Sylus snapped out of his haze, clearing his throat and taking another sip of wine. The twins righted themselves and nodded, knowing to leave well enough alone. They knew better than anyone in here that hell was about to break loose the minute the poem was brought out. There was a high probability that it would end in bloodshed, considering how important this was to their boss; then again, there was always a possibility things could end in bloodshed with Sylus. 

After what felt like hours of waiting, the auctioneer finally grinned and leaned toward the microphone, 

“Now, ladies and gentlemen is the product that I have a feeling the majority of you are here to see. The antique poem is thought to have been preserved all the way from Philos,” guests leaned forward, their interests piqued, “Very few of these pages have been found, and even fewer have been translated from their original language. However, from what we can tell, these poems seem to be the story of beauty, tragic romance, the tale literally as old as time.” The man chuckled to himself, resting his weight on his hands placed on the edges of the podium, “Your faces tell me that many of you are already interested. Since these are so rare, I expect that there will be quite the competition, though we must ask that you all maintain your composure. Now, let’s start the bidding at fifteen million.”

Paddles raised instantly, calling out higher numbers on top of each other. Sylus crossed his legs and let his head rest against the back of his booth, his fingers turning the paddle over in his hand. He’d let them have their fun, wait until the cost had gone up before chiming in. 

“Fifty million from one forty-three, do I hear sixty? Sixty million anyone?” 

Guests continue to holler out their bids, waving their paddles impatiently. The auctioneer spoke a million miles a minute, pointing to each guest as he acknowledged the prices. Sylus remained silent until the bids had risen into the hundred millions. 

“One hundred and seventy million from Mr. Abrams, we are getting up there, ladies and gentlemen, do I hear eighty?”

Sylus raised his paddle, “Two hundred million.” His voice boomed above the others, a few turning to look at the unfamiliar vote. 

“Two hundred million! From Mr…” the auctioneer moved to spot him through the sea of heads, taking the microphone with him, “Mr. Sylus! Such an honor to have you here, sir! Two hundred million from Mr. Sylus, do I hear two hundred and ten? Two-ten, anyone?” 

A paddle was raised. So, they wanted to keep fighting? Bold move. The bidding continued, raising to two hundred and thirty million before Sylus spoke once more.

“Three hundred million.” The auctioneer practically laughed, “Three- three hundred million from Mr. Sylus! Another decent raise! Do I hear three-ten?”

Another paddle raised, “Three-fifty million,” the voice chimed out.

“Three hundred and fifty from this fine lady! Do I hear-”

The man didn’t get the chance to finish before Sylus cut in, “Four hundred million.” The woman who had placed the previous bet, turned from her seat to glare at Sylus, earning a smirk in response. 

“Four hundred million! The heat is cranking up here! Do I hear four hundred and fifty million?” The man strolled to the edge of the auction block, grinning as he spoke.

A paddle raised.

“Four hundred and fifty million from Mr. Abrams! Do I hear five hundred?” At this rate, it would take an hour to get the poetry. All Sylus wanted was something to remember her by, anything from his past life to cling onto while he searched for his beloved. Something to keep him sane in the meantime. He’d indulged them for long enough and now his patience was wearing thin. Sylus raised his paddle once more.

“One billion.”

More guests turned their heads, whispering to themselves as to why the leader of Onychinus would want a piece of poetry so bad. The auctioneer clapped dramatically, trying to excite the room, even though he had asked for the opposite moments prior. “One billion! Now that is an offer of the century. It’s going to be hard to top that, folks.”

“One point two billion.” The man from earlier–Mr. Abrams–raised his paddle, eyeing Sylus as he did so. 

Oh, so that’s how you want to play. Sylus held his paddle up before the auctioneer could even point to Abrams, “One point five.”

“One point seven.”

“Two billion.”

“Three.” 

The auctioneer chuckled wearily to himself, “Gentlemen, please, wait a moment for me to-”

“Ten billion.” Sylus carefully put his gun on the table, pointing the barrel in Abrams as he crossed his arms. His right eye glowed with such intensity that it made Abrams shiver on the spot as if Sylus could kill him with a mere stare. He probably could. The twins unsheathed their weapons, a silent warning, and had the man closing his mouth before he could voice another offer. It was time to shut up. Mr. Abrams turned back to face the auctioneer, placing his paddle down with a hmph! His wife muttered something bitterly to him.

The auctioneer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in, “Ten billion from Mr. Sylus! Do I hear any higher offers? Anyone? Ten billion, going once, going twice? Sold to Mr. Sylus for ten billion! Congratulations, my good sir!” 

He continued moving on with the next item, but Sylus couldn't care less; he had gotten what he came here for. He rose, taking the last swig of his wine and placing his gun back into its holster. With a flick of his hand, the twins stepped back, allowing Sylus to walk towards the backstage area. A few guests stood to block his path, turning to him with pleading gazes.

“Mr. Sylus, surely I can offer you a much better deal to take the poem off your hands. I could even pay you back the ten billion you lost!” A man stepped forward, his hands clamped together as he spoke.

A woman beside him scoffed, “Please! You don’t even have half that amount,” she stepped towards Sylus, purposefully bumping her shoulder against the man’s before caressing the Onychinus leader’s arm, “I can give you money and a good time.” 

Sylus grimaced in disgust, pulling his arm away as another guest behind him chimed in, “I’ll give you my first-born daughter! A-and any valuables you want!” 

“I’ll give you my daughter and my wife!” a voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd, quickly followed by a slap and a woman yelling in a foreign language. 

The first woman tugged at his sleeve again, “Mr. Sylus, please! Just reconsider and I’ll make it worth your time!” 

Sylus pulled his arm away for a second time and glared at the crowd surrounding him, a red mist pushed through the mob, forcing them to make a path for him. “You’re all pathetic, you sit here and let people piss on you without even the courtesy of calling it rain,” he strode through the swarm of guests that were still whispering offers to him, the twins following close behind him. The auctioneer seemed to be frozen in awe, unsure of how to proceed with the event. When Sylus reached the curtain that separated the backstage from the rest of the room, he turned to his henchmen, “Make sure they don’t disturb us,” and with that, he disappeared behind the fabric. 

The auctioneer let out a nervous chuckle, “Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats so we may continue with our schedule,” disappointed mumbles filling the silence as they complied. 

Behind the curtain, Sylus had been led to a private sitting room, where he awaited for the staff member to bring him his winnings. The flickering glow from the chandelier cast warmth through the room, hugging him in a mellow embrace. He crossed his legs, tapping his foot impatiently against the carpet. He could be wrong, the poem may not be what he thought they were. It could all be just a coincidence, every ounce of his past life was truly lost to a wind he would never feel again. Sylus grit his teeth and glared down at the rug, thoughts racing. 

A knock on the door interrupted his pondering, the woman that had escorted him stepped back into the room with a smile, “Your purchase, sir.” She handed him a leather binder with gloved hands and stepped back against the wall. 

He waved a dismissive hand at her. She bowed, seemingly disappointed, “We thank you for your appearance,” and with that, he was left alone. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in, opening the binder with a shaky hand. A yellowed and faintly crinkled paper sat in a sheet protector. With careful fingers, Sylus pulled the paper from its film, rubbing his thumb over the familiar texture. He had recognized the handwriting immediately–it had been ingrained in his memory for as long as he could remember–the poem was exactly what he had hoped it was: one written by his beloved. Biting his lower lip, he read her scrawls, 

It’s been years, and yet I still couldn’t explain the ache, from what I was, my very essence. It was painful to contain it. 

It hurts so damn much, going through days knowing what fools I am surrounded by. They don’t know anything yet, born with silver spoons in their mouths, not a gem in their eyes. 

I wished to be like them. Ignorance is bliss to the things I’ve seen, letting them take more–all they think they need. 

Yet his voice, a devil’s call, to grow back my claws, to be the one he fell in love with, to be the one I am, the one I unforgivably was.

I knew that call. I knew that need–the need that claws inside of mine–to let the world be filled with traitors’ screams.

Killing what was mine, forcing my hands into the fire of unbeknownst burning in his chest. 

I hated him, loathed him for it, for he knew who I was–a beast, a creature within that wanted their blood, wanted to dance on their graves for all the wrongs they have done. 

Something in my mind telling me he was, he is mine, and mine alone. He belongs. I belong to no one but us, and the spirits of our own, souls of the same kind.

They banished and looked away, laughed and smiled, celebrated the unbecoming of something that was mine and mine alone. 

Soon enough they will know. They will find what they have done, through my everlasting boiling blood. 

I cannot blame him for what he did, for it is as well the doing of mine.

Sylus stared at the paper, biting his lip harder, blinking rapidly to banish the tears threatening to spill. He took another breath, cleared his throat, and looked down at the initials that sat at the bottom of the page. Your initials. Because it was always you, and it will only ever be. The only one he would spend billions on to read a few lines of poetry. 

Sylus gripped the paper tighter as if it would disintegrate in his very fingers, the same way he once had, lifetimes ago on another world. He gazed up into the flickering light of the chandelier; his mind had been made up the moment the fragments of his soul had blown through that breeze so long ago. He was going to find you, no matter how long it took. He would wait centuries, traverse hellscapes, die as many times as he needed to, to find his way back into the arms of his beloved.

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it

[nightscythe]

dark sides of the primarchs' relationships

some of these are very dark (esp lorgar, angron, ferrus I guess) but I wanted to represent some of the less enjoyable themes in their relationships. some are kind of obvious, but I wanted to expand a little. again, it's how I write them, so you may not necessarily agree!!

