#i don’t know the @ of the authors on tumblr

[limitlesswritingvoid]

Me core

“how do you plot / plan your book?” very bold of you to assume i do that.

[frownyalfred]

Am I neglecting ao3 authors by just blithely giving a kudos, creating a private bookmark, and then vanishing back into the ether?

Absolutely not. You should never feel pressured to change your level of engagement. As long as you’re polite and kind, I don’t think any author I know has a problem with readers who engage like this (or don’t engage at all).

That being said, many authors do run on engagement. So if you want to contribute to a fic, a really easy way to do that is to leave a comment. Or share their link on tumblr, etc. i always tell people who say “ugh I wish they’d just update” well, go ahead and try those things! It can’t hurt. Comments are like sticking a pole up into a tree and shaking it. Usually a chapter falls out more often than not.

Engagement on fanfiction has definitely waned in the last few years. That’s not me playing the blame game but simply acknowledging the reality. So while doing those things is absolutely not required and no one should feel obligated or like they’re not engaging in the right way, there IS some truth to the idea that engagement keeps authors happy and writing new things.

I have days where all I leave is kudos because I’m exhausted, even though I loved the fic. And when I’m up to it, I try and leave longer comments or just a comment at all, because I know as a writer how much it means to me.

[bytemee]

HEY CUTIE :) — UCHINAGA AERI

synopsis. with help from yunjin, you get a text from ms. caramel latte. panic ensues.

pairing. giselle x gn!barista!reader

warning(s). smau based, cursing, kms/kys jokes, my bad attempts at being funny, also don’t mind the views and likes disappearing out of nowhere (i got lazy), this is my first time writing for giselle </3, READER IS A LOSERRRRRRRRR, and let me know if there’s more.

authors note. pt.2 soon bc of the photo limit on tumblr… it’s not really clarified in this chap but reader wrote cutie over their nametag 😕 this was supposed to be posted yesterday but i fell asleep

masterlist. navigation. request.

[kuromkiz]

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ My Birthday Boy | ʏ.ᴊᴡ

WORD COUNT: 0.7k PAIRING : yang jungwon x fem!reader GENRE : fluff, drabble

SYNOPSIS : it’s jungwon’s birthday, so you wanted to indulge in a day of festivities with your favourite boy, but he just wanted to marinate in bed with you. all. day. safe to say, a majority of his birthday was spent with warm cuddles and silly words.

AUTHORS NOTE : hi lovelies! heres another wonie fic for baes bday. I hope you’ll enjoy this!!

WARNINGS : none, except that they’re so cute and loving im so lonely ㅠㅠ

SOUNDTRACK : ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : 1 / 1 ↳ ハートはナイトブルー -ending- (hāto wa naito burū)—kaede, lamp

· �� ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

any likes, comments, or reblogs are appreciated !! feedback is also welcome, just don't be rude or disrespectful yk :p

© @kuromkiz on tumblr. do not re-upload or claim as your own

In the comforts of your shared bed, you and your boyfriend were intertwined like vines that climbed a tree.

Outside it was colder than a commercial kitchen’s freezer—you could say that if you were to step out, you’d be frozen meat.

Despite the juxtaposition of the warmth enveloping your woven figures and the blistering chill just a wall away, you had plans to make sure Jungwon would enjoy this celebration with you to the max. His celebration, it was his birthday after all!

“Babe.” you nudged him with your foot.

“Mm.” a raspy grumble responded.

Your current position called for an exterminator to remove the leech clung to your front—did you just call the love of your life a leech? Maybe. Jungwon’s head lay snug against your chest, his nose burrowing into your neck making you cringe from the ticklish sensation. He was basically a leech.

“Won, that tickles!” you lightheartedly giggled as your attempts of distancing yourself from him were slim as he practically chased after you.

He huffed, giving a childish whine as he pulled you back so he could rest upon you once more. “But… you’re so warm baby.” he nuzzled into your shoulder like a loving cat.

You clicked your tongue in mock annoyance. “Jungwon, I made plans for your birthday, love.”

“How about we just stay here? It’s so comfy…” he hummed. “I think the best day is when it’s spent with you.”

You couldn’t wish away the blush that crept upon your cheeks even if you wanted to.

