#margin may or may not be planning a fic

[margindoodles2407]

We don't know much about Four Swords Adventures Ganondorf, do we.

Interesting.

[reiderwriter]

I'm Your Fluffer!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x female reader (best friends to lovers)

For @imagining-in-the-margins FWB Challenge!

Prompt: "I'm your boyfriend without the benefits." "Do you want the benefits?" "Yes- No... I'm your fluffer!" (Inspired by New Girl) (yes, I suggested this prompt, bo idc if that's cheating)

Warnings: Mentions of BDSM, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, choking, mentions of spanking, and butt worship, slight Dom Spencer, bratty reader, creampie. The classics, yk.

A/N: I'm back!!!! I took a break because I couldn't bring myself to even look at a word document for about a month, but there's nothing like a Pom challenge to get me writing again! I did have a lot planned for my 1 year anniversary, but because I was sick, and then busy, and then work got hectic, I had to put it off. I still am going to try to finish my kink bingo Carr, though, even though its a month late, but I had two fics left iirc, and I have both of them plotted, so I may as well! I will, however, be abandoning the final epilogue of I Can't Help Myself, because I wrote myself into a depressed corner with that one, and honestly, some people were getting very pushy about it, and it wasn't fun anymore. Anyway! This one was fun to write, so I'm going to stick to one shots for the foreseeable future, or incredibly limited series.

Masterlist

Spencer was your friend. A good friend. Your best friend, perhaps. A really good, very best friend.

Obviously, you were good friends because he always knew when you were feeling down. He bought you flowers regularly when he passed by flower shops. He came over to your place and helped you build every piece of flatpack furniture you had, which, as a single woman in your mid-twenties, was every piece of furniture that you owned.

You really looked forward to the movie nights the two of you had weekly. The popcorn, the blankets, the cuddling, his lips by your ear, in-time translating the foreign movies word for word as you watched it, the shivers down your spine as you pressed further into the heat of him.

Spencer was the best best friend you could ask for.

He was also the most frustrated.

“Kid, what are you doing this weekend? I'm thinking of hitting some clubs, you know, getting my groove on, maybe meeting A few ladies,” Morgan smirked, rubbing his hands together as he gently moved side to side, already dancing to himself as he anticipated his big weekend out. “You in, or are you in?”

“I can't. I promised Y/N I'd help her with some document digitalisation. We're going to order pizza and watch Star Trek while backing up her entire paper trail.”

The smile on Spencer's face was so stupid that Morgan had to stop himself from wiping it off of him immediately.

“Man, you are so down bad for that girl,” he mused, shaking his head.

“What? Down bad?”

“You like her. It's okay to admit it.”

“We're friends. I'm happy being friends,” Spencer said, picking up his bag and walking to the elevator desperate to escape a repeat of a conversation he'd already had three times that week.

“You know everyone thinks you're dating.”

“Well aware. Despite the number of times we've both stated to the contrary, people don't seem to accept ‘we're just friends’ when they hear it.”

“That may be because you're doing things that just friends don't do.”

“Everything we do is totally platonic.”

“You buy her flowers-

“I buy my mother flowers,” Spencer said, turning on the man and raising his hands in exasperation.

“You know that's different. Do you buy Emily flowers?”

Silence.

“What about JJ?”

“I bought JJ flowers!” He grinned triumphantly until the other man spoke again.

“When she was in the hospital. Giving birth. Okay, what about the movie nights?”

Rolling his eyes, the younger man walked on, pressing the bell for the elevator and allowing his friend to keep bothering him.

“Friends watch movies together, Morgan. We've watched movies together, are we dating?”

“One, you are not my type, pretty boy, and two, you didn't exactly have your dick pressed against my ass the entire time we watched a film now, did you?”

“Be q- be quiet. I don't have my dick against her ass ever.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, was it pressed against her stomach instead? I know she likes to lie on top of-”

“Derek!”

The elevator arrived, and the two quickly jumped in, to Spencer's relief.

“All I'm saying, kid, is-”

“Hold the elevator!” You shouted, running to it quickly with Penelope Garcia on your heels.

“Thanks, Spence!” You said, smiling at him as you entered the small space.

And continued your not too unsimilar conversation with Penelope.

“So, as I was saying Penelope,” you shot her a look that told her you were finished with the conversation. You were not dating Spencer Reid, and you were unlikely to in the future because of his total and complete lack of interest in you.

“You can set me up this weekend, right? It's been an age since I've been on a date, and I would really like to-” you glanced around the elevator and whispered the end of your sentence, suddenly mindful of your company. “You know.”

“If you're absolutely sure, I have a few men in mind that could throw you about, but-”

You squealed and squeezed the woman as the elevator landed on your floor and jumped out of the elevator quickly, cheeks burning.

“Thanks, Pen, you're the best!”

“Y/N, wait,” Spencer called out behind you, desperately holding the elevator open for a few more seconds.

“I thought we were doing your papers this weekend? Star trek, pizza, remember?”

You stared guiltily at the floor as you forced your voice to sound as casual as possible, not sure you could make any excuse that didn't sound pathetic.

“Oh, sorry, Spencer. I totally forgot. We can rain check, right? I… I really need this.”