18+ below the cut pls, it's sfw but some themes of death, obsession, etc, mostly pre-heresy

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the lion: struggles to interpret his feelings and often mistakes them as needs - namely, sexual need, but really any physical need. the heavy feeling in his heart because he hasn't seen you for weeks? must be because he had become used to your presence and his body must adapt to being without you. the burning in his chest when someone else dares to speak to you with a more suggestive tone? well, its not jealousy, it is his body telling him he needs you. overtime this would start to go, he would learn to interpret feelings in a more emotional way, but realistically he would need to care enough to want to try in the first place. he would always struggle though, turning every single one of his feelings about love into his duty. you're his responsibility, everyone else is a threat.

fulgrim: whilst it is obvious that his desire for perfection may have an impact on you, it has an equal burden on him. he always doubts himself, always taking a pessimistic view of both himself as a lover and to relationships as a whole. and your reassurance may never be enough, even if you do mean it and he seeks it out. he will always make each gift, each speech, each act of love bigger to meet his own desire to be better. and really? it can become more exhausting than anything. especially if he is always trying to prove himself and it sometimes starts to feel artificial. there would be a breaking point though where he finally realises to you, he is perfect, and there is nothing else he needs to do. but there is always that little, teeny doubt.

perty: trust issues will get to him more than anything. he'd need someone who has so much patience that it wears you down, but ultimately it would be worth it. the worst part is that he wouldn't often share how he feels, he keeps it to himself and sits brewing thoughts in his own head that you may just be like everyone else and not truly care. he'd keep it from you, never uttering a word, silently letting it all fester until it gets too much. and breaking down that wall he builds from his own thoughts would take a lot of time, a lot of effort, and a lot of letting him work things out on his own. that's probably the biggest issue - he has a lot of time, something you may not as easily afford.

the khan: his idea of love is different. in a good way, maybe, but different to others. love for him is choice, and he will not restrict you to it. if you want to leave him, then go. if you want to spend a day without him, then do so. he'd really need someone who can deal with his laid back approach (or more so, his promotion of freedom above all other things) to love. that can be tough. his free spirit may just be too free to some people, and that's just what life is like. don't expect reassurance or speeches of his feelings, they are not happening. he's quick to make his decisions, his conclusions, and he's quick to temper. in the right conditions, this can make a storm. if anything ever goes bad.. good luck.

leman: it flips with him, very sudden, very easily. one day he's so enamoured, so utterly floored by everything you do that he's got massive heart eyes and following you around like a puppy. other times he's in his own world, following his own free spirit, that it can make you feel neglected. all of this just ends up causing more and more anxiety, unknowingly to him, and obviously to you. its all unintentional of course, he loves you so deeply. and his love itself? it's raw. he's so set on being stoic and strong but he is fragile too. he fears the worst, his emotions are never waste. everything he feels he shows directly to you. that can be overwhelming; all of this is overwhelming. especially when you could wake up one day and he's gone to do something without any warning, not evening thinking that you notice.

dorn: he's cold. he's so cold that it burns. or... is that the raging fire inside just reaching through the cracks? words mean nothing to him, and it can be difficult to truly know where you stand. he would never say he loves you, he would make you feel like he didn't ever need you, but should you ever leave? he'd tear the imperium down brick by brick until he had you back with him. it's unknowing to him. a duty. an unspoken loyalty. he doesn't believe in anything being temporary, so you're with him for life now. even if he never says it. and its the fact it's just actions, ones which may not mean anything to you, that makes it so hard. the door he gifted you with a heavy duty lock may be strange to you, but you did tell him you were worried about someone breaking in...

curze: does not feel he can be loved. he thinks he deserves it, but he never thinks anyone would dare. he thinks any affection shown to his is out of selfish fear and the second an opportunity presents itself, that love and affection would be gone. so he worries. he worries you are just like everyone else. makes assumptions, accusations, tells you that he thinks you're lying. probably because in the past he felt he should be loved and forced it out of people. he never once stops to think that maybe you lay beside him, you hold his hand, you take care of him, because you want to. it doesn't make sense to him, not without proof, or time, or anything to support your case. he'd get it eventually, he'd stop spending nights awake convinced you'll leave him when you sleep peacefully beside him with no intention of going.

sanguinius: his foresight is a burden, knowing what will happen to him means his guards are up. he would always be devoted, and he would carry the burden of fate to know he had shown you love in a way that mattered. but the sleepless nights would come, knowing the heartbreak would follow. especially at first, he'd try so hard, he'd want to protect others, you, from the fallout of fate. he'd never wanted you to see him in a way as more than a guardian, protector even, but it was inevitable. especially being who he is. and he would keep it to himself, and it would eat him up inside. he'd want to give you an easier way out, a ending where his death was the lesser of two evils, but he could never bring himself to leave. not before fate forced his hand.

ferrus: he has to make you better. you though fulgrim was obsessed with perfection? imagine that, but reversed, and intensified by a thousand. ferrus can make you better. he can make you stronger, he can make you everything you ever wanted. and over time, as he improves you, makes you need to know that he's impressed with you, it changes you. he's unrelenting. and it's not that he doesn't love you. oh, he loves you so so much. but there's a part of him that thinks his encouragement, his desire for your perfection, it helps you. together you can be the perfect couple, but not because of beauty or looks. then it feels like you're a project to him, little more than a toy for him to work on each and every day. and he'd let you go. he'd give you the choice, be free of him, but you'd hesitate. could you ever really be without him again?

angron: he only knows war. pain. death. love is so... small to him. he doesn't understand how to be gentle, how to replicate the love some of his brothers will. but he doesn't want to hurt you, either. and it shows. he will not hurt you, he will not make you feel pain, but he would die for you. and would you die for him? well. if you wouldn't, he would make you. love for him is a reflection of the strongest emotions he feels. the words he associates with it are different. violence. he'd kill anyone who stood between you. desperation. it's a feeling he can't describe as anything other than need. consuming. it grinds on him, wears him down, until he treats it the exact same way as everything else he feels. you're his, and you will become a part of him, whether you want to or not.

rob: it should be easy to him, but its not, and that makes him feel worse. he's not stupid, he can process love and emotion. yet... why does it feel so hard? he always feels like he is doing something wrong, always expression too little in case he reveals too much, whilst always trying to make up for something he fumbled already. its a vicious cycle. the reality of the situation is he's torn in every direction, he's needed by so many people, that he doesn't have time for love. yet he would fight to the very end of time to show it to you. and it exhausts him to no end. he'd just need a little patience, he'd very much enjoy if instead of something require brain or body power, he could just rest with you in his arms, enjoy the peace, but when that's every single evening, it could become a little hard

morty: he carries around a lot of anger and it's not always easy to hide. like a bitter old woman who sneers at kids for stepping on her lawn, but deep down she has a heart bigger than anyone - she just doesn't like it when he things are messed up. probably a bad analogy. the smallest things annoy him and he's got a quick temper. he constantly has to remind himself to check his own feelings, assess if he's reacting appropriately, then actually respond. so sometimes, it can feel artificial, like it's a brave face he puts on, and eventually you'll just want to know the real him. and you can, but it may not be as easily heard or understood. with time he would get better, he'd balance his emotions with your help, but until then it may never feel 100% real.

magnus: the poor guy, he just doesn't think (how obvious, I know). his actions are well intended but the way he comes across is a mixed bag. you're proud of something you've done or learned and in the spirit of sharing your achievement he does it in one try... or he tells you a more advance version of a spell with the intention of helping you but... it just comes across as him belittling you. like you were never good enough for him, that he is so so much better than you and his standard is so far above you. in reality, he's just happy, he's sharing those things because he thinks it will help you. he's worried that he's not good enough for you. he feels like he has to prove himself, to show you just everything he's capable of, elevate the two of you, together. aww :(

horus: he knows about his charisma. like a beacon that sits on his head and forces everyone to like him. and that makes him question the reality of everyone around him. are you nice to him because he's Horus, or because you want to be nice to him? are you kissing him because he's Horus, or because you want to kiss him? it's a guessing game that he is losing. he truly believes that those closest to him do not care, and overtime he has developed trust issues beyond saving. he'd never show it though, but inside everything can feel like a lie. he'd have a way to work it out though - he's not stupid - but his way is long and extended, tests and games which may not be appreciated, and it may feel like you need to prove to him why you care about him. was your love not enough? it was. but he just needed to know it wasn't manufactured by that damn beacon.

lorgar: love... its something different for him. it's not love. it's reverence. you become everything to him, his faith, his truth, his gospel. you become divine to him in every way, perfection incarnate, holy as the gods around him. and for that reason, it is all written in fate for him. you are meant to be with him, you are meant to stand by his side. he would build temples in your name, he would burn planets to the ground if it meant you were happy. he would destroy worlds to bring you what you wanted. but, if you are unhappy with that? if you do not accept his love and devotion? that's heresy. that's denying the truth. and escaping him, it can only come through death. his one is quite dark, i'm very sorry about that. unless you like it, then happy to help.

vulkan: he wouldn't have many faults, aside from obvious primarch things, but I think he's full of worry. not insecurity, but concern, always worried about you, always thinking he may hurt you, worried that the feats he puts himself through may have an unnecessary effect on you. he knows that he puts himself in danger but he can't stop himself, he know your concern that maybe just one time, he won't come back - but he will still test the limits anyway. he'd never show you every part of him, afraid it may just be too much for you, and though he's never hiding anything sinister, he'd always be hiding something. and you know it. and he'd smile, assuring you its nothing. it's literally just something like he's never tried kissing you in a certain way in case he hurts you. or he was wounded fatally again but he's okay. probably better if he just tells you... but secrets in the name of happiness, I guess.

corax: sometimes he goes, for days. for weeks, months even. some may even question whether you've just made it up in your own head. it's not that he doesn't care, or he doesn't love you, but... he got lost in his own head. what he needed to do. and it doesn't help that when you are together, he's cold, he's reserved, and its like you've never even met before sometimes. he can handle all of this, he's secure in his feelings and is loyal to you beyond anyone else, but can you? it's not that he would abandon you, or betray you, but when you've waited for him to come him for months and there's still no sign of him, your thoughts may start to go somewhere less pleasant. you can ask him to stop, but it's never permanent, even when he's fully opened to you emotionally - he'd unintentionally fill you with doubt.

alpharius: oh its a bit of a mindfuck. one loves you, one doesn't. one whispers sweetly in your ear, one just whispers. one touches your shoulder and catches the tips of his fingers on the curve of your neck, the other one just touches your shoulder. it's little things. barely noticeable at first. something the everyday person would have just shrugged off. but after time, you do notice. that's not Alpharius. and it makes you mad. to think he sent someone else in his place? he had to, and you'd never understand, but he hates it as much as you. do you know how badly he wants it to be him that is with you each day? how insulting it is to know that he was sharing you? it drives him to the brink of insanity. it's truly the worst feeling in the world. but there's nothing you can do about it, and you'll have to live with knowing that maybe the man next to you isn't the alpharius you love.

˗ˏˋ 𓅰 ˎˊ˗

[burningcheese-merchant]

ANSWER THIS AND YOU GET A FUNNY BURNING CHEESE COMIC

Hear me out

The ancients giving themselves up to the beasts as sacrifices if they agreed to leave earthbread alone and never wreck terror or show their faces again

I'd say everyone besides Flour would go:

Say less Babygirl*hops into a pumpkin carriage and rides off into the sunset*

Maybe Salt would need a lot of convincing because... Holy shit it could be this easy, Milk you seeing this, quick Spice snap a photo this is a moment in history

Flour is just in massive denial but would find a way to agree to mke it seem like it isn't about love or anything

Unknown3doors, don't tempt me like that 👀 don't tempt me like that, unknown3doors 👀 you're playing with fire, unknown3doors 👀🔥

Pure Vanilla surrendering to Shadow Milk would be the happiest day of Shadow's life. He makes Vanilla repeat himself multiple times, makes him announce it through a megaphone, they do a radio broadcast, Shadow makes a TV special out of it, Shadow writes poems and essays gloating and taunting... And then he eventually agrees to Vanilla's terms (although, he DOES try to haggle for permission to continue annoying people). Pure Vanilla is HIS!!! HE'S FINALLY HIS!!! FOREVER AND EVER!!!!!!! (And the Soul Jam, technically. But WHATEVER!!! HIS SILLY VANILLY!!!). Now Vanilla must endure having to spend EVERY SINGLE MINUTE of his life within 10 feet of Shadow AT ALL TIMES, or else the deal is off and Shadow will commit genocide in retaliation. Why the long face, though? You agreed to this! You knew this would happen! Maybe if Vanilla behaves well enough, like a good little doll, Shadow will allow himself to be HIS doll for a time. Tit for tat. It's only fair. They can be each other's playmate for eternity now...