The day prior, he had come home tired and drained. When you walked to the entrance, ready to greet him with open arms, he instantly fell into you. He inhaled your scent with his arms connecting behind your waist. “Hi baby.” his voice had been muffled by your fuzzy sweater.

Your hands had reached and played with his blonde hair, your face pressed into his shoulder as he curled into you. “Hi honey, how was practice?” You pulled your head away from his chest to grab his face in your hands.

Jungwon had leaned into your touch, sighing contentedly. “Mm… tiring, but I’m better now that I’m with you.” he hummed.

When you squished his cheeks together playfully, his lips puckering in the process, you giggled at the way his face compressed. “Hmm, you’re cheesy tonight.”

He chuckled, eyes peering into yours through a half-lidded gaze. “I don’t know.” he shrugged. “S’pose I just love seeing my lovely, beautiful, generous girlfriend.” His lips stretched to a loving smile that made your cheeks warm.

“Shut up.” You scrunched your nose at the compliment, hearing the words leave his lips made you feel utterly lovesick.

You turned to leave the entrance of your apartment, but Jungwon’s hands grabbed at your wrists, allowing you to tug him wherever you wanted.

After he showered and changed into a pair of plaid sleeping pants, his chest left bare, he quickly stalked towards you covering his chest with his crossed arms. “Ahh, it’s cold babe!” he shivered, quickly ducking under the covers and pulling your already laying down figure into his hold.

You had been on your phone waiting for him to leave the bathroom, and you yelped when he pulled you in. “Jungwon! You’re so cold!” you huffed, tearing yourself away from his grabbing hands.

“That’s better.” he sighed in satisfaction, spooning you from behind with his head resting on top of your shoulder. For the rest of the night until you fell asleep, the both of you entertained yourselves with the media on your phone.

Now here you were. In the early morning of his birthday, with you still tangled in his grasp.

“Won, I planned a whole day for you.” you frowned, brushing away the light hair covering his face and tenderly peeking at his peaceful expression. He looked utterly beautiful in this moment. His lashes sat prettily against his cutely puffed cheeks, hair a mess from deep sleep.

His eyes opened slowly, gazing at yours with so much love you felt unreal. “Don’t you think it’d be perfect just staying home? Or in this bed? Look at the weather, honey.” he nodded to the window, scattered snow beginning to fall.

You pursed your lips. “I wanted you to enjoy your birthday though.” you pouted.

He smiled, a pretty smile that made you want to frame it. “I’ll always enjoy a day with you my love.”

You tsked at his heart-wrenchingly sappy words. “You’re such a romantic.”

His grin stretched so widely you thought his cheeks would begin to hurt. “Just for you.” He pecked your collarbone whilst diving back into the crevice of your neck.

For the rest of the morning, the two of you laid comfortably in each other’s arms, with warmth interlaced in the space between you.

Jungwon would later claim that he had the best birthday ever, lying in bed with the prettiest girl in his arms, hugs and kisses a given.

ENDING NOTES: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY LOVE!! can you guys believe he’s already 21 ㅠㅠㅠㅠ time flies fr. wish this was longer, but my creative juices stopped and i couldn’t write LOL. leave a comment if you enjoyed this!!

© @kuromkiz on tumblr. do not re-upload or claim as your own

[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.

[mattszombie]

FAKING IT? M.STURNIOLO

prologue.

(the title will make more sense later)

enemy!matt x fem!reader

a/n: YOU ARE TESS!

-

Tess leaned back in her chair, arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying to process what Coach Anderson had just said.

“You two are tied for MVP this season—goals, assists, every game. That means you’ll both be head captains from here on out.”

Tess glanced over at Matt, sitting across from her, a grin barely held back at the corner of his mouth.

“Wait, hold up,” Tess said, raising an eyebrow. “You want us to be captains… together?”

Coach Anderson nodded, totally unfazed. “Exactly. Both teams need better coordination. You’ll work out a schedule for practice times and make sure the boys and girls don’t overlap. Put your differences aside and get it done.”

Tess couldn’t help but let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, right,” she muttered, her eyes flicking to Matt, who was clearly enjoying the moment. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Coach Carter, the girls’ coach, added, “You both have the leadership skills to pull this off. I’m confident you’ll make it work.”