Spencer was aware of what disappointment felt like, but it never hollowed out his chest like your lack of eye contact in that moment did.

“Yeah. Sure, of course. We can do that whenever.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Spencer. You're the best… friend.”

He smiled and let the door finally shut, aware of the two sets of eyes now watching him.

It took a surprisingly long time for the ‘I told you so’ to come, but come it did, as if Morgan were unable to help himself.

“You're telling me that you're not into her at all?”

“I'm…not into her like that at all.”

“And you're fine with me setting her up on a date with a man that'll do somewhat empowering, somewhat disgusting things with her?” Penelope piled on.

“What? That's…that's not my business,” he ground out.

“No. Of course it’s not. Because you're not her boyfriend.”

“Exactly, I'm not her boyfriend-”

“You're her fluffer.”

With a pat on the shoulder, the elevator hit its last stop, and Morgan exited, leaving Spencer scrambling after him as Penelope waved the two of them off.

“What? No, what's a fluffer?”

Morgan chuckled and waved him off, walking to his car.

“Come on, what's a fluffer, and why am I hers?”

“You've seen porn before, right?” The older man asked, pausing as he opened his driver side door. “Actually don't answer that. The fluffer is the person who keeps the actors and actresses… ready between takes. Prepares them for the good stuff.”

With a bright flush across his cheeks, Spencer tried his best for an indignant look, landing somewhat closer to a petulant child.

“I am not her fluffer. We have never-”

“I know you've never. If you had, we wouldn't be standing here right now having this conversation. What I'm saying is you should.”

“We're friends!”

Climbing into the car and closing the door, Morgan dismissed the younger man quickly, but he wasn't finished.

Knocking on the door, Spencer waiting a beat, then two for it to open again.

“I'm not her fluffer.”

“You build her furniture and cuddle with her. You're doing everything a boyfriend would do, without any of the boyfriend rewards.”

“What rewards?” he gasped, exasperated.

A single look was all the reply he got before Morgan out his keys into the ignition and started driving.

Spencer never made the decision to turn up at your house later that night. He just found himself all of a sudden at your front door on a Friday night, pulling out the key from the plant pot by the front door and letting himself in. Unlocking his shoes, he called out through the apartment, letting you know he was there as he slipped into the house shoes you'd bought him after the first of many movie nights.

“Spencer? We cancelled earlier, remember?” you said emerging from your bedroom, fitted in the tightest dress he'd ever seen you in. He already had no answer for your question, but seeing you like that, getting ready, he had no answer to any question at all. If you'd have asked him his name, he wouldn't have known it.

Well, he would've, but only because you'd said it only three seconds ago and had reminded him that he was, in fact, standing in your apartment when he should've been literally anywhere else.

“Um. I'm…I'm just-” he scratched the back of his neck, waiting for something to come to him.

“Spencer, I'm leaving in like an hour, so there's no time to watch a movie, and I have to get ready, so-”

“I'm… I'm angry?”

You raised an eyebrow at his questioning tone, unsure where this conversation was going.

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah..yes. I'm sure. I'm angry. We, we had plans, and you gave me like an hours notice and cancelled them to go do something stupid-”

“Spencer! I'm going on a date. That's not stupid.”

“It is when you have me!”

He half shouted, half murmured the words, as if he himself were unsure of how confident he was in making that statement.

“That came out wrong-”

“Yeah, I think it did.”

“What I mean is- I mean…Morgan said that-”

You crossed your arms and sat yourself on the arm of your sofa, looking forward at him and waiting for him to get through whatever this was. You hoped the entire time that he was saying what you'd wanted him to say for the last year and a half.

“Have you ever watched porn?”

Not what you were hoping for, but a start, at least.

“Spencer!”

“That came out wrong, I- don't throw the couch cushions at me. I have a point, I swear!”

You lowered your next projectile and gestured for him to go on, not fully relinquishing it just yet.

“I'm your fluffer! I get you…in the mood for dates, and- and- I do all the boyfriend stuff without any of the boyfriend benefits!”

He stood in front of you, red-faced, and you stared him down a second or two as you collected your thoughts.

“Do you…want the boyfriend benefits?”

“Yes! No, wait - wait a second. I- I- What are the boyfriend benefits exactly?”

You threw the pillow down and turned your back on him, not entirely sure what you were expecting from the most oblivious genius on the planet.

“Y/N, wait. Wait-”

With a hand wrapped around your wrist, Spencer spun you around, and, tripping over your feet, you landed hard on your sofa. Your fall should've been relatively pain-free, but for the 6-foot man that landed directly on top of you.

“Get up.”

“What are the boyfriend benefits?”

“You should know if you're saying you want them! Now, get up!”

“Not until you tell me.”

“Spencer!”

“Y/N!”

You groaned and writhed under him, but he just dropped his weight onto you, unmoving, hands pinning your wrists lazily, leg poking between your two, hips pinning yours.

It certainly wasn't the closest you'd ever been, but in those circumstances, during that conversation, you felt more flustered than you had before.

“What are the benefits.”

“You really want me to say? You're not afraid it's going to throw off our friendship, ruin whatever good thing we have going?”

“I think that if you go out tonight, and enjoy your date, and get a boyfriend, that he's going to feel weird about this good thing we have going and it's going to be over anyway. Tell me.”