Eternal Sugar would be 100% awake for the first time in forever if Hollyberry offered herself to her - in exchange for anything at all, it never had to have been for keeping innocents safe. Typical of Holly, in her estimate; she's not necessarily surprised by this. Maybe she'll feign a bit of surprise just because, maybe she'll tease Holly about it... But all in all, she's quite pleased. Now she can keep those pesky subjects of Holly's away from her much easier (as well as her friends... Including that ridiculous dragon...). Holly will learn to see things her way eventually. Appreciate the little things. Like a nice, long nap in a warm bed, in the arms of a loved one... Pleasant, sugary sweet dreams that are too comforting to wake up from... No one ever bothering them about anything ever again. Free from their responsibilities, free from the burden of the shield and the crown. Just the two of them in their own little world, pursuing their own happiness. Won't that be nice?

Mystic Flour would struggle to even entertain Dark Cacao's presence, never mind his... proposal (oh gods, not that word). She would refuse, and refuse, and refuse again. But Cacao does not give up, stubborn fool that he is. Curse his Light of Resolution... Eventually, in lieu of plainly refusing, she tries to appeal to reason. What about his kingdom? His people? What would they say, think, do? Will he leave them behind just to keep her pacified? What about his friends? His son? Who will rule in his absence? Unfortunately, Cacao has an answer for every single one of her questions... and, with an even greater undertone of misfortune... she likes them. That part of her that likes HIM also likes this. That he always has an answer for everything she says. That he won't bend the knee to her, no matter what. His self-sacrificing nature, bordering on martyrdom... just like hers once was. In truth, every word out of her mouth is only serving to delay her inevitable acceptance of his offer. A feeble attempt at shooing him away, one final shot at denying her feelings towards him, for having him around her constantly would be too much to bear, and she might... She... She'll break. She knows she will. And she can't have it. She won't stand for it.

... Dark Cacao, stubborn, handsome, selfless fool that he is. He has undone everything she ever worked for. Her apathy meant nothing the moment they locked eyes. It means nothing now, as they go back and forth about this foolish deal of his. And it won't mean anything when she eventually says yes.

(But she'll try to pretend otherwise, for as long as she can. Neither of them could handle the truth...)

Golden Cheese: Burning Spice, if you leave everyone else alone, I'll give myself to-

Burning Spice: DEAL!!!!!!!!! *pounces on her before she can actually finish or explain herself any further... What he does next, I'll let you imagine/decide 😉*

Silent Salt... wouldn't even believe it at first. He'd be astounded. Dumbfounded, really, that White Lily would say such a thing... Is this really her? Is someone forcing her to do this? What is the catch? Enough reassurance from her would convince him that she's being real and sincere and every other word that can be used to describe her deal, and... he accepts it. No other ifs, ands or buts. His White Lily... now, she really IS his White Lily. Forever and ever... He doesn't mind having to keep away from society; that's hardly a punishment. It costs him nothing. And if his White Lily is there with him, he won't even notice the difference...

[parkersbliss]

Okay after the last request I am official kinda obsessed with the American! reader one shots! I was wondering if you could one where the boys learn that reader knew Graves somehow from back home? Like they find pictures of them together and reader is like “Oh that’s my ex!/friend” and we see the boys reaction? I love your writings sm!!🫶🏽🫶🏽

babe I am SO sorry for the wait. college was kicking my ass. but like oh my god I love this request. I love it so much I wrote 2,000 words! thank you so much!! xx

TO THE GRAVE(S)

PAIRING: task force 141 x female!american!reader WARNINGS: phillip graves, implied ex relationship with ghost / price, mentions of death and violence, frat boy graves thoughts A/N: I got SO carried away with some of the au's of reader and graves. sorry gang he's my baby girl

Masterlist | Taglist | Requesting (open for cod!)

Gaz:

The space you shared with Gaz was empty, to say the least. You had recently moved in, so it made sense. You couldn’t stand it. You had been sitting for hours with your boyfriend on the couch, ordering various pieces of furniture. You were lucky you even had a bed. 

Thus was the process of moving in, especially with a sergeant who had to try and time it for when he was home. You wouldn’t trade it for anything, though. 

Sure, the space was blank, a few things from your previous place, but nothing that screamed The Garrick’s (or soon to be). 

This leads you to sit on the couch you took from Kyle’s, box in your hand as you search for some photos to frame and hang up. Something to signify people lived here. 

Kyle is sitting next to you, arm slung over your shoulder as he continues browsing for furniture. He listens to you talk when you find a photo that triggers a memory, loving the excited gleam in your eye as you talk about your high school days. 

That was until you pulled out a certain photo. 

He nearly does a double take as you hold it up, head tilting to the side as you examine it. “Who’s that?” He asked as nonchalantly as possible. You could hear the strain in his voice though and raise a brow. You turn back to the photo of you and Phillip side by side, leaning against each other and flashing a four on your fingers like some frat boys. 

“Phillip,” You said. “He was a good friend.” 

“Was he?” Kyle snorts, unable to hide the obvious disdain for the man. How dare someone as vile, putrid, and untrustworthy as he ever lay hands on his girl. You, his sweet, beautiful girlfriend. 

You roll your eyes, setting the photo on the table. “He was just a friend, babe. Seriously. I only knew him because I was sophomore class president, and he was senior.”

Kyle grabs the photo from the table. “You look a little more than friends.”

“I have actual exes, you know.” 

“None as bad as him.” 

You furrow your brows, plucking the photo from his hands. “You don’t even know him. He was smart, funny, charis—” 

“Okay!” Kyle huffs, cutting you off and you blink in surprise. He was never this harsh with you, and certainly not over things in the past. 

“What is this about?” 

Kyle sighs, leaning back on the sofa with crossed arms. He tried to keep you out of his work life. Hidden away in your flat in London, a quiet corner of the world where he was Kyle and not Gaz. Knowing Graves had experienced some semblance of the peace you brought irked him. It shouldn’t bother him, because, like you said, it was a while ago. Still, the burn from his betrayal is charred. 

“You remember that day I called you panicking over Soap and Ghost?” He asked. “They were in Mexico.” 

“Yeah.” 

“They were being hunted by an opposing military team,” He starts, gently grabbing your hand. “Shadow company.” He can see the confusion in your eyes. The wariness as you’re unsure where he’s going with this. “Graves runs that company.” 

There’s a heavy beat of silence. You weren’t really attached to him. Again, just class presidency stuff. You would’ve probably never thought about him again if you hadn’t seen the photo. “You know,” You finally said, voice bouncing off the empty walls. “I always did think he was a little power crazy.” 

Kyle nearly cries in relief, grabbing you in his arms as he buries his face in your neck, and you giggle. “You have no idea.” 

Ghost:

Simon prided himself on being a good partner to you. His entire existence was tethered to you and the smile on your face. He did his best to make sure it stayed there. He was always gentle with you when he was upset, never yelling. There was a certain softness you brought out in him, and he adored it. Now, Simon was still a jealous man. He hated to see others looking at you with nothing but lust in their eyes. But when you would turn around to face him, eyes brimming with love only for him, it didn’t matter. 

Except for this time. 

You’re lying in bed with him, flipping through your yearbook from high school. Your friend had texted you earlier in the day about how one of your old friends had just had a baby with someone you least expected. Thus prompting you to scour the yearbook for this “guy.” And then you just fell down the rabbit hole of past memories. 

You’re tucked into Simon’s side, his arm wrapped around your shoulder and head leaning against yours as you point out various pictures. 

His breath halts when your finger traces over a certain one, a small frown tugging at the corner of your lips. 

He would recognize the face of Graves anywhere. Even if it was your yearbook from a youth spent in the South. What are the odds? 

Simon’s free hand balls into a fist as he takes in the photo and its implications. Graves is in a football uniform, giant 01 on his jersey. He’s younger, with no stubble or scar on his cheek but otherwise the same cocky smile. The same one Simon had mistaken as friendship and later realized it was all deception. Grave’s has got you sitting on his shoulder, bright smile and arm raised with a pom-pom as you cheer. 

“That’s Phillip,” You said. Of course, when you talked about your ex Phillip, you meant that Phillip. 

Simon clicks his tongue in response, voice gruff. “You look happy.” 

You sigh, moving the yearbook to rest on the bed. “I was.” 

Simon’s calm on the outside, but truly, he was a tea kettle boiling over. Every glance at that damned photo sent him a little more towards the edge. He had wanted to throttle Graves not so long ago, and now? It was worse knowing he was that Phillip. The ex that left you torn apart. 

“He was good for a while,” You admit. “It was all rainbows and unicorns. He was the kind of player that runs up and kisses you after a touchdown.” Simon’s lip twitches. “Then he left for the Marines, and he was never the same.” You lean more into Simon, unaware of the rage churning inside him. “I think the war changed him, Si. He was so angry after and I realized he just wasn’t the same.” 

Should he tell you? The man that broke your heart was, in fact, also his enemy? That they’d come face to face, and Soap had killed him? That war had changed Phillip into a power-crazy, lap dog, sociopath? 

“I just hope wherever he is now, he’s okay.”

Well, that settles it. Simon watches as you close your yearbook, still frowning, and he knows telling you would be worse. 

“I’m sure he is,” Simon said, squeezing your shoulder. “I’m sure he got everything he ever wanted.” There’s a double meaning there, but you don’t catch it. You have no idea that your ex has been presumed dead. Ironically, Simon doesn’t know he’s alive. 

You kiss your boyfriend on the cheek. “I’m always so grateful you come from deployment the same. You’re too good to me.” 

That’s simply not true. Simon could always be a better man — for you. His hand cups your face, and he places a kiss on your lips. 

Soap:

Johnny’s hands shake as he holds his phone. There was no way, no fucking way he was seeing this right. He’d been putting off a visit to the eye doctor for a while, but it couldn’t be this bad. He must be imagining things. Otherwise, how else do you explain that his girlfriend is clearly posing in a photo with his mortal enemy? 

He had lost it. The head injuries had finally caught up with him. 

He repeats that like a mantra even after he zooms in and out on the Instagram post and stalks your best friend's page for clues. 

Cue Johnny’s with about an inch of space between his sight and the phone when you walk in. 

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, and you’re leaning against the doorframe, brow raised. “Whatcha got there, bubs?” 

Johnny’s head snaps in your direction, phone slamming down on the table. “What?” His accent is thick. 

“What’s on your phone?” You walk over towards him, plucking the device out of his hand and examining the photo of you, your best friend, and Phillip. It must be some school event because all three of you are in blue tutus, green and blue face paint, and more accessories of the same color. “Oh my god,” You laugh. “I haven’t seen this photo in years.” 

Johnny’s brows furrow. “Why—,” He coughs. “What is it?” 