Tess shook her head. “You’re asking for a lot.”

But the coaches were already standing, not giving her a chance to argue. “We expect the practice schedule by Friday,” Coach Anderson said as he made his way to the door.

Tess stared at the space where he had just been, her arms still crossed. “This is insane,” she muttered under her breath.

Matt stretched his arms above his head, clearly unfazed. “I don’t know, Tess. I think I might just surprise you.”

Tess didn’t reply. She just gave him a look that made it clear how little she believed that.

-

authors note/ I AM SO HAPPY TO START MY FIRST OFFICIAL TUMBLR SERIES!! stay tuned for the first chapter!!!

[emeraldmew]

Want to (re)read Animorphs?

Have you seen posts about the series by K A Applegate around tumblr and thought “What happens in these books?!” Are you like me and read them all as a kid but want to reread now? Maybe you just read them last month and still have the brainworms from them (heh). Maybe you want to be unmarketable by diving into a kids’ series from the 90s for the next year or just want a long-term alternative to doomscrolling?

Whatever your reason, do you want to make it a book club in the spirit of Dracula Daily?

So it looks like the poll suggests a one-book-a-week read-a-long, so it will take over a year to complete. Don’t let that intimidate you. You can always pick up at any time – either starting with an earlier book later into the year or by picking up with the book of the week as the Animorphs series was made to be largely self-contained in the individual books.

As previously stated, I’m not emailing out the bits and pieces like Dracula Daily. I don’t want to get in a fight with Scholastic and for no particular reason the year 2025 seems like an excellent year to support libraries. If your library or library app doesn’t have the ebooks or audiobooks apparently there are also PDFs of the entire series floating around on the internet with the authors’ blessing. Who knows, maybe you’re lucky enough to be in a position to have the physical copies.

Yeah. There are a lot of books. At one per week it will take over a year, but the books themselves are very short. If you’re unfamiliar with the series you might be confused by the addition of Megamorphs and Chronicles books meant to be read between the main 54. No worries, I’ve made a schedule.

I decided (admittedly quite arbitrarily) to start the first week of March to try to give a buffer between the idea and the start date for interest to spread before the first book. The idea is to finish each week’s book by Saturday but there’s no pressure if you fall behind or skip a book or join late. I can’t guarantee you’ll avoid spoilers, but I’m hoping people tag with the number or title of the book or some such method to discuss them. Idk, I’ve never done something like this before.

They’re kids’ books but they do have enough gray morality (buckle up for August, folks), violence, and body horror to satisfy your average Magnus Archives fan, so be forewarned if you’re squeamish. If someone who’s read the books more recently than I have wants to add content warnings for individual books, feel free. Also feel free to correct me on where to place the Megamorphs/Chronicles in relation to the regularly numbered books.

I leave the perusing of the Alternamorphs to your own schedule if desired.

Join the Sharing in and tag your readthrough with Animorphs Book Club!

Let’s do it!

[singsweetmelodies]

Piarles Winter Fic Exchange 2024/25 - The Final Round-Up

AO3 Collection Link

It's that time of the year again, and we are so excited to reveal the fics from the Piarles Winter Fic Exchange of 2024/25!

We want to start by saying a MASSIVE thank you to all our incredible creators. You are all so wonderful and so so talented - it has been an honour and a pleasure to spend the last few months with you. To laugh with you and to create with you and to share the Piarles joy with you. You are all phenomenal, and we feel so lucky that you chose to spend this time with us. ❤️

I also want to take this opportunity to say a personal thank you to my amazing mod team: @duquesademiel, @yukierres, and @welightitup. Moderating this exchange with you has been a pleasure and a privilege. Thank you all, for everything!

Below the cut we have the final round-up of all our 2024/25 Piarles Winter Fic Exchange gift fics. You are in for a real treat - enjoy!!! And don’t forget to show the authors some love in the form of kudos, comments, bookmarks and tumblr reblogs 💘

Thank you all so much again.