You desperately searched for a way out of this situation, but a stronger part of you wanted to simply wrap your legs around him and let him take as much advantage as he could.

You settled for disturbing him.

“Fine. A boyfriend would be able to spank me.”

“Y/N, be serious.”

“I am. I like it. A boyfriend would pull my hair back and make me count as he hit my cute round ass until it turned all red, and I couldn't sit down comfortably anymore. A boyfriend would then kiss it better.”

You'd never spoken about sex with Spencer, and you hoped the vulgarity would force him back to his senses. Instead, he didn't stir, and you had no choice but to continue.

“Another boyfriend benefit would be choking me. I like that, too. Are your hands big enough to wrap around my throat, Spencer?”

“Yes.”

The answer came so quickly and do confidently, you weren't sure you actually heard it outlook until he spoke again.

“What other benefits, Y/N?”

“A… boyfriend would get to cum inside me,” you whispered, suddenly aware of hips rocking into yours slowly as his cock poked up, listening intently to the promises spilling from your lips that you likely should've regretted.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I want the benefits.”

Your body was hot everywhere he touched you, but he didn't move, didn't follow through on anything just yet. But you were aware of his head moving closer and closer to yours and panicked.

“And what have you done? As my fluffer? To deserve those benefits?”

“What have I done?” He asked, pulling back an inch. Even as his chest rested, flush against yours, your breasts pushed up against him as his hands held yours over your head.

“I-I bought you flowers-”

“Emily buys me flowers, too. So does Penelope. Should I let them be my boyfriend?”

With your hands in use, you took advantage of his distraction and wrapped your legs up and around his waist, rolling your hips up into him.

“I suppose I do like flowers, though. What else?”

“I… We're always t-together?”

“We work together.”

Using the leverage of his weight against yours, you rolled up harder into his hips, grinding into him slowly as you watched his resolve melt away.

“The m-movie nights are-”

“The movie nights where you rut your cock into me while we watch a movie? Friends do that all the time. You're just translating the movie for me after all.”

“Y/N, please don't-”

“Don't say that? Okay. I'll just let someone else hump against my thighs to get off because you're too proud to admit you want to sink your dick into me and pound me?”

“Y/N-”

“Maybe that's why you don't have the boyfriend privileges, Spencer. Because I'm waiting for something, you're too much of a prude to try-”

His lips meet yours before you can finish the thought, and you're not sure whether it's a triumph or a defeat.

After precisely five seconds of his lips on yours, though, you no longer cared.

Releasing your hands gently, he lifted his hips an inch, distracting you enough to force his tongue into your mouth as his hand found its way between your legs.

“Did you really mean it?” He asked between kisses as you rake your hands through his hair, getting lost in him. “About the benefits?”

You allowed yourself to imagine it for a second, Spencer's hands on your throat. His hands on your ass. His mouth buried between your legs.

You moaned into his kiss, and he laughed - actually laughed - as he pulled away.

“Spencer!”

“No, no, please, don't let me keep you from your thoughts, I'll just be down here.”

His fingers reached your clit and he wasn't surprised to find you already wet, legs spread. Snaking another hand to your neck though, he wasn't exactly as opposed to the ideas you'd flung at him as he'd acted.

You gasped as his hand closed around your neck, the prettiest necklace you'd ever worn. You grabbed a hold of his hands as he pulled your underwear off, pushing them down your legs as he gently pushed your legs open wider and replaced his fingers with his tongue.

You curled up on yourself, craving your body to watch him devour your pussy as you tried your best to keep your breaths shallow, to keep breathing entirely as he squeezed your throat.

His tongue licked and flattened, his head bobbing up and down and then stilling as your hips began moving by themselves, letting you ride his face as you moaned and whined and desperately ran towards your climax.

You wrapped a leg around his shoulder, pressing down on his back to keep him in position, grabbing a handful of hair as you jerked against his face, fucking it as he looked up at you through hooded eyes, drinking down every drop of you.

His hold on your neck tightened, and you felt your body shudder as you squeaked out his name, not wanting this to end so soon, needing to feel more of this. He let you ride it out until you were whining in frustration again, hips twitching from the friction of his tongue against your cunt.

Then he pushed away.

He wasn't gone long, but you followed him up. You thought about pushing him down to the couch again, thought about sitting on his pretty boy face and doing it all over again. You thought of turning over and presenting your ass to him, letting him punish you like you'd promised. Your thoughts ceased as quickly as they came when he pulled his cock free of his pants, not even bothering to pull them off fully before pulling you into his lap, lining himself up, and pushing you down onto his hot, hard, lengthy cock.

You swear you would've screamed if his to guess hadn't already claimed your mouth. A good scream. A “holy shit holy shit holy shit” scream. Definitely a “I didn't know it was that big, and honestly I'm a little scared” scream. But overall, a “god that feels so good” scream.

From the lack of movement, you were sure that Spencer was giving you a moment to adjust to his intrusion, and you were thankful as you clung to his neck, hands balling in the material of his shirt on his back.