“It was our homecoming game,” You said, still looking over the photo fondly. “The student section where we stood had like leaders that would direct chants and stuff. Phillip was one, and this was his last game doing it so we went all out.”

You said it so casually. The name of the man who had put his head on a bounty. He wasn’t mad at you, of course. Clearly, this was a time before the present Graves. Still, the coincidence — the idea — irked him. He never told you about Mexico. Johnny didn’t want to worry you about it. Besides, when he was home, he’d rather listen to you talk about happier things. And Graves was dead now. 

“Haven’t seen him in years, though. He’s some CEO now of a private company. Jenna doesn’t really talk to him much anymore. Says he’s like really busy.” 

“Jenna?” Johnny questioned, referring to your best friend. “She’s still… in contact?” 

You give him a funny look, setting the phone down on the table. “Yeah? It’s her brother, after all.”

Johnny’s eyes doubled in size, spluttering. “What? That’s Jenna’s brother?” He was aware your best friend had a brother, older, a good friend of yours. But he never gave it much thought than that. She was married, so her last name had changed. If that was the case… she couldn’t be in contact with him. He was dead. Johnny would know. He killed him. “Bloody fucking hell, babe,” Johnny mumbles. 

“What’s going on?”

Johnny shakes his head. “She doesn’t know what he does?” 

“I don’t know! He doesn’t talk about his work. Who cares?”

Your boyfriend grabs your hands, pulling you into the seat across from him. “When was the last time she talked to him?” 

“What is happening?” 

“Love.” 

You’ve never seen your boyfriend look so panicked. Sweat was beading on his forehead, hands shaking in yours, and his accent much harder to understand. “The holidays.” 

“Fuck!” He drops your hands, standing up and running a hand through his mohawk. He wasn’t dead. 

“Can you just tell—” 

“Phillip Graves owns a private military company that tried to kill me in Mexico.” 

Silence as you stand there dumbfounded. Your best friend's brother was… he was bad. 

You eventually approach your boyfriend, grabbing the hand that was running through his hair. “I didn’t know.” 

Johnny embraces you tightly, pushing your head into his chest. “I’m not mad at you, love. Just got some unfinished business now.” 

He kisses your forehead, swaying you side to side, a plan forming deep in his cortex. One to kill him once and for all. 

Price:

There was a reason John Price was called a captain. He was a natural leader, someone who commanded the attention of those around him. Still, that wasn’t enough to warrant running his own team. To be responsible for others' lives took more skills. He was a good decision-maker under pressure. He could control his emotions better than others. He wasn’t rash when it came to the lives of others. That’s what made him a good leader. 

It’s also what made him a great husband. He was a gentle giant with you. Every decision you make, from the color of the walls to the couch in your living room, was made with thorough consideration. 

It’s what you loved most about John. Being around him made you calm. You can't even think about a moment in your relationship when you’d seen him harsh and yelling.

You were both sitting on the couch, some sports game playing on the TV in the back. You’re leaning against him, flipping through a photo book. You had gotten a few prints back from your wedding photographer and had filled them into your wedding book and then got distracted but the others. You and John were sentimental people, and you took it upon yourself to create memory books to show your kids one day. 

John hadn’t really seen yours since they ended up getting made by you and stuck on a shelf. So, here you were, lecturing him on all the years of your life he hasn’t been present. Truthfully, he knew most of the stories, but he enjoyed listening to you talk and the small facts you’d sneak in. 

“And then we lost this meet horribly. I think Layla got injured and went out.” You flip the page, various photos of you and your teammates on the mat. 

John hums, leaning over you to look at the photos. “That must suck.” 

You shake your head. “Depends if you got the cute athletic trainee that day or not. I think a lot of girls faked injuries to see him.” 

Your husband laughs, a deep rumble you feel next to him. “You got a picture?” 

You flip through a couple pages until you find him. You snort at the photo. You’re sat on the floor of the gym, leg extended and bandaged from whatever injury you had sustained. A young boy is next to you, kneeling with his arms wrapped around your upper half and leaning his head against yours. John’s brow twitches slightly as he sees the widesmile on your face, and small hands clasping the arm of your… ex. 

What’s even more concerning is the recognition brewing in the back of his head. He uses a hand to gesture for you to hand him the book. You do, and he holds it up to his eyes, scanning for why this guy was so familiar. Ashy blonde hair, baby blue eyes, and a grin that he wants to wipe off. It’s only when he catches a glimpse of the name on the upper corner of his jacket does it hits him. 

“Graves.” 

“How’d you know his name?” You asked with surprise. 

“Saw it on the jacket,” John answered with ease. His fingers itch to rip the photo to shreds. 

You hum, sliding the book back from him. “He was really popular. Took the athletic training class for fun his senior year and then had to do the internships at games.” 

John huffs. “You dated?” 

You shrug, offering no real sort of attachment to him. “Sort of. Was more like a few weeks, couple games, Valentine’s Day.” 

“Seems like a good lad.” 

“I guess. There was something kind of off about him, though. But everyone at school loved him.” 

John quirks a brow at that, pressing his head to yours as he glances at the photo again. “What do you think he’s up to now?”

You tap your chin in thought, pushing the book to the side. “Probably some power-crazy CEO.” 

John laughs, threading a hand through your hair. If only you knew. He wouldn’t tell you. He saw you didn’t really care for him. Probably hasn’t thought about him in years. Your husband plans to do the same. “I bet he is.” 

--

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[sunrisecaminus]

Hi I hope you having a wonderful day

May I request some sfw optimus x reader?

Message - I am having a great day actually! Also of course! Got to love the Prime once in a great while! I didn't know what to put as a story so I just made the human have a job.

Optimus x Mechanic Reader SFW

Summary - Optimus having a cute hang out at the human's store!

Warning - Very adorable!

Type of fic - Fluff

You have never had to fix so many vehicles before, until you met the Autobots. You never wanted to tell them, but Cybertronian anatomy was actually easy to learn to help Ratchet with the minor injuries these idiots get from missions. You own your very own Mechanic shop and the bots just make it less boring when they come to visit. Optimus was very respectful to you and rarely visits, but after some deep discussions you both have with each other, he will come by to see you a lot more now a days.

Right now you are giving an oil change for someone when you see from the corner of your eye the red, white and blue truck pulling up. The smile that grew on your face said it all and you finished the guys truck, got paid, and let him leave your garage. Walking outside with your o/c overalls (overall color), you pat the front of the hood and greet your big truck friend. "Hi big guy! What you in for?" You wait patiently as he transforms and looks around. "Hello y/n. I came to drop off some parts for your work. Agent Fowler said it's for Bumblebee when he comes in."

You have lifted so much weight off Ratchet's back by giving the mechs their own check ups and basic plating care routines. You have noticed that you haven't given Optimus a full check yet, but you figured it was because the man was very private about his body. You heard from a lot of his friends that he rarely likes to be touched and they blame it on him being a Prime. It didn't matter to you though, you just wanted him to feel comfortable around his new environments and relax. "Well why don't you come in? I closed for the night so no one is coming around anytime soon." Your shop close really late and it's in the middle of no where. Just outside of Jasper was just your mechanic shop, a mini gas station, and the desert. You liked how peaceful it was here, and the autobot base is actually close by, so anytime the kids need a place to stay they could always come to you for a sleep over. You lived in the back of your shop, but you didn't mind. It was like a cozy apartment inside your home with a tv, kitchen, bedroom, and your own bathroom so you didn't need to use the shops public restroom. It wasn't much, but the quiet nature of it made it feel like a luxury to you. Anyway Optimus walks over and sits just outside of the garage as you pull up a chair and grab your microwaved dinner. "So, any new stories you need to tell me? How are the kids?"

You both talk for what seemed like hours. It was so nice to get to be with him again, but what you didn't know is he felt the same way about you. You listened to everything he said and gave such good advice. What he loved most about humans was their empathy, and you had a lot of it. You played a lot of music with your vintage record player and he loved to just close his eyes and listen to the sweet music…made him forget about the war for a few hours. You NEVER talked about the war with him, unless he talked about it first. Being the person you were, you never wanted to talk to someone about deep things unless they initiated it first, a lot of people find dark topics to be uncomfortable to talk about and you knew Optimus was an awkward person. "Hey, thanks for the shipment. Speaking of, I have some new tires for you if you ever wanted to get some new ones yourself. Treat yourself and get something good once in a while to make you feel better." You eat your food, waiting for an answer as he got quiet to think about it. "I don't want to bother you about it y/n. It's very late." He spoke to you like he was such a nuisance. You wanted to change that ever since this man met you. Standing up, you grab your tool box and throw your empty container into the trash. "Transform and come on in, I can hook you up with some good classic black tires! Nothing flashy I promise."

He obeyed and did just that, transforming, and driving inside your garage. He has never done this before, so he may be a little nervous doing this with a human mechanic. It's not that he didn't trust you personally, he was just worried a human wouldn't know how to change Cybertronian tires. What Optimus didn't know, was that you have been taking classes from Ratchet and reading books in translation to help yourself understand how to do everything. You already practice changing tired on Bumblebee and Arcee, so this was going to be a piece of cake for you. Opening the tool box you walk over and hook him onto the big machine. He didn't know what it was for at first until his entire body gets lifted a few feet off the ground. "Are you sure this will hold?" You chuckle from how anxious he was and pat his bumper. "You'll be fine I promise, Fowler hooked me up with some expensive tech so this baby can hold a plane." You put on gloves and start to get to work.

After about two hours, you clean off the last tire and lower him to the ground. He was a big mech so you made sure you lowered him slowly and you see the tires pressing against the shops floors. "Aaaaaand we are done! Now I already sprayed them and put some air in them so you won't have to come back for another check up in-" You interrupt yourself when you heard nothing coming out of him. You could sense that he wasn't listening so you press your hand on his door. "Hey, you ok? Optimus?" That was when you heard a soft noise coming out of his engine…he was asleep. You smiled from the cute moment that is happening right now and you grab a tarp from the back. It was a nice giant blue tarp that is used to protect vehicles from weather conditions as you draped it over his entire body. Going inside the kitchen, you make yourself a cup of hot chocolate as you go back outside into the garage to sit yourself by the desk you have. You take a sip of the mug and place it on the table, grabbing a pen to start drawing for your next blueprint idea. You look back at the sleeping prime that was in your garage. "Sweet dreams Optimus…love you." You go back to work as what you don't see is him flustered on the inside. He woke up when you gave him the blanket…and now he plans to visit you everyday from now on.

[epicbuddieficrecs]

Weekly Recap | February 3rd-9th 2025

Less than a month until 9-1-1 is back on our screens babyyyyy! how's everyone doing after that kiss hug in the rain scene???