Love and hugs,

Katie, Sol, Immy & Tia. 🎁❄️💙

On Laughter-Silvered Wings by @espithewarlock | rated T | 50k words

Pierre's greatest dream is to join The Institution as one of the Carers - the people who watch and maintain dragon eggs for their eventual Dragon Riders. When he forms a True Bond with one of the eggs, Pierre is thrilled to join the nobles who are assigned to eggs within the same clutch. Unfortunately, the reception he receives from his classmates is less than welcoming.

we better make a start by @gaynfl | rated M | 12k words

A holiday together, like old times, means Pierre is heading home for the first time in five years. Oh, and seeing the person he's never really gotten over. or... love, in the Alps.

Do you still think of me sometimes? by @golden-fairylights | rated E | 15k words

“I mean, we would probably have more fun in bed than you had with him,” states Charles, still giggling, and he only realizes what he said when Pierre stills, his eyes fixed on Charles once more, but this time it feels completely different. “I mean,” Charles panics and desperately tries to find a way to talk himself out of this mess, “not that we should.” “No, but that’s not even a bad idea, Cha.” Charles’ mouth shuts when Pierre leans closer, his eyes moving quickly as if he is thinking the whole thing through again. “I mean, we don’t have to if you don’t want to, but we are best friends, we can just tell each other if we don’t like something, we both have big career goals, so for both of us, friends with benefits is the best option. You told me you have experiences with that, I do too, as you well know now. It would be perfect.” --- They meet at Juilliard. Two kids with big dreams - love is definitely not part of them. But nothing can go wrong if they are friends with benefits. Not if they follow their rules. Right?

AFTER HOURS by @hourcat | rated E | 42k words

“He said,” Alex had repeated back to him as they did the final rounds, “that their star performer just collapsed in rehearsals this afternoon.” “And they called us?” “They called the hospital, who recommended a few local rehabilitation clinics for muscle pulls and shit. We were on that list, and Vasseur called us.” or: Charles is the star of this year's Nutcracker-themed Cirque du Soleil Christmas show in New York City, but a hamstring injury puts his availability at risk at the worst possible time. Enter Pierre Gasly: the best PT in all of Manhattan...or so he says.

you bring me something I can’t define by @tiredtiredsharl | rated E | 13k words

Pierre says it while Charles’ fork is halfway to his mouth and that’s how the rice ends up in his lap, the herbed butter staining the very delicate linen immediately. “It is just unfortunate that I am stuck now with calling a rut service.” Charles’ hand shakes as he brushes the rice onto the patio ground. It’s probably rude. Someone will have to sweep it up, but Charles’ hands are shaking and he needs to hide them, so he stuffs them underneath his thighs and looks directly at Pierre when he says, “I am free.” Charles offers a few days of his time. He ends up with much more.

oh, he makes me dizzy (honey honey) by @your-littlesecret | rated G | 15k words

In hindsight, a 10-day road trip on the Italian coast with his best friend whom he's secretly in love with might not have been his best idea. But Lance is getting married and Charles has never been able to say no to Pierre. Maybe things will be just fine between them...

I, can’t afford to lose you any longer by @laeana | Not Rated | 6k words

When Charles wakes up with a pounding headache and a strange tattoo around his wrist, he doesn't know yet that he has involved himself with a Fae. The deal he made? The possibility to find his one true love in exchange for his F1 career if he doesn't succeed within a year. A stupid deal really. That's how he starts to search for his destined one, with Pierre by his side.

a light in your window by @chaesonghwas } rated E | 39k words

Mr. Charles Leclerc has been in love with his best friend, Mr. Pierre Gasly, for as long as he has been on this Earth. There is only one problem - Pierre is an alpha and Charles is decidedly a beta... until he presents as an omega unexpectedly one day, leaving their friendship compromised and forcing a betrothal. - Or: how Charles' destiny changes, nudging him towards Pierre.

one deep breath out from the sky by @duquesademiel | rated M | 60k words

Ten years ago, Pierre left his hometown because he couldn’t bear seeing Charles leave to fulfil a destiny he thought would end in death. Today, he’s back.

Sickness by another name by @captaincrabpot | rated T | 33k words

Charles is approaching his last season in formula one, facing the finality of all he’s spent his life working for. Pierre is mentoring an up and coming driver who just signed her first contract in F1 for Ferrari, and though he would die for her, he’s going to have to face his ex best friend who broke his heart right before the crash that ruined his life. Doriane just wants to win, and if that means parent trapping her mentor and his weird ex… well, that would be fine.