Although he was bigger than expected, he wasn't uncomfortably large, and you calmed quickly, giving him a quick nod as you buried yourself in his neck, hiding your face to stop yourself from drooling, mouth wide as he tipped you back against the couch pillows, lifting your legs slightly and slipping his hands underneath yous thighs, and began his steady pace of thrusts.

You were sure your world was imploding on itself, that all your senses had ceased except that of touch, and his touch was fire. But you heard the wet, slutty sounds of your pussy welcoming him, you smelt the sweat against his skin, and, opening your eyes, you saw the absolute pleasure blasted against his features as he groaned in your ear.

And before you could form another coherent thought, he'd claimed another boyfriend benefit, as, rocking his hips against yours, he slowed to a stutter as he emptied himself inside you.

“Spencer!!” you moaned, but he wasn't done, spitting on his fingers and finding your clit again as you squealed, twitching and turning and milling his cock with your movements as you found your second release.

You moaned his name again, though it sounded less like his name this time, and more like a definite noise complaint from your neighbours in the morning.

“Spencer?” you asked, still trying to regain your breath as he, once again, collapsed on top of you.

“Mhmm,” he said, slowly pulling out of you, watching the mess you'd made together drip out too, and resisting the urge to push right back into you and go again.

“Was that a friendly fuck, or a boyfriend fuck?”

His eyes snapped to yours again as you continued.

“I just want to give Penelope the correct reason for cancelling on her friend when I text her-”

“I came inside you.”

“So you did.”

“Y/N!”

“.... So that wasn't a fluffer thing, but a boyfriend thing, got i-”

With a kiss, he shut you up again, and you realized quickly that you probably wouldn't have the time to send that text anyway.

[hvtchlvr]

'xcuse me um... i love you !

a / n - all i listen to is this on loop. i havent written in long plz dont crucify me buttttt i think this is my first cm fic so sorry if this is ass. i wrote it at midnight

⸺ ⠀A . H x GN!READER︐⠀ ⤾⠀⠀✧

⠀⠀ ࣪ ✧⠀summary - fall is coming around and no matter how many sweaters you own you're always cold. but hotch is warm :) ⠀⠀ ࣪ ✧ word count - around 550 ⠀⠀ ࣪ ✧ content warnings - easily cold reader , bau reader , early established relationship , warm hotch , they are just cute. that's all ⠀⠀ ࣪ ✧ prompt - character A is shocked by how cold B's hands get in fall (by @imagining-in-the-margins !!)

Fall was always a favorited season. The leaves in different shades, the pretty walks, halloween, just the feeling of it all. The weather? Not so much.

Getting easily cold is a struggle. Random shivers, icy hands, paler skin. You always felt weird when you were younger, how you always had to be a little warmer than everyone. Now, it's something that you've grown into, keeping gloves or a sweatshirt on standby in your bag, warm drinks and food mostly digested in fall.

Yet, today was bad. You were on case North Dakota and even though it wasn't even that cold, you felt so much colder than everyone else. Your sweatshirt wasn't helping and you were pretty sure you could use ice blocks that were warmer than your fingers. It was so embarassing.

Talking to the team while shivering, the concerned looks and giving the 'i'm just cold' while it's not even freezing. You had just finished going over the evidence with the local department and interviewing witnesses with Aaron, who had caught on already.

You've barely been dating for 2 months, and forgot to mention how cold you get during autumn and winter. He was a little more than concerned, eyeing you while you both went back to the department. It was a small town, so you both decided to walk. Mostly you, autumn walks were your favorite.

"You look like you're freezing. It's barely mid-October." He spoke first, reaching for your pinky. Nobody was around, so it wouldn't hurt.

You hummed, "I just get cold easily." You replied as you intertwine pinkies, before fully holding hands. Somehow, everything about Aaron was perfect. It always felt like you were dreaming with him. Not only that, his hands were always so warm. You always had cold hands, all year around, he knew that already, but they get colder in the fall. Aaron was basically just.. warmth. Pure warmth.

No matter his cold and professional acts infront of the team or the police departments, he melted so easily when you two were alone. His eyebrows raised at the change in your hand temperature, he was aware of your hands being a little colder than his, but this was another level. "This is a little more than cold."

You chuckled, sighing. "I always get like this during fall and winter. I may have forgotten to mention it." Aaron smiled back at you, "You should've mentioned this to me. I wasn't prepared for you to be this cold when we haven't even hit Halloween yet."

"I've always been like this, you don't have to plan anything out for later if I get like this. I've got it." You squeezed his hand. "What? No. This isn't the most normal, and why wouldn't I help you? We're dating."

You knew it was true. It was more enjoyable being independent, but with Aaron? It felt different. You've never met someone so dedicated into taking care of you. Even infront of the team, while it was always a little more subtle or professional, he always cares. That's why you fell inlove.

"Fine." You sighed, as much as you tried showing disinterest in the idea, you couldn't hold back a smile. Aaron smiled right back, "I still think you should get that checked out."

"I love you too, Aaron."

[writer-in-theory]

you're gonna go far, love — spencer reid.