Complete

You And I Walk A Fragile Line (I Have Known It All This Time) by pinkpeachtea (Hug In The Rain Spec | 1,3K | Teen): "Eddie?" Buck asked, voice breaking on the name as he noticed the car door opening again, staying open– probably getting the entire interior wet. And it was hard to see- especially through the rain- but if Buck wasn't just hallucinating, it'd actually look like… He was walking right towards him. Careful at first, slowly, until his steps got quicker– jogging that turned into running. Buck could feel his feet again, though he had no control over them as he found himself walking towards Eddie, meeting him not quite halfway when he came to a halt and– "Why did you stop?"

lull of you by brewrosemilk/ @gayhoediaz (Getting Together | 1,7K | Teen): For as long as Buck can remember, Eddie’s ability to express himself has left him in awe—the way that, although it sometimes takes a minute for him to get there, whenever he’s ready, he’ll rip his heart out of his own chest and present it on a silver platter. With a thumb pressed to Buck’s pulse point—or both—and deep, warm, earnest eyes. Buck has never been like that—he goes all out before he’s even sure what he feels; he’s dramatic and emotional, and clingy, and his emotions often run his actions miles ahead of his brain. (Not that he hasn’t come to terms with that by now—he is who he is, and he’s learned to appreciate it.) The interesting thing is, though—despite his regular habit of rushing things to beat his tendency to overthink in a lap around the racetrack—for once, tonight, his brain feels… quiet. Calm.

& such by colonoscopys/ @colonoscopys (87K | Teen): prompts and spec fics and codas and all the works jumbled mumbled into one place.

22. reunions (Eddie back from Texas | 2K): Buck kind of—avoids Eddie when he gets back.  He knows he shouldn’t. The thing is, his heart still feels so bruised. It still feels like it’s lying there on the road, soaking up the gravel and the cement and the area just under Eddie’s tires, and he’s—tired. He’s tired. He just wants a second, to recuperate, before he goes back out there and pretends like everything is okay. 

No Take Backs by Maximoff_Wanda (Friends to Fiances | 2K | Not Rated): “Marry me,” he blurted out, causing the other man to freeze and turn to stare at him. “What?” Eddie slowly lowered himself down on one knee, keeping eye contact with Buck, his blue eyes widening as he watched Eddie sink to the ground. Somewhere in the background, he hears a woman squealing as she notices what’s happening. Eddie clears his throat, grabbing one of Buck’s hands as a crowd starts to form around them. “Buck... Evan. There is nothing more that I want than to spend the rest of my life getting pretzels with you at the zoo listening to your endless fun animal facts while you buy our son sugary confections that he doesn’t need just because it makes him happy... So will you please marry me?”

When I see you again by Maximoff_Wanda (Hug In The Rain Spec | 2K | General): Buck sighed as the sky opened up and a drizzle of rain began to pour over them as they walked out of the Diaz house toward Eddie’s truck. Of course, it had to rain the day the love of his life left for Texas. Now that he’s thinking about it, Buck realized it was always raining when Buck and Eddie lose each other.

i knew it when you looked my way (that i'd be begging you to stay) by teaspoonmoon/ @young-waverer (Hug In The Rain Spec | 2K | General): When Eddie pulls Buck in, Buck melts, wrapping one arm over his shoulder and the other under his arm, palms wide to cling to as much of Eddie as he can hold. Buck’s chin settles in the crook of Eddie’s neck and he breathes in deeply, trying to commit to memory the blurred together scent of Eddie’s deodorant and shampoo and the petrichor hanging in the air. “I miss you already,” Eddie says into Buck’s ear, stubble scraping against Buck’s cheek as his mouth moves. With one last squeeze Eddie pulls away, clapping Buck just a little too hard on the shoulder. “I should probably get on the road,” Eddie says, stepping away. “Drive safe,” Buck replies, stepping after him. Eddie slides into the driver’s seat and shuts the door, drops the bag of scones into the seat next to him. He resolutely doesn’t look into the rearview mirror as he adjusts it.

But What A Ghostly Scene by icewhisper (S4, Coma Dream | 3K | Teen): Eddie had always thought if he came close to death, it’d be Shannon or his abuelo he saw who pushed him to go home – to go back to Christopher – but when a sniper nearly killed him, it was a little boy he dreamed of instead. Nearly two years later, he realizes who that little boy was.

with a little water and a little bit of sunlight by teaspoonmoon/ @young-waverer (S8E8: Wannabes | 4K | Teen): “You flipped the tablet.” “Did I?” Lord only knows how he carried out an emotional affair as long as he did if this is how good he is at lying. Buck clearly has come to some—wrong—conclusion, given the way he smirks and cocks his head. “What're you looking at, Eddie?” His tone is a little flirty, a little suggestive, and if Eddie were any less close to a panic attack he'd probably think the gulf between what Buck assumes he'd been doing and what he was actually looking at was very funny. — The one where it's not Homes.com but it's also not porn on the iPad.

let's go get the shit kicked out of us by love by teaspoonmoon/ @young-waverer (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Getting Together | 4K | Teen): “Are you Love Actuallying me?” Eddie looks about as surprised that those are the words coming out of his mouth as Buck is to hear them. “Oh my god, what?” “Love Actually. That freaky kid who’s like thirty now but still looks like a ten year old. Runs through an airport, gets himself put on a no-fly list for love? Are you Love Actuallying me?” “For fuck’s sake, has everyone seen that movie but me?” Buck has to laugh, it’s absurd. This whole thing is absurd. He wants to rip his hair out. He also, as of thirty minutes or maybe six years ago, wants to rip Eddie’s shirt off, but that’s not his main focus at the moment.

Will you still be with me (when the magic’s all run out?) by scarmaddiewrites (Witch Buck AU | 5K | Not Rated): Buck is a witch and in love with Eddie…that really it.

Cupid, Q-Words, and Cursed Shifts by JJK/ @trenchcoatsandtimetravel (Post-S8A, Valentine's Day | 5K | Teen): A slow shift at the firehouse gets derailed when someone accidentally says the Q-word, Eddie pines over Buck, and the new Probie panics about Valentine's Day.

I’ll tell them put me back in it (and I would do it again) by paleredheadinascifi (Getting Together | 5K | Teen): Eddiaz is listening to the slowburn friends to lovers playlist. Eddiaz listened to the POV you’re falling in love with your best friend playlist. Eddiaz listened to the sad gay yearning hours playlist. Eddiaz listened to the he was my best friend and that was the worst part playlist. Or, Eddie doesn't know how to make his listening history private. Buck doesn't know what to do with the words in front of his eyes. Chris cannot believe he has to deal with either of them.

Eddie Diaz's Emotional Support Group Chat by scarmaddiewrites (Chat fic, Post-S8E8: Wannabes | 6K | Teen): Eddie makes a group chat to help him with his plan to woo Buck… It goes about as well as you think it would.

promise what you will, something good for me by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Fake Relationship, Getting Together | 6K | Teen): Eddie forms a one-sided beef with a woman claiming to be psychic and ropes Buck into a fake dating scheme to try and prove all her predictions wrong.

your slightest look easily will unclose me by teaspoonmoon/ @young-waverer (S8E6: Confessions, PWP | 7K | Explicit): Eddie takes in a deep breath and reaches out and sets his hand on Buck’s knee, fingers wrapping around his lower thigh, pinky brushing his inseam. “Hey. If you were my first, you’d be my last.” The air is still between them and feels charged in a way it wasn’t a moment ago. Careful not to dislodge Eddie’s hand, Buck stretches his arm out to grab the tequila. Watching Eddie out of the corner of his eye, he knocks back another half shot. Eddie doesn’t retract his hand, and the heat of it is starting to seep through the denim of Buck’s jeans. “Sure.” Buck sounds weary. “That’s easy for you to say, when it’s—when it’s just hypothetical.” “What if…” Eddie’s grip on Buck tightens marginally. “What if it wasn’t a hypothetical?”

We're Overdue for a Revival by BespectacledBunny (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Chris coming back from Texas, Marriage of Convenience | 60K | Mature): “If I had,” Chris lingers on the words, watching Eddie intently through the screen, “If I had conditions?” Eddie feels his stomach knot up. It’s the first time Chris has ever alluded to a willingness to come home. Usually he just shoots Eddie down with a flat “I know” before hurrying off the call. Eddie Diaz will be damned before he lets this chance slip through his hands. “Anything,” his voice rings with desperation in his own ears, “Whatever you need to feel ready to come home. If I can make it happen, I will.” Chris eyes him, young face serious as a judge presiding over trial. Finally, Chris opens his mouth and says something so earth shattering as to crack the foundations of his father’s mind. “Marry Buck,” Chris says firmly.

WIP

🔥 there is no roadby littleghost/ @ghostlandtoo (Post-S8A, Eddie moves to Texas | 5/6 | 77K | Explicit): Years ago, almost a full decade, Shannon had asked him to move and Eddie refused because he was trying to build a life for himself again. Eddie knows if he asks Buck, he’ll get that same refusal. Worse, Buck could say yes and Eddie would be uprooting Buck from the very life he built for himself. He doesn’t ask, and Buck doesn’t offer, and they pack up Eddie Diaz’s life in Los Angeles into cardboard boxes. Or: Eddie moves to Texas. Buck buys his house. There’s a love story somewhere in here.

🔥 how come everybody's dancing but you?by showedupatyourparty (Post-S7 Spec, Eddie Sexuality Crisis | 4/6 | 45K | Mature): Buck feels guilty. Everyone he loves is going through something painful, difficult, or unexpected right now. And Buck is just…bisexual. It’s great that he’s figured it out, and it’s great that everyone has been so supportive, and Tommy is—Tommy is fine. The sex is good, at least. Consistent. When Buck gets a call from Eddie’s phone late on a Tuesday night in June, it’s cause for concern. * Buck unpacks his own feelings about his recently-discovered bisexuality. Eddie gets adopted by drag queens. They're both just trying their best to be happy.

disappearing into the distance by bucksclipboard/ @endofthedaymp3 (Eddie Comes Back From Texas, Getting Together | 2/4 | 6K | Teen): Eddie wasn’t sure why he and Maddie weren’t close. It was strange, considering her little brother was the most important person in his life. Still, when the door opened, tight hugs were exchanged and cheerful welcome homes rang in his ears. “Does Bobby know? I gotta call Bobby!”, Chimney yelled. “Could you wait a minute?”, Eddie interjected. His eyes darted between them for a moment and landed on Chim, deciding he was his best bet. “Maybe first explain to me why I went to see Buck and his loft was empty. Am I missing something? Did he move?” or: eddie comes back from texas – only to find that buck has left los angeles

🔥 Gentle On My Mind by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergent, Shannon Lives, Buck/Eddie/Shannon | 13/? | 81K | Explicit): In which Shannon lives, tells a lie, and sends hers, Eddie's, and Buck's lives down a very different path.

🔥 Doe & a Drop of Golden Sun by ohstars/ @oh-stars (Canon Divergent, Dad Buck | 12/? | 54K | Teen): Buck doesn't mean to keep secrets from everyone, but he also can't talk about the pain he experiences on a day to day basis. With his nine-year-old living across the country and his custody limited to one monthly visit, Buck doesn't know how to share this part of himself. How does he tell his team of six years that he's had a kid this whole time? How does he tell his sister? How does he tell his Edd-- best friend? It's fine. The universe isn't going to give him a choice in the matter when the worst thing imaginable becomes his reality.