Right In Front of Me by @espithewarlock | rated G | 4k words

Charles' magic has always been strong and he believed it would only get stronger once he met his soulmate. When the FIA mandates tests to determine if they've met their soulmate, Charles discovers that he already has. Maybe going as far back as when his magic manifested. Now, he just has to figure out who it is.

Closing Arguments by queenofblasphemy | Not Rated | 8k words

Charles's first day at one of the most prestigious law firms in the country starts out with meeting an asshole at a café. An asshole that would soon play a bigger part in his life than he could ever have imagined.

the sound of the saw must be known by the tree by @radiocheck } rated T | 25k words

“What are you doing here?” Pierre looked around him as if there was an audience waiting to laugh at such an obvious question. “Oh, I don’t know. Studying?” “You’re… you’re… you…” Charles could feel his face turning furiously red the longer Pierre stared at him with that infuriating, lopsided smile. His heart and mind were racing at a million miles an hour and his mouth simply couldn’t keep up. “You’re studying architecture.” It wasn’t a question. “At the school I wanted to go to my whole life.” “Architectural and interdisciplinary studies, actually.” Charles’ embarrassment and confusion were suddenly replaced by an intense, burning rage. This was his dream. It always had been. Pierre knew that, and Charles knew just as well that he didn’t have the slightest bit of interest in studying the same thing, or even going to university at all. “Because of me?” Charles was raising his voice now and drew himself up in stature, trying to make the most of the centimetre of height he had on Pierre. “Do I still occupy such a vast space in your mind that you came all the way here to fucking ruin my life?” OR: what happens when Charles gets into his dream uni only to find his ex enrolled in the same class.

for I can’t help falling in love with you by @tiredtiredsharl | rated E | 40k words

Pierre is doing his best. He's a single dad and even though the French Immersion School was not in his plan, he understands why his in-laws feel it's important Aimée attend. He's doing his best. He could never have seen his daughter's theatre professor coming in a million years and maybe it's best that it caught him completely off guard - falling in love for the first time unprepared. Maybe that's what's best.

in a daze, learning each other’s shapes by @singsweetmelodies | rated E | 28k words

When Charles Leclerc's friends bully him into joining them on a ten-day holiday to a beautiful island for New Year's, Charles is barely even expecting to enjoy it, let alone meet the love of his life there. But then he meets Pierre, and everything changes.

pushing it down and praying by @yukierres | rated T | 21k words

“Mon petite, you need to not give up hope, I am sure there is someone out there perfect for you. Anyone would be lucky to be with you,” Pascale reminds him, voice full of motherly affection alongside the sadness. “But how am I meant to find them when I get hounded whenever I go out,” Pierre sobs, frustration likely loud in his voice, too sharp to be directed at his mother but he is too upset to notice. She doesn’t pull him out on it, instead pulling him tighter into her chest. “If you want someone so badly and you can’t find anyone, I will find someone for you. I am the Queen of France, I have connections, and there is nothing more that I want than for you to be happy.” Pascale suggests, nothing but kindness in her words. “And it would be so great if it could be before the Jubilee next year as well, so the media can see you nice and cosy with your new partner.” “Please,” is all he can whisper back, letting the tears fall from his eyes again. OR Pierre marries a stranger, falls in love, and watches himself break both of their hearts.

hear them sing (see them shine) by @alpinelogy | rated T | 10k words

The first time Pierre meets Charles, Charles is camped out in an asteroid belt that was once a moon before another celestial body crashed into it. It surrounds a planet near a dying star, practically only a red dwarf now. Soon, it will become a supernova. It is an uninteresting star, there is no beacon for it in the space time continuum. Charles has gotten better at controlling his hopping, over the years, decades, millennia even. OR: Charles keeps meeting Pierre over and over again for the first time.

twenty-five lives by @vicsy } rated M | 23k words

“I think I was meant to come back to you,” Charles whispered, overcome with a rare kind of veracity. Pierre brought his hand up, letting it hover momentarily. Then he swiped a pad of his thumb across Charles’ cheekbone, maddeningly slow, sealing his words with an invisible brand. “Good,” he drawled, voice but a gentle rumble; a purr of an engine. “You should stay.”