“I’ve been ready for you to come home for so long that I didn’t think to ask you where you’d gone.” —Noah Kahan (Orange Juice)

Summary: After Spencer relapses, he takes the first flight out of Virginia with no plan other than to get a fresh start. Or, my take on where he was for Evolution. Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn!Reader (not the focus, but it's there) Category: Hurt/Comfort WC: 2k Content Warnings: Discussions of relapse, Mentions of alcohol, Slight spoiler for the ending of Evolution S1 (despite the fact I still haven't finished it myself) Notes: This is for the New Beginnings challenge hosted by @imagining-in-the-margins and based on a prompt from @foxy-eva , so thank you so much to you lovely people. This fic comes 2 years after my last CM fic, and a few months since I've written anything at all, so thank you for the inspiration 💜

Spencer booked the first flight out of Virginia five days after it happened. 

The person at the counter may have said the destination, but it floated straight past his ears and was carried far away. Within hours, everything he’d spent the past two decades building was left thirty thousand feet below him. 

Emily would be hurt. Everyone would be, as each of them heard the news as they one-by-one came into the office tomorrow. But it would be Emily, who was the first to notice the cracks in his once carefully crafted facade all those years ago, who would feel the most betrayed by his sudden escape. 

You should’ve at least said goodbye.

It was what Spencer had been most upset by when Emily had faked her death. After everything they’d been through together, after all of the joy they brought into each others’ incredibly stressful lives, all Spencer had needed was the chance to say goodbye and know that she was out there, somewhere, happy. 

Hopefully, she’d understand why he had to leave now, though. 

Everyone in the BAU had figured out by now that the Spencer Reid who walked out of prison was not the same as the one who’d first stepped into it. Some piece of him—and even now, he wasn’t sure how large that piece was—had been laid bare and morphed beyond even his own recognition. The loss of that part of him ached in the way that losing a loved one did, that sharp stabbing sort of ache that would appear so suddenly that he didn’t know how to handle it. 

There was no way to explain it to the rest of the team, though, no matter how supportive they tried to be. The fact was that none of them had ever nor would ever go through what he exactly had, and for not the first time in his life, Spencer began to feel like a rip current was sweeping him away from the steadiness of shore. 

It wasn’t until he was far enough away from shore that he couldn’t see the relief of the sands that his mind recalled that he’d been prescribed painkillers several months prior. 

It wasn’t the same as what Tobias Hankel had given him so many years ago, nor was it the alternatives he’d managed to find in the months after, but it was devastatingly similar enough that he’d tried to convince the emergency room doctor not to order it in the first place. ‘Pick it up anyway, just in case. No one can recover from a gunshot wound without pain relief.’ 

He’d almost flushed the amber bottle’s contents the day he’d gotten them, but the bone-deep feeling that had eased with time but never truly gone away kept him from fully eliminating that option from his life. Why should one thing that had happened to him years ago deny him proper pain relief now, should he need it? So they’d sat untouched, locked away in his gun safe for months. 

Until five days ago.

After well over a decade in recovery, Spencer knew this was always a possibility. He’d seen friends go through the same thing and had been there to support them in whatever ways he could because no matter how many times it happened the initial feelings of shock, shame, and overbearing grief could be just as overwhelming as the first. 

A day after, when he’d woken up and realized just what had occurred, Spencer had walked himself to the nearest NA meeting. Like he was on auto-pilot, he moved through every piece of advice he had gathered through the years—the stories of success and the stories of forced learning serving as guides to him. It wasn’t the first time Spencer had relapsed (a word that still struck fear in him to even think about), nor would it likely be the last time he was forced to confront this part of his past. 

Still, this was the first time Spencer walked out of the building, packed a bag, and made a silent escape from the city he called home. There was something different about this time, though he had no idea where to even begin considering the specifics of why.

He ended up in Cincinnati, Ohio.

In all the years he’d been with the BAU, they’d never once been called there. It was like every other city Spencer had been in in many ways—the buildings towering above him as he walked, the river that bordered the city mirroring the home he’d just left, even down to the FBI headquarters that was quiet now in the middle of the night. Still, he couldn’t help but feel as though it were completely separate from everything he’d known before, because the melancholy Spencer had been sitting in for the last five days had suddenly turned comforting amongst the atmosphere of the city.

He ended up in a bar, of all places. It was the kind that only served nonalcoholic drinks, the kind of place where people like him could sit without feeling outside of the norm. Music was playing softly in the background, and though it was busy there was only a gentle rumble of conversation in the room.

“You’re staring at that glass like it’ll kill you. It’s safe, Scout’s honor.” The teasing voice surprised Spencer out of the careful contemplation he’d fallen into. It came from the bartender, who was busying themselves with wiping down a few glasses, stood just on the other side of the bar in front of him.

“You know, that only works if you were actually a scout,” Spencer returned, though raised the glass to his lips after. It was sweet—a little too sweet by his standards, though it was a comfort now after the week he’d had.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” the bartender said back. They looked comfortable here, like this sober bar were an extension of their own home. At one time, the BAU office had been the same for him. “You look like you could use a friendly face, and that just happens to be my favorite part of the job.”

“Part of the job…?”

“Oh you know, bartenders are the therapists for the lonely, or something like that.” They were comfortable, and more open to an effective stranger than Spencer ever thought possible. It was refreshing in a way, to be able to talk with them without having to worry about what case information he could get out of them. It wasn’t often, anymore, that he could relax and talk to someone just to talk to them. “What brings you to the Queen City?”