Podfic

🔥 Cowboy With a One Track Mind by Daisies_and_Briars [Podfic] by Rhea314 (Rhea)/ @rhea314 // fic by @cal-daisies-and-briars (Alternate Universe, Different First Meeting | 2.5h-3h | Mature): Spin-off Sequel to Evan Buckley & the Coma-Verse of Madness - Chapter 7 (Land): Grieving and tortured, Evan Buckley has been living alone in Montana in a remote cabin for nearly a decade. After an incident that leaves him missing six months of his life, and suddenly in connection with a group of strangers from Los Angeles, Evan must decide whether to remain in his self-imposed exile, or take a chance at life again.

🔥 [podfic] braver than you believe (loved more than you know) by be_brave13/ @djemsowhat (S8E6: Confessions Spec | 20-30min | Teen): “There's things,” Eddie chokes out, getting the closest he can in a Catholic church to saying what he means to say, words that he’s never said before unable to make an appearance even now. “There's… people… feelings that I— I want to experience differently than I have before, or maybe even for the first time.” “Something… different than what you had with Anna and Marisol?” The priest hedges. “Something, even, different than what you and your wife had?” The words feel insinuating, but the tone stays light and unchallenging. The priest in Eddie’s mind has big hands and curious, soulful eyes and a chunky watch on his wrist, like he could be anyone. A blond man at a bar that Eddie’s eyes keep coming back to, for no reason at all. “Yeah,” Eddie confesses. “Yeah, I’m just starting to think that… maybe there’s more to it all than I thought. Maybe, I can ask for what I thought wasn’t allowed. And I can choose what I want instead of what everyone else thinks I should have.”

🔥[Podfic] Promising Light by cottagepodfics @cottagepodfics / fic by @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Time Travel | 2-2.5h | Mature): Buck and Eddie fall asleep drunk and in separate rooms after the night of Buck and Tommy's breakup. They wake up seven years later, in an unfamiliar future, only to find out that they're married.

[rizzoreads88]

✨People need to realllyyyy learn the difference between the words THOUGHT and PLANNED. ✨

🦇In Azriel bonus chapters he never says he hasn’t THOUGHT further then his fantasies about Elain he says he hasn’t PLANNED further. Since some people like to act like these words are the same let’s look at the actual definition.

(Real life example of what this looks like : before I started dating my husband I liked him so much I thought about him all the time. But I never once planned to actually make a move or planned to be with him because I was way too shy lol and I thought he was out of my league at the time.Did that take away from how much I liked him? Nope. Did that take away from how much I thought about him? Nope. And here we are years later having just celebrated our 10 year wedding anniversary in September)

🌸why would Azriel even be making plans for Elain yet? They are still friends at the moment that happen to be romantically interested in each other yet she is seemingly off limits. She has a mate. Rhysand reinforces this idea that she is off limits to Azriel. So why would he be making any sort of plans just to hurt himself even more feeling she is truly off limits?

🦇Now let’s look at the context of when this is said. When Azriel is talking to Rhysand he’s extremely frustrated. He’s been thinking about Elain for however long and they both made a move on each other and Rhysand stops it right before hand. Rhysand knows Azriel and Elain are interested in each other. He’s also been w Feyre as she’s talked about them a few times and he asks her not to get involved. He was there when Elain told Graysen she didn’t care about the mate bond. Everyone knows Elain is uncomfortable around Lucien. Rhysand knows Elain was about to kiss Azriel too. Not to mention Azriel has moved on from Mor a while ago and has found someone he likes that likes him back and yet again he cannot do anything about it. He sees Cassian and Rhysand with the woman they want but Azriel cannot even kiss the woman HE WANTS that wants him back…. I think we can all understand why he’s frustrated. A lot of what he’s saying is coming from frustration. Remember when Cassian was frustrated and said he didn’t ask to be shackled to Nesta? Do you think he actually meant he didn’t want to be shackled to her or was he just frustrated? Remember when Rowan told Aelin she would be better off dead and punched her in the face? Do you think he truly meant that? Or was he just speaking out of frustration? We know Azriel feels deeper for Elain. We are shown this in his bonus chapter as well…

🌸In Azriels bonus chapter we learn he thinks about Elain daily, he actually loses sleep over her. He saved her Soltice gift and looks at it every night, his razor sharp thoughts go quiet around her, he can read her without his shadows, he has a physical reaction to Eluciens mating bond and seeing her around Lucien, he questions his religion over Elain.. then days later when he’s in training around everyone he’s still upset over Elain… in acosf when cassian mentions elain and nesta fought Azriel has a reaction to it when elain is mentioned, in acosf when Nesta insults Elains personality azriel has another reaction, his shadows get ready to physically attack nesta for insulting elains personality…

🦇You do not feel all these things, do all these things, Be willing to die to get to them, then carry them while your bleeding out if you don’t care for someone. If it’s “just lust” Azriel would have tried to make a move on her long ago and left it at that. “Well it’s just crush” and what’s a crush? It’s when you like someone you are attracted too.

🦇🌸“Well he doesn’t mention having any sort of feelings for elain to rhysand in the bonus chapter” My brethren… it’s a bonus chapter. We are not going to get love or deep feelings confessions in a bonus chapter. Bonus chapters are hints at what’s in the books and hints at what’s to come. Just like in Nessians bonus chapter Cassian wasn’t professing his love to Nesta, he wasn’t thinking about how deeply he cares for her either. It was a interaction between them to show the attraction, connection and tension they had. We didn’t get their true feelings about each other until multiple books later. So obviously SJM is saving all of this for Elriels book too if they get one.

And I’m just going to end it with this. Cassian had thoughts of being jealous of rhysand and feyre and what they had too before anything happened with him and nesta… he was frustrated with how things were w nesta too before acosf and yet no one was like “oh Cassian only wants nesta because she a Archeron sister he just feels entitled to her and doesn’t really care about her”… but when azriel is jealous suddenly it’s bc he’s a desperate incel who feels entitled to women and only wants to sleep w them? Funny how that works.

[nereidprinc3ss]

I didn’t mean to have so much to say about this but wow do I!!!!

Lots of people say they love domestic spencer reid but I don’t think they love domestic spencer reid like EYEEE love domestic Spencer Reid. Because I love domestic spencer reid where he’s doing nothing. Or he’s being kind of….. not an asshole but…… where it becomes clear that he’s just dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person and then I love domestic Spencer Reid where he’s dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person but he can still say I’m sorry!!! And they can hug and it’s okay because loving someone requires being close enough to sometimes hurt them!!!! And the realism of this kind of fic just fills me w so much joy like THISSSS is what I want from tumblr dot com I LOVEE the meditative fics where nothing crazy happens and the plot comes from the authors understanding of rich interpersonal relationships!!!! I love!!!!

This was also beautifully beautifully written like a breath of fresh air wow I truly am so lucky to get to read work from such talented people thank you for writing this and thank you for sharing it with us!!

So anyway here are the lines that jumped out at me. There is really no rhyme or reason, I tend to extra love lines that are a little philosophical and ponderous about human connection and boy was this full of that!! I am not a literary critic I am just a girl full of thoughts

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

I just think this is an jarringly astute and concise observation of something we as humans do all the time in relationships and again there is nothing I love more than an observation about human connection that I can point at and go MEEEE I UNDERSTAND THAT I KNOW HOW IT FEELS!!!! It’s very exciting to me!!

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

This to me was a kind of honesty most fanfic lacks and obviously most fanfic is supposed to be optimistic and perfect and reflect the readers desires back to them but quite frankly to me it hits harder when there is this subtle kind of interpersonal angst and strife that is something we can feel and recognize within ourselves it makes it easier for me to actually connect to the fic. Rather than watching it like a movie I can recognize this kind of sentiment and it’s far more immersive to me and therefore a lot more fulfilling and rewarding and interesting to read

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

YEAH MAYBE THAT IS THE POINT!!! THE POINT OF EVERYTHING!!! THE POINT OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!!! This to me is just beautiful and very succinctly summarizes something I’ve been working on and will probably continue to work on for the rest of my life and I think really the whole point of love and the lesson most people need to learn!!!! Once again I like my fluffy fanfic tempered w this kind of realism!! It adds so much texture

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

No yeah actually this IS the sexiest thing a man could possible say or do!! Like care and pay attention and be present and observant!!! I won’t even be talking about this because I love it too much to dissect it

Anyways this is maybe making me look crazy I just haven’t been engaged with fanfic very much recently and I did not go into this with the intention of having anything to say about it afterward but to my own personal deep surprise was so motivated to!! And it was so beautiful and so lovely I had to say something. Pls excuse if I’ve gone overboard!! This is just such a good example of fanfic at its absolute best to me like this is what it’s forrrr this is what I wanttttt!!!! Thank you for writing thank you for posting beautiful

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k

You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.

In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.

You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.

Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.

But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.

Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.

You go still.

A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.

He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.

And god, that does something to you.

You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.

The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.

You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.

It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.

Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.

Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.

His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.

There is morning, and then there is night.

There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.

His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.

"Spencer."

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.

"Come to bed."

He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"I can’t."

A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"

"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.

A pause.

Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.

Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.

The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.

You just want him to rest.

To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.

But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.

So instead, you say nothing.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.

Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.

Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.

Morning. Again.

Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.

Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.

His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

Morning.

Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.

Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.

You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.

The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.

You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.

He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”

You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.

“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”

You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.

The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.

Spencer is slow to let you go.

Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”

Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”

You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”

He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”

Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.

“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.

He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”

“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.

You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.

Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.

When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”

“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.

Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”

You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”

He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.

You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”

You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.

Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.

Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.

“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.

Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.

You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.

Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.

And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.

His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.

You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.

His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.

Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.

He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.

“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.

You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.

Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.

You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.

His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.

Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.

His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He answers you with a kiss.

Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.

You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.

“Again,” he whispers.

So you kiss him again. And again. And again.

Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.

His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.

“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.

You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”

And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.

And you let him.

Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.

Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.

Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.

“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.

Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”

You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.

His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.

And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”

You don’t let him finish.

You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.

When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.

Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.

And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.

You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.

Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.

"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.

"I know, I know."

It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.

Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.

He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.

It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.

It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.

When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.

As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.

Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.

Spencer bursts into laughter.

It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.

You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.

"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.

You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.

He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.

"No, I don't really like scrambled."

Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.

"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."

"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."

The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.

And then—

You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.

Your stomach grumbles again.

Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.

The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.

A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.

A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.

The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.

You knew this would happen.

It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.

You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.

You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.

Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.

You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.

You are in his arms.

He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.

“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.

Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”

You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.

“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.

“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.

It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.

“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”

You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."

“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”

Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”

Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.

You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.

Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.

One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.

You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."

It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.

You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”

He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”

You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”

Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”

Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”

“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.

He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”

Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”

Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”

You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”

“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.

Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”

You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”

“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.

Spencer just stares at you.

You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”

Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.

"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.

"I would never say that-"

"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."

"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."

"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."

He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.

After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.

“You make coming home easy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”

Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.