❤️💙

[wickjump]

im gonna start posting fanfic recs btw whenever i find good ones. both here and my (awfully barren) 18+ account. because there are so many good fics out there with so few hits and fewer kudos and sometimes no comments period and it SUCKS because i REALLY LIKE THEM A LOT.. and i hope that by linking them here and yelling at everyone to COMMENT DAMMIT they might actually do it

seriously though any comment means a lot. most people who read a fic don’t even give a kudos. even if the fic wasn’t top tier, if you didn’t dislike it, hand over some kudos!! and if you liked it, comment!!!! even if the comment is one singular heart emoji it will be appreciated. if the comment just says “great fic!” the author will be happy. your comment doesn’t have to be this long winded gushing or analysis.

so many authors quit writing or lose motivation because the comments are few and far in between or just sometimes nonexistent. trust me when i say authors don’t care about how long or cool or smart sounding your comment is i promise!!!

i hope that mmmaybe recommending fics and telling people to comment might help fics i really like get more support maybe. and i, points at you reading this, hope that you will listen!!!at least a little….at least sum kudos….

[eastons-creations]

My ultimate fic recs

Made a poll and a lot of people said they would want this sooo here we are! These are the best fics I’ve read (: The og post

Top 3

1- To Be Alone With You By Shay_Fae

In the summer of their sixth year, Remus Lupin tried to kill himself.

2- Something Just Like This By shadow_prince

a fake dating modern AU where Sirius has been telling Mrs. Potter he's dating someone for 9 months and she demands his "boyfriend" comes on their family vacation. Queue: shenanigans between wolfstar and jily as they lie their asses off.

3- Text Talk By merlywhirls

Sirius is in boarding school, Remus is in hospital, and they don't know each other until Sirius texts the wrong number.

Other recs bellow break (in no order)

Wading in waist high water By colgatebluemintygel

Remus is a PhD student and hobbyist baker who finds himself adrift following his father’s death. On a whim, he enters the Great British Bake Off and is swept up in a flurry of curdled custard, shrunken souffle, and under-proved dough. Remus expects to be challenged and to embarrass himself on public television. What he doesn’t account for are the friendships he develops with the other contestants and the deep connection he forms with his teenage crush, Sirius Black: charming ex-boy band member and Bake Off host

Beneath a big blue sky by @eyra

The four-by-four heaves its way down long, twisting lanes, little more than dirt tracks scuffed into the surrounding fields and hemmed in by serpentine walls of flat, grey stone. They truly are in the middle of nowhere: the countryside rushes past, all rolling green hills and vast, endless skies, and it's odious. Sirius wants to murder James with his bare hands. Sirius and James accidentally find themselves on a Yorkshire farm during lambing season. The farmer’s son thinks that’s a bit annoying, actually.

A brief history of dragons by @eyra

It's lovely up here; all meadows dotted with wildflowers, wind-beaten tracks criss-crossing this way and that through the fields, weaving inland to the pinewoods. The sun's hot on his back as he passes ramshackle stone walls, long since crumbled to piles of ancient rubble and scree, and then the path winds downwards, still following the line of the coast until Sirius finds himself outside an old white cottage, tucked away behind the hill with a rose garden that faces out to the sea. Sirius moves to Cornwall for the summer and meets a rude, beautiful boy who is writing a book that may or may not be about dragons

Let’s play pretend by MsAlexWP

After James and Lily died, Sirius Black's therapist told him not to date for a year. And that's just as well. He's got a 13-month-old baby now and quite enough to deal with, thanks. But the nosy neighbors in his building keep trying to set him up and won't take no for an answer. Enter Remus Lupin, another single dad who pretends to be Sirius's boyfriend, just to get the old lady brigade off his back and nothing more. Nothing more at all.

Forever in a state of mind by orphan_account

Deaf Dance Choreographer, Remus Lupin, has a simple life. Working, taking care of his son, and running his YouTube sign channel. When he unwittingly becomes involved with Deaf Pride Activist, Fleamont Potter, he doesn't realise how much his life will change. Especially after he meets YouTube star and makeup artist, Sirius Black.