“I moved here,” Spencer answered automatically, looking down sheepishly at his glass before adding, “today, actually.”

“Oh, congrats then. New job?”

“More like a new start.”

It was quiet for only a moment before the bartender asked in a softer voice, “How long had it been?”

Spencer almost asked them what they meant, until he met their gaze. They had their full attention on him now, glasses left abandoned on the inner part of the bar. They’d been kind from the start, but the look they gave him now was the sort of pure understanding that made Spencer realize all at once what they were referring to.

“How did you know?”

The bartender sighed, though there was no sadness to it at all. They pulled something from their pocket, sliding it gently across the bar so Spencer could see. A metallic chip was place between them, silver on the outside and filled in with a green-blue color and a “V” engraved in the middle of it. It was different from the ones he’d used, but he recognized the meaning of it all the same. 

“I opened this place because the day I relapsed, five years ago now, I’d had nowhere to go after. There wasn’t anywhere people like us could go and relax without having to answer the tough questions, like why I drank orange juice instead of ‘what all the other adults were drinking’. It seemed silly at the time, but I think I was just looking for somewhere I could feel normal.”

“My family were the ones who helped me get sober, and sometimes they still forget and will ask me why I’m not drinking.” Spencer returned the sentiment with a light laugh. He loved everyone in the BAU, and even though it had only been a few days he already missed them terribly, but it was nice to have someone there who understood what he was feeling, what he was going through now.

“Exactly!” The bartender said, following Spencer’s lead and letting out a laugh of their own. “Though I can’t say I ever moved to a new city because of it.”

“It was the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done,” Spencer admitted. “I…really needed a fresh start. I needed somewhere noone knew who I was, somewhere I could get a completely different job and…I don’t know, figure out who I am.”

The bartender nodded. “Sounds about right. This family you left behind, are you gonna go back to them?”

“Eventually. We’ve worked together for so many years. I spent more time with them than I’ve actually ever spent alone, and I think I just need…”

“Something new,” the bartender finished, “I’m starting to catch on. What d’you think you’ll do?”

“I’ve always loved teaching. Maybe that?”

“You know, I have some friends who work at UC. Depending on what you wanted to teach, I could see if they could get you an interview.”

“Just like that?” Spencer asked, wondering only briefly if there was going to be a catch somewhere down the line.

The bartender shrugged. “Why not? I never up and moved cities, but I’m no stranger to new beginnings.”

“I wouldn’t recommend moving cities without thinking it through,” Spencer laughed then. “I have no plan for what comes next.”

“Do you have somewhere to stay, at least?”

Spencer only winced, which he was sure was answer enough for them. He was expecting some kind of sympathetic response, but he never expected the bartender to shrug again and say, “Well, how about I be a little impulsive too. I’ve been looking for a new roommate, why don’t you stay tonight and see how it goes?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure. You seem decent enough not to be some secret axe-murderer or something.”

Oh, the irony. 

Spencer didn’t really know this person except for the limited conversation they’d had so far. It would’ve been safer, and probably smarter, for him to just find a hotel room for the night and come up with a plan later. But something was telling him that he should agree, that there was something more to this person that he wanted to get to know. 

So not for the first time that day, Spencer trusted his gut and nodded. “Okay, let’s try it.”

It wasn’t a fix for everything. The changes would come slowly, so slowly that sometimes Spencer himself wouldn’t even notice them happening. It would take time to get to a place where Spencer felt okay again, and a large help in that ended up being his new roommate who seemed to just get him in more ways than one. As time went by, Cincinnati truly began to feel like home. 

And two years after he’d left, when Spencer turned on the news and saw the BAU standing before a large crowd as they announced they’d finally caught the serial killer behind the shipping container murders, he finally felt the string tugging him back in the direction of Quantico.

His home was there in Cincinnati, with the person who’d become a friend and even more in the last two years and the professor job that he came to love, but Spencer knew—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that it was time to see his family again, too. 

[munson-blurbs]

Eddie, diary, detention ^^

Oh, y'all are getting sick of Eddie fluff fics? Too bad, sorry xoxoxo 💚

Warnings: none, all fluff!

WC: 1.2k

--

“Goddamn Carver,” Eddie mutters to himself, slinging his backpack onto the desk and plopping into the attached chair. “Always running his goddamn mouth and then pulling the ‘But I have basketball practice’ excuse to get outta trouble.” He brings his voice up to a grating falsetto, mocking the jock’s whiny tone. “But does Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson get the same courtesy for his Hellfire campaigns? No, sir, he does not.”

“Wonderful monologue, Mr. Munson,” Mrs. O’Donnell says dryly, heels clacking as she walks through the open doorway. “Perhaps you’ll be a playwright in your next life.”

“Like one lifetime isn’t enough,” Eddie grumbles, low enough so his least favorite teacher can’t hear him. 

O’Donnell peers at him over her horn-rimmed glasses. “You know the drill better than I do, Mr. Munson,” she scoffs with a wry smile. “One hour. No talking, no music, no funny business. You may do homework if you’d like, though I don’t anticipate you choosing now to act like a star student.” 