It’s the perfect time to strike.

You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.

Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:

"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"

Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”

Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”

You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”

He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:

"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”

He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”

Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."

You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”

“I do not—”

A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.

Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.

“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.

You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.

“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.

He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”

And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.

Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.

You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.

You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.

[creatingblackcharacters]

Hi! You've got an awesome blog here, I especially love having all the lessons linked in your pinned post. It makes browsing through it very easy! I have a handful of hairstyle questions about a Black OC of mine that I haven't been able to get answers to from general resources (you'll see why), if that falls within in your feedback scope?

So the character's name is Jaila, she's Black, transfemme & genderqueer, lives in New England, and she's in the zombie apocalypse. She and her former roommate, Cecil (who's White and a guy) are, as far as they know, the only people immune to the virus. They're wandering around looking for other survivors and running from zombies.

Jaila's hair is a bit of a pickle for me! She doesn't have access to her usual community to help her keep up with it (getting locs or braids redone, or help braiding), probably not many hair care products like oils/conditioner for a twist out, and only some access to running water. However, her appearance matters a lot to her, and especially her hair, because she learned to style femme hair as a late teen/adult and it was a big step in her transition. I'm thinking about braids for her, because they are relatively low-maintenance and a rest style. She has a bonnet and any appropriate combs. Other than lots of new growth and maybe uneven braids since she doesn't exactly have time to perfect each of them, what are some consequences of her lack of access to supplies? What might that look and feel like for her?

Also, is it okay if she talks about missing her more complex hair styles, and wishing she could do them again? (For example, a fancy twist out that she doesn't have time/product for, or extensions that would now pose a zombie-grabbing risk.) Or does that feel too much like saying some Black styles are "better" than others in a Euro-centric way?

Finally, do you have any pointers or things you'd like to see if/when she finally trusts Cecil enough to help with her hair? At the start of the apocalypse, he'll offer to help her with it (he used to help his various little sisters do their hair and doesn't really grasp that it's different yet; he's also madly in love with Jaila (it's reciprocal but still complicated)), but she'll reject him pretty soundly because he's literally just her weird roommate. But especially if she has braids, it's a lot of time to do them herself, and she gradually grows to trust Cecil very closely. Is it at all realistic that she would teach him how to help with her hair? Are there any details that for you as a Black reader would make a scene like that feel more real and embodied?

I'm sorry this ask is so long and I hope you're having a good day! Feel free to ignore any bits that aren't in your scope or that I've just missed a lesson on o7

So first: I know a Jaila! That's cool.

Answers:

1. So the thing is, braids are a protective style, but they don't last forever (especially if they're braids with extensions). So yeah she could leave it in the braids, but it's not just roots showing. After a while, the weight of the braids are just gonna start pulling on her new growth, (which she can't rebraid without taking the style down) which isn't as strong as the braids, and it'll thin. It'll also get dry, if she's got no access to oils or extra water.

2. Yes, that's fine. If your hair means a lot to your expression, and you lose the means to care for it, why wouldn't that upset you? That's not a Black or white thing. She can have preferred styles without being racist about the other ones.

3. It's not unrealistic, no. Especially in an apocalypse. Now I will say, I do think it's a bit wild to have a hair with extensions braiding or lots of small braids' lesson in the middle of an apocalypse, as that's gonna be real low priority and take resources like access to all the hair extensions, or water to make the style moisturized and neat. Braids don't have to be numerous; she could have a couple neat cornrows.

Me personally, I'd think something that'd be equally vulnerable and intimate would be having Cecil help Jaila learn to see her hair as beautiful as it is, with the resources that they have, without demeaning her mourning of her past styles. That should come after a lot of time spent together, with Jaila having shown and/or communicated how much her hair means to her.

Also, another thing: showing the honest frustration and mild indignity that you have to let a white person help you with your head 😅 like I would be a bit sick that I have to do that, especially when I value my hair so much. Things have become quite low. Being willing to show that this is hard for her, that he needs to show her gentleness and understanding, would be nice.

[cogmented]

hi cogmented! love the art. do you have any tips for beginners? thanks and have a good day

HI YES YOU TOO i think most of these are applicable to beginners and non-beginners

i learned these tips from two low level art classes based on charcoal so i find some of these a lot easier through traditional means, but the skills learned from them should be transferable through any medium

i wont be touching on color or perspective too much, here's a past post i did on colors.. more so values, but it didnt go in-depth as i would have liked

shape and form are fundamentals for visual art. you need to think of form to get your shapes around it

mass and additive are kind of the same thing, just the filling of the shape, no lines involved. gesture is more so for the feeling of the same, and line gets further definition

here are some of my digital examples:

mass, gesture, line

subtractive

the top left drawing started as mass, where i formed the two people's positions into one blob and then colored over it

once you start getting those down, you can start applying it. but, you may want to look at what other artists are doing too

tracing, doing master copies, and using references are all fair methods of learning off of another, just dont pass off traced or copied art as your own

tracing tends to make your lines appear stiff, especially if you are tracing a more gestural drawing. you don't get the same motion as when you are simply referencing

mastercopies are replicas of the art work, made to look exactly like it in an attempt to emulate the same techniques the original artist might have used. i find this personally the most tedious, but beneficial method, but it may not be the easiest thing to do as a beginner who is not used to quick hand motions or confident lines.

this mastercopy sucks because mimicking traditional on digital is not the easiest thing in the world, and i on god just fucked it up, but you can see how that form and shading is much more similar than the other two

using an image as a reference is the most widely known method, but it may not look exactly how you want it to at the start! you might simply not know how line weight, textures, or line methods work yet, which is something figured out through practice and observation

and speaking of observation,

this looks okay, doesnt it?

but there is something much more structured to this, right?

it is hard to not assume you know how things look. you see things every day! your reference is right there! but really think about what you're drawing, and what it looks like.

references are always helpful, be sure to glance back frequently and really look at the distance between things, how things are rotated, how things curve around each other, and where shadows add definition

and even the bottom drawing does not capture everything correctly (the top left is not pointed enough, the middle is too high, the bottom right back fabric is too low, the bottom left is missing a fold, etc etc) i gave myself 5 minutes max for these, but it certainly looks more correct and it is not just more well developed shading

(the box is something i do often to get the size of shapes down, or to see how much space something will take on the canvas)

and always always always experiment

you do not have to draw every line, you do not have to put every detail in its right place, you are only trying to get visual information across in a manner that you enjoy

if you have an idea, but dont think you can do it, the most important thing is that you try it anyway. if it looks like shit and you dont like it, try again another day, just dont stop drawing because one day you will be able to do it

dont be afraid to erase things, to start over if you dont like it, even if you spent time on it, because you can always redo it better the next time and each time it is another thing learned or whatever. or keep it cause it looks funny or interesting who cares, as long as youre doing something

[sorry-not-feeling-it-right-now]

A quick ramble about Mortal Voices AUs.

(Not really an analysis, just overall thoughts really)

Mortal Voices AUs are interesting to me

Cause like it gets to explore how the voices would become more then their nature and fully become their own person

I feel like aside from Hero the other voices would have a really hard time branching out, cause they’re personifications of singular aspects. It’s in Cold’s nature to long for something he can never have. It’s in Cheated’s nature to get screwed over. It’s in Paranoid’s nature to be, well, paranoid. It’s in Oppy’s nature to look after himself first and backstab another for it. When they’re only voices, they can’t really help it. It’s in their nature to be this way and they literally don’t know how to act anyway different. They had a purpose to fulfill and without that purpose they would probably go insane(well, except for Cold cause he didn’t have one in the first place). But if they’re gonna be mortals they will be gifted with the ability to make their own choices. The ability to change.

Aaaaand there comes the Nature vs Nurture theme

How the Voices can change can make them better or so so SO much worse then where they’ve started. Smitten could learn a healthier way to express his devotion and emotions by picking up various hobbies to pour his heart into. Or he could go down an unhealthy spiral of obsession where he could harm others and even himself for the sake of love. In one world he and Cold could have start anew and come to an understanding of their perspective, and in another they would never understand each other and become worse and worse, with Cold provoking Smitten over and over again for his deep yearning for understanding and the ability to feel something and Smitten falling deeper into his spiral of “white knighting”, and in turn doing worse and worse things. In one world, Oppy is able to earn the trust of his flock mates and prove that their trust isn’t misplaced. In another, he would have backstabbed them all to get ahead. In one world, Stubborn would become the reliable protector of the group. In another, he would have left them in pursuit of a challenge and a purpose elsewhere.

The Skeptic from one world might be completely different from the Skeptic from another world. Cage Skeptic and Den Skeptic are technically two completely different Skeptics. The only difference being that the things they’ve experienced are different. So seeing how people take this concept of the Voices becoming mortals and going so many different directions for it is just. Fascinating to me.

Actually if the Voices are gonna become mortals what about the Vessels? I don’t think I’ve seen any mortal AUs that features them. It’s usually the Voices only. I’d love to read a fic where the Vessels would become more complex as they go alongside the Voices.

And then there’s the queerness of it all??? Of the voices searching for their own identity and becoming their own person??? That’s so nice honestly

Honestly Slay the Princess as a whole is just very queer.

[pieflavorpie]

OK so I have thoughts and feelings and a LOTTA them. Here's my list [which is arbitrary and could change tomorrow in all honesty]

1. Percy.

Taliesin put so much love and attention into this character, that it made Caleb & Nott feel cheap to me for a WHILE. Taliesin literally told Sam how guns were constructed in rather extreme detail meanwhile Sam barely used basic chemistry knowledge & Liam was only using the Keen Mind feat instead of taking notes. I had to sit to myself and remind myself that these people each have their own strengths and weaknesses and research clearly wasn't either of those [which probably why I couldn't get into their characters but oh well].

While I'm not on the "Critical Role has to follow writing techniques" train due to the fact I'm into this because it's an unconventional story. But. Percys arc is ridiculously satisfying. I know he was supposed to die, but the entirety of VM being him learning how to cope with [&live with] the grief of his family and all the mistakes he has made. I've never felt prouder in a fictional character than when he talked to his wife instead of calling in on a Devil's deal and selling his soul again. Breaking his cycle. And then the subsequent "i think I wanted to be a clockmaker once" and him choosing a healthy pathway forward!!! It's so rewarding after we see this man break himself into so many pieces continuously, just to find the point he initially broke. He learns that maybe that doesn't matter.

And then there's the actual personality of Percy. That man is a perfect depiction of darkness and pompousness. Able to take the mick of himself sometimes, and able to communicate. Having the rare issue where it wasn't trust issues with other people, but trust issues with himself. He trusted the people around him so much, and had so many lighthearted moments with seemingly no hint of darkness. And it made his Moments hit harder.

2. Mollymauk/Kingsley

Grouping these 2 together as joint 2nd because I view these 2 as intrinsically linked. I can't bring up why I like Molly without mentioning Lucien/Kingsley, and vice versa. I love the analysis of what makes a distinct soul, I love how open the interpretation of what Kingsley IS is. Is he just the rememnants of a severely traumatised & scrappy Mollymauk after spending too much time as the neosomnovum? Is he a different fragment of Luciens soul? Is he a mixture of different parts of Lucien and Molly? Is it fair to say that as Molly IS a part of Lucien?