Sugar rush by Stricklymarauders

James, Sirius, Peter, and Dorcas have been best friends for years and are starting their senior year of highschool. To Sirius' dismay he doesn't have any friends in his history class, but after eventually showing up, he finds he sits next to a tall curly hair boy who takes his breath away, Remus Lupin. He decided right then and there that he must make this boy fall in love with him and recruits James to be his wingman, until James is distracted by Remus' best friend with a personality as fiery has her hair, Lily Evans.

Dating Remus lupin by Children_of_the_Shadow

Remus Lupin is a mystery to the whole school; the boy who's quiet, aloof, and cold. He also happens to be queer, which is enough to gain Sirius's interest. What Sirius never realised that dating Remus Lupin wasn't quite as easy as it looked.

Blends by rvltn909

Words got in the way sometimes, but Remus got the sense Sirius knew what he was trying to say. Another coffee shop au.

Camp Casanova by Farquad

All lonely 11 years old Remus Lupin wants is a friend. But when he arrives at Slughorn's summer camp for teenage boys his world turns upside down since he finds himself sharing a cabin with three other boys; James Potter, Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black. As the years pass by Remus finds himself birthing friendships, fighting bullies, but above all battling his own feelings which soon gets out of control. He struggles to keep his biggest secret, and he wonders how he could've fallen so deeply in love.

Turn on my charm by Bethanlovescoffee

Sirius Black is a YouTube phenomenon. A YouTube phenomenon who develops a crush on his video editor.

[endermagpieart]

I can’t get myself to finish or post my own fanart/AUs for Bill, but for other people’s stuff? My brain says no problem!

Anyways this is fanart of a scene from the fic Who Knew A Demon Could Break? By Fyn_Lives_In_The_Void over on ao3! The author asked for fanart of Bill in the orange sequin jumpsuit (you know, from the Stan’s Wrong Song?) and it was a very funny mental image so who am I to deny them?

[c0ffinrehearsal]

speaking of devouring fics where sirius' gender has been trans-ed, do you have any recs?? i know some people don't like to recommend fics so feel free to ignore if that's your vibe!

yes, i do have recs for this! here are a few off the top of my head, in no particular order:

honey sweet by @vajazzly

explicit - ft. city boy sirus who is down bad for the beekeeper with horrible fashion sense (but he’s good with this hands)

gathering home by @quietlemonhush

explicit - sirius raising regulus & harry after literally burning down his family home, remus is reg’s teacher. heavy themes but overall very funny & sweet & tender.

suffer for the people - orphan account

remus is regulus’s camp counselor, has lil bit of a meltdown and asks for his brother who comes to visit to calm him down. feelings occur. sooo cute & comforting, very fluffy.

our destiny in the stars - orphan account

explicit - remus is insecure about his (plus size, disabled) body and decides to try online dating where matches can’t see what the other person looks like. he meets sirius (trans, a teacher) and they uh - hit it off. this fic makes me smile so damn big. it’s just - it’s a classic, i’ve read it a million times.

whatever words i say - orphan account

sirius can’t stop acting out and it’s stressing out the rest of his band, so lily hires remus to keep an eye on him. obviously, they fall in love. a sweet lil band au.

a fool and his money - orphan account

explicit - chronically ill remus is roommates with regulus, meets his rich older brother and agrees to an arrangement: pretend to date sirius, show up with him to events - in exchange for money. y’all can guess where this is going and it’s so good. love a good sugar daddy/fake dating fic.

abyss by @titstraction

explicit - highschool au, remus & sirius are both on the track team and can’t seem to the same page. this fic is - so good. it’s very much a comfort read for me, but there are some heavy themes and transphobic jokes. this fic will hurt your feelings but it will also make you giggle and kick your feet and scream into your pillow.

have time to grow by queer_and_trashy

explicit - queer professor & amateur poet remus meets trans professional poet sirius - they try to get their shit together. hot & sweet and just, deeply deeply gay.