Eddie slumps down into his seat. He’d already counted all the ceiling tiles last week when he ended up here after shoving Patrick for picking on Dustin Henderson. Guess I’ll start on the floor tiles now, he thinks grimly. 

He makes it to 28 before something catches his eye. In one of the baskets underneath a desk is a purple leather-bound notebook. The way it’s resting halfway out of the basket looks like it had fallen out of a backpack or accidentally left behind. It’s too fancy to only be used for school, and it piques his curiosity. 

“Uh, Mrs. Oh-Dee?” Eddie blurts out, shooting his hand up in the air. “Can I grab a textbook? I think I’m gonna take you up on that homework offer.”

The teacher rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she quips. “And for the last time, stop calling me that.”

But Eddie’s already scrambling to the seat, plucking the journal from its spot and shielding it with a history book. As soon as he opens the cover, his eyes widen. 

This diary belongs to is printed on the first page, with a name handwritten in neat cursive underneath. 

“Shit,” Eddie breathes, earning a scowl from O’Donnell. This is your diary. 

Eddie doesn’t have too many classes with you; you’re in mostly honors courses, while he’s in his third senior year. But you do take health together, and he constantly finds himself stealing glances at you whenever he can. 

He knows he shouldn’t read any further; he can close the diary and turn it into the Lost and Found box. But Eddie Munson’s never been known for his impulse control, and before he knows it, he’s skimming the pages. 

Most of the entries don’t draw too much of his attention. There’s one from a few weeks ago about an argument you had with your best friend, but Eddie’s seen you two laughing together since then, so he assumes all’s well. A few days ago, you’d just written, “that history test was a bitch” accompanied by a frowning face. Eddie laughs quietly, knowing you’d probably aced it. 

It’s the entry after that where he finds what he’s looking for. 

Mr. Ellison paired me up with Eddie today! We had to work on an anti-smoking poster together, which was ironic, because he reeked of cigarettes. He asked me what I was doing this weekend, and I thought he was going to ask me out, but he didn’t. Guess he’s not into shy nerdy girls. Then again, who would be?

Eddie’s heart sinks into his stomach. If you only knew how much he wants to take you to dinner, hold hands across the table, maybe kiss you after splitting an ice cream sundae. He had planned on asking you out that day, only to wimp out at the last second. 

He hastily tears out the page and pulls out a number two pencil that’s sharpened down to a nub. In the margins next to your entry, he draws and arrow and writes:

He’s definitely into shy nerdy girls, but he didn’t think you’d be into loud metalheads. Meet me at my locker tomorrow before health?

He slips the diary into his bag, vowing to put the note in your locker after his prison sentence—erm, detention, is over. 

~

The next day, Eddie waits by his locker in between second and third periods. His heart pounds in his chest, and his stomach is doing that flip-flop thing it does before a gig. He relaxes a bit when he sees you walking towards him, note in hand. 

“Hey,” you say softly, holding up the sheet of paper. “Did you…”

Eddie laughs nervously. “Y-Yeah, that was me,” he admits. 

Your ears heat up, suddenly bashful. When you found the note, you’d assumed it was some prank by one of the jocks. The fact that it actually was Eddie gives you heart palpitations. “I didn’t know you felt that way about me,” you manage. 

“I didn’t know you felt that way about me till, y’know, I read it,” Eddie mumbles, hoping you’re not too angry about that. 

You cross your arms over your chest. “So, we’re just snooping through diaries now? A bit juvenile, dontcha think?” But your tone is light, despite the truthfulness of your statement. 

“It, um, wasn’t my finest moment,” Eddie’s cheeks turn pink as he reaches into his bag, “which is why I wanted to show you this.” He pulls out a tattered composition book and hands it to you. “It’s not as cute as yours—oh, which I also have, heh.” He offers you your beloved purple journal. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, ensuring that it’s now safely stored in your own backpack before bringing your attention back to his notebook. “What’s this?”

Eddie bites his lower lip anxiously. “It’s my lyric book,” he explains sheepishly. “But not the one I show the guys. This has all my lovey-dovey songs in it. Y’know, shit they’d kick my ass for.” Another nervous chuckle. “They’re, um, they’re about you.”

“Me?!” you ask incredulously. 

“Yeah,” he smiles, letting his fingertips graze your hand. “Figured it was only fair, since I totally read your stuff.”

You flip through the pages, heart warming at the words etched on them. Lyrics like, her smile melts me like snow on my tongue/grow old together but we’ll always feel young make you giggle. “These are really good,” you muse. 

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “Not too corny?”

“Oh, no,” you tease him, “they are extremely corny. But I’m a sucker for a good rhyme scheme, so…” You trail off as Eddie grins. 

“Maybe I could play them for you sometime? Like after school today?” He winces, hoping he doesn’t sound as desperate as he thinks he does. 

You nod. “I’d like that.”

“Cool.” Eddie closes his locker and turns to you slowly, a mischievous twinkle in his chocolate brown eyes. “Actually, what do you say we ditch health and hang out at mine? I promise I’m a lot more interesting than whatever Ellison is going to lecture us about today.”

You peer around the hallway, making sure it’s clear of teachers before slipping your hand into Eddie’s larger, calloused one. “Let’s blow this joint.”

“That’s my girl.”