And the book, oh gods the book. So many things Tal just randomly blurted out that were wrapped in so well. I will never get over Brevyn's kiss to the forehead. "Long may he reign" being a song the tombtakers sang. "Empty" being repeated due to Lucien's worst fear being puppetted just like his brother.

There is not a week i don't spend contemplating what would've happened if we kept Molly. If something would've happened with the Hag, how Vess Derogna would've acted (if we even met her), how he would've impacted the direction the M9 went, or how he would've reacted to the forced amnesia on Rumblecusp, and the subsequent Thing With The Moonweaver at Traveler Con.

And Kingsley, oh how I want Kingsley to be explored more. His 2 episodes in the specials were GREAT. How he is the guy to Get Shit Done, and how he's so button-pushy. I will never forgive the cast [/lh] for pushing him to the side so much. Having him be the only one not mentioned in the BH finale and only talked about above-table to seemingly reduce what Ashton had just been through. It feels like Tal has to force other characters to bring him up outside of "yeah we tried to bring out dead friend back and It Got Weird."

And they don't have the excuse of him being the pirate king either, cause Veth made it canon that Kingsley helped gather Luc when he ran away up north. He is contactable. Im fairly sure Jester said she was in contact with him [like she is with literally everyone I love that girl so much].

Anyway, also love him being a rogue. Go, buddy, get that self confidence.

And also I personally relate to the way identity was talked about during both eras by both of these characters during different parts of my life.

3. Asha

Honestly would be further up but we did not get enough screentime with her to justify that. There are sooooo many ways to interpret this 1 version of the Wildmother and it has kept me thinking for days about the nature of Nature and change and possibility.

She has convinced me to play a druid for my first campaign, a changeling druid who grapples her identity to the nature around her by covering herself with thorns and brambles. All inspired by how Asha only seems to show 2 strong negative emotions besides hunger. Guilt, for the pain her discovery has brought to her family. And anger at her wife for leaving her to face this mission with a substitute. These emotions are what ultimately anchor her to her mortality.

Nature never really feels guilt for the hunt, or anger at the prey. And yet, to us those emotions are perfectly natural. So in this case, where does the domain of Nature stop? Melora/Asha is the goddess of the Wild, so it's probably safe to assume natural human emotions don't come under her purview. But in the grander scheme, are we natural? As human beings? Are the buildings we roost in natural, as they are made from the dirt and mud that are processes made possible from what we had in Nature? Is being a God with Nature as your domain also make you a God of progress and potential?

And isn't that an incredibly interesting concept.

4. Ashton.

Would've been higher than Asha, if he had had a better finale. It felt like he had narrative progress, with people coming to save him as he died, but he came out without much of a change in mindset since The Shard. He literally martyred himself, intending to die for good and no one really bothered to emotionally check in on that afterwards. If he has finished with his martyr complex, I don't think its done through actual help, it feels like it was done because he's realised that his friends will fight through thick and thin to bring him back. But that doesn't mean anything for someone's mental health in a world like this. It could make people feel trapped, or could make them too reckless with the "I'll be fine my friends will get me if I die." Like No?????

And i love his parallels with Laudna, even outside of his probing. They are both stunted beings, perpetually childish. Laudna because she never got the chance to grow up, being ostracised since before the Briarwoods came up and ruined everything [and then Delilah wouldve purposefully kept it that way for Manipulation Purposes]. Ashton because he never really got to be a child. Laudna coped with her loneliness by making a shit ton of dolls. Ashton had never had a doll until Laudna gave him one. And neither of them really get the community they deserve within the group.

I think the best example of this with Laudna is Swordgate. Marisha said on 4sd that Laudna was upset about Orym using the sword anyway, and then Delilah got into her head. I was also immediately off put by Orym using the sword due to the fact it had killed so many of the Bells Hells and had literally sent Laudna to her own personal hell for an indetermined amount of time for her. A sword does not have to be possessed to be Evil. But it was the fact that noone responded to her actual, valid reasons it was all pretty much the message of "you can't be trusted, this is all Delilahs machinations" like WHAT. Which, mini tangent here, i feel like is why I also prefer VM to BH because it seems like BH had so many completely impossible moral quandries that they seemed to completely dismiss the complexities of their own friends situations after 1 conversation. I feel like they should've had a few more [and I mean only like 2] sessions that was just BH getting to be a mercenary group because for like 100 flat episodes they were Not A Mercenary Group. Maybe getting to explore Marquet a lil more.

Anyway, tangent over. I just think its sad Laudna got dismissed due to her being manipulated and Ashton often got dismissed because of his brash attitude and low Charisma. Before the Solsitice he was continuously getting drunk and even said he'd started shouting at seemingly nothing and no one bothered to explore it. Besides Laudna. Anyway.

Love the concept that Being Broken isn't a wrong thing to say. Most of the time it's all like "oh no don't say that!!! You're wonderful!" But no this guy is just fundamentally and mechanically broken. They are someone who's had to be reformed so many times that some pieces just don't fit anymore, and there's nothing to replace them. And maybe you don't have to be a rock guy who was literally shattered to have that. I personally relate in all those times that I failed tests as a gifted kid that, upon reforming myself afterwards, I lost the piece of me that cared about working. Later, being shattered as I'm told by my college that I'm flagged for undiagnosed ASD and need 25% extra time and loosing that part of me that felt I could trust adults to understand me. But it's not always bad. I felt part of me break away when me and my friends turned 18, and we went out and I realised I didn't have to treat my friends like glass physically. That i could hold them and hug them and they will reciprocate.

And I think where the term "broken" comes into play is when you actively start to grieve those parts. In BH we watch Ashton mourn the ability to trust. Idk. I hope we see more of him in future.

5. Caduceus.

Look, I love Cad, I just also love every other Tal character I've seen. And Cad just narratively and as a complex character comes up that little bit short to me. I love watching his clips. But the rants I did about the others' themes and how they get me to think? I don't get that with Cad so much. I get him, honestly I do. I love him repping the aroaces in that wonderful gossipy way. I love how he only ever silently panics and won't call attention to himself [I only realised how much of myself I saw in him in that moment when they stole a ship and I was like "...oh."]. I love how he canonically did drugs just to try and connect with what felt like a dying connection between him and his God [again something that wasn't really touched on but Holy Shit]. I love how he only apologised for being weak when he asked his Goddess whether his family was OK. He does have depth. Depth that never seems to be taken much deeper than surface level with the Nein and I can honestly only hope that Cad and Kingsley are treating each other well cause they really both need somebody on the outside to Talk To.

I don't actually Know the other 2. So this is it:)

[cwritesforfun]

Hey can I request an emporor geta x reader, like them growing up together, maybe reader is the daughter of one fo the senators. As they become teenagers they fall in love with eachother, like cute first kiss and first time kinda thing

Emperor Geta x Fem!Reader: Teenager In Love (Request)

Y/N - Your First Name

They will not follow the Roman style of speech - it will be written in modern language.

*I do not own the Gladiator 2 characters or plot.* I do change some of the plot and add new characters. *

Your POV

You grew up living in Rome with your father, Senator Titus. (Yes, a new character!) Your father was good friends with Senator Gracchus and met with him many times in secret about how to overthrow the senators.

You spent your days braiding hair, drinking wine, dancing, socializing, and entertaining guests. You were a pianist, and your talent was in demand by whoever sat on the throne in Rome. Your father let you go and play for guests as long as you took 2 of your security guards. So you did.

This experience of playing in the palace introduced you to Calla and Geta. You met them at a young age as they were both maturing. They were lanky and pale and soon to rule. They intimidated you.

One day you got close with Calla after talking to Dundus and giving him snacks.

You became friends with Geta quicker. He trusted you and you would help him throughout the day. You were often at his right hand side much to your father’s dismay. Your father disliked your closeness to Calla and Geta.

You were intrigued with the relationship between Calla and Dundus because you had never seen someone so trusting and needy of a pet.

Then there was Calla and Geta’s relationship. It was not one you wanted for yourself. Geta watched over Calla to where it took a toll on him. You could see the light dimming from Geta’s eyes day by day.

…

It was to your surprise that one night, when you were already asleep at home, you were awoken to your guards announcing Geta’s arrival. You quickly threw a robe over your pajamas, slid your knife into your pocket, and ran downstairs. Geta was pacing at the bottom of the steps, and he looked worried. You bow and quickly ask, “Geta, what may I do for you this late?” He answers, “I need to talk to you.” You nod and lead him into the sitting room closest to you. You sit on the couch next to each other, and he confesses, “I’m not fit to rule. There are so many things I haven’t done and so many things I still haven’t learned. I’m not ready for this.” You place your hand on his rubbing circles on it and say, “Geta, you are ready. You’ve always been strong and confident in your ability to lead. Whatever is shaking you up tonight, push it aside because you are fit to rule.” He says, “I haven’t even kissed a girl yet.” You reply, “Oh well, that’s easy to check off. It also does not affect your leadership... You should just kiss me.” His eyes widen, and he asks, “Really? Do you mean it?” You answer, “If it’ll help you sleep tonight and make you feel fit to rule, yes, I mean it. I will kiss you.” He smiles, leans in, and kisses you.

…

If people thought you two were close before, then that is nothing compared to after the kiss.

Geta never failed to find you in a crowd. If you were there, he would know and he would request your presence.

Once, you had just entered into the palace into a big crowd and Geta’s guards found you just like that. When you made it over to Geta, you ask, “How’d you know I was here already? I just arrived.” He answers, "I'll always look out for you." You smile, and he softly presses a kiss to your cheek. He pulls you into a different room and says, “I’ve been thinking about our kiss, and I think we should do it again.” You wrap your arms around his neck and ask, “Are you really going to do this every day that we see each other? It’s been 6 months.” He shrugs, wrapping his arms around his waist, and says, “Why? It could be our thing.” You smile, and he presses a kiss to your lips.

That night ends differently than your usual nights. Geta requests you to walk with him in the gardens. You notice he seems fidgety and off. You ask, “Geta, what’s wrong?” Geta answers, “Nothing, I just have something on my mind.” You keep walking and reach an area with your favorite flowers. Geta asks, “Are these still your favorites?” You answer, “Yes, they’re truly beautiful too.” He nods, bends down on one knee, and exclaims, “I bow to no one. But... as tradition goes, when a man asks a woman for her hand in marriage, they should kneel. I am entranced by you, my sweet, beautiful Y/N. You bring me light, and you are always supportive. I have come to rely and depend on you. I find myself wishing you to be here every night and every day by my side. So... I guess what I’m asking is will you marry me?” You answer, “Yes!”

…

You move in within 2 weeks after Geta proposes.

Geta can hardly handle his excitement that he throws a feast to celebrate your engagement.

That night, Geta's hands don't leave your body. They're on your waist, your shoulders, and tracing your body as you spend your first night together.