the entire rock n’ pole verse by @jennandblitz and fivepips

explicit - ace rock climber remus meets genderfluid dancer (mainly pole) sirius. this ‘verse is huge, there’s literally millions of words of it and y’all - i’ve read all of it. incredible ace representation, and overall just very sweet and sappy. mild angst, but everyone is in love & has a happy ending so don’t worry!

living like we’re renegades - orphan account

explicit - cheerleader sirius + journalist remus = everything i’ve ever wanted. i loooove this sirius so much they’re so gender.

the prettiest star ‘verse by raging_queer

tattoo artist sirius meets single dad remus - actually, sirius meets his child, teddy. sweet bonding with teddy looking up to Elder Queer sirius. very fluffy and comforting.

staying strangers by 3amandcounting

the texting fic, my fave of all-time. genderfluid sirius & demisexual remus. if there is one fic out there that will just make you want to open a window and yell about it to the other townsfolk - it’s this one. idek how to explain it, it’s just - it’s perfect.

also most of my fic features trans sirius, my masterlist is pinned!

disclaimer: this list is non-exhaustive, i know i’ve forgotten some, and i will be updating this tomorrow when i’m not half-asleep. and y’all, please reply with your fave trans sirius fics bc i want to read them all!!

[knawing-at-my-enclosure]

Hello! i’m not dead!

i have been working on developing my very own human Bill! AU….

basically i thought ‘hey wouldn’t it be funny if human Bill Cipher got like really into lepidopterology?’ and it kinda spiraled from there

(aka i have like 5 entire pages of handwritten lore that needs to go somewhere other than my brain).

lots more to come (hopefully) but check under the break for some character concept art

oh also this takes place 4 years post Weirdmageddon

[buddiedaydreamer911]

isn’t there an interview somewhere where Ryan says that Buck and Eddie helping Christopher date is like “The blind leading the blind.” ????

and now we KNOW both Oliver and Ryan has read fanfiction.

what if Ryan read this one and used that saying based off this fic???

[tennessoui]

girl your hanahaki au is absolutely wrecking my shit i--- I don't ever read ongoing fics and this is why. I just cannot wait?!? But the waiting somehow makes it better too?!? I'm literally dead bro I can't I love it so much

hahah omg thank you !! I’m really happy to hear you took a chance on this wip and that you like it so much!

not to get on my soapbox or anything but you have given me a great corner to shout from

as a disclaimer I totally understand why people will choose not to read wips and I truly think you know your mental health and what you can stand to wonder about/think about/obsess over/NEED to know a conclusion for better than anyone else

BUT as a writer who almost exclusively posts in wips, people reading them before they’re finished is my life blood and I am so grateful and it makes the writing process so much more fun for me because I know at least someone else is invested in my brainworm of a story?? someone else is enjoying it and thinking about it and I’m putting a small amount of good into the world??

the best analogy I’ve been able to come up with is like:

when you read a finished fic you’re eating a whole meal and that’s great that’s so amazing (especially if you tell the cook you liked it after you’re done). and you’re literally always welcome to eat that meal whenever you want. finished fics are like standing dinner invitations: I am always happy to have you and I mean that very genuinely

but if you read a wip, you’re keeping me company in the kitchen while I cook. and that’s sort of priceless. in some instances, you can even tell me the food needs more spice and I’ll think about it and listen!!! you’re sitting on my kitchen counter as I bustle around my space and we’re talking about what I’m doing and also how I’m feeling and maybe how you’re feeling and it just feels like community more than anything else I’ve experienced in any fandom. like you’re with me in my space as I’m creating food I hope you like. we’re both invested and it’s amazing

and I think in general that’s why wips are a lot of fun and also maybe why the waiting between chapters is fun for you - you’ve suggested that I add paprika to the pot and you’re waiting and wondering if I will, and I’m laughing and hoping you like the soup either way but also wondering if paprika will work with the recipe, and if I can add a bit to it just for you while staying true to the dish I envisioned at the get go.

[thedukedudeinadress]

AO3

I just realised most Zukka fans are on tumblr so… uhh… I’ll offer you my ao3. Hope it reaches some Zukka enthusiasts such as myself lmao

Current main project: The Dragon of Tui Avenue

Current secondary project: Family is Full of Surprises

And some random one shots will most likely show up every now and then