--

[finalfrontierpublishing]

A Case of You by @epitomereally

Happy (belated) Fanfiction Writers Appreciation Day! For FFWAD, Renegade Bindery runs an event where we bind copies of fics for their authors and I was super excited to be able to bind this for a fellow bookbinder!

I'm rather new to the Drarry fandom but @epitomereally has been absolutely wonderful in providing fic recs and bookbinding advice. She is so so kind and I have enjoyed seeing the lovely books she has created for fellow authors, and somewhere along the way I hatched a sekret plan to bind a copy of her fic for her.

Some stats as usual:

97,262 words || 354 pages

body text: EB Garamond 11 point

accents: Bestaline Sans, Bell MT and Bembo Std

I had really wanted to do a design on the spine (both of us like doing some spine stitching as a design feature), so i really wanted to be able to put it in a bind for her. also my near obsessive fixation with spine stitching worked out in my favour because i settled on a constellation design and ran with it. the design on the spine is stitched with gold linen thread, and accented by some designs done in heat reactive foil.

for bookcloth, I settled fairly quickly on night sky blue so colibri elder made an appearance. I had a little trouble with colour matching for the endpapers with the endbands (i should have probably done pink instead of purple), but I still like the relative cohesiveness of the look of this book. Endpapers are Crepaldi, i am absolutely shameless about my stash.

I also was very excited because I learnt Affinity Publisher for this book!!! Zero regrets, it looks amazing, i am a convert I will never go back to Microsoft Word goddamn. and ME AND SIDE HEADERS - i love them though the book might have benefited from larger margins. THEY'RE SO SEXY MY GOD.

hehe, i may have also sustained a flesh wound while cutting the board for this book but HEY WE ALL EVENTUALLY HAVE ONE OF THESE THINGS (WHERE WE GOTTA GO TO THE A&E BECAUSE OF A BOOKBINDING MISHAP) BEAUTY IS PAIN Y'ALL.

ULTIMATELY I'M SO GLAD THE BOOK ARRIVED SAFELY TODAY AND I'M SO HAPPY SHE LOVED THE BOOK. when you bind for another bookbinder, it's both stressful and extremely endorphin-releasing because the other bookbinder both appreciates all the design choices you make as well as knows exactly where you might have fucked up.

ultimately, making a book is a small small gift for someone who so generously wrote a novel-length epic for free and shared it with the masses for a love of fandom.

anyway, go read this fic, guys, it's so so good, and SHE JUST WROTE A NEW ONE (IT IS ALSO EXCELLENT and i am savouring it WHILE PONDERING DESIGN CHOICES HEHEHEHEH)

Please check out her AO3 page here.

Other things I've been working on:

FOILED EDGES HAVE BECOME MY PASSION I HAVE NO REGRETS. @duran-binding and I have been excitedly getting everyone into sanding and THE LOVE FOR POWER SANDING AND DOING FOILED EDGES. Marissa has even succeeded with hidden fore-edge painting - ALL HAIL OUR EDGELORD who does marbled edges and hidden fore-edge painting and has so kindly shared all her information with others for absolutely free. ❤️‍🔥

[drarrydisabilityfest]

It's That Time of Year Again...

Drarry Disability Fest 2024

Welcome Back to the 2ND YEAR of Drarry Disability Fest (2024)!

For those who don't know, Drarry Disability Fest is a fest dedicated to the accurate representation of disabilities, d/Deafness, medical conditions, and mental illness; Drarry Disability Fest is the first of it's kind. In this fest there will be no romanticism of disability (though romance will definitely be present elsewhere), instead we want our artists and writers to focus on accurate depiction - whether it be of the sad, mad, or glad times of disability and mental illness.

Our goal is to add diversity to the Drarry fic and fanart community, and we firmly believe that while disability and mental illness can be very difficult to handle, they do not mean that we're destined to a life of inaction and solitude; we are an empowered community.

All the mods for this fest are disabled/mentally ill to some extent, and have experience with a variety of additional disabilities to ensure that we have maximum ability to give feedback and filter prompts to the best of our ability.

We would also like to say that everyone's experience with mental illness and disability is different, so if you end up reading a depiction of your illness or disability that differs from your own, please accept that we do our best to filter the media in this fest so that it is safe for disabled readers, and remember that every different experience with a condition is valid.

This fest will not be anonymous, and we're posting to the fest AO3 Collection in July as that is Disability Pride Month. This year we are starting everything slightly earlier so that all you beautiful creators have more time to create, so follow our tumblr and join our discord sever to be sure you don't miss anything.

Anyone may prompt to this fest, even if you don't plan to create anything, however we will be filtering your prompt submissions on the AirTable to ensure they are sensitive to the disability/mental illness you are wishing to see depicted.

You don't need to be disabled to write about disabilities, but please do your research, ask questions from disabled sensitivity readers, and if you're ever unsure our wonderful mods Ceylon, Rowan, and Kel are happy to help. We have a wordcount minimum of ~1000 or equivalent. This means if you're not doing a written piece then put in the effort equivalent in your digital fanart, podfic, or other media. We do not accept videos at this time.

Beta readers/viewers are required for each submission. You can self prompt when claiming, and you can claim multiple prompts as long as you submit each work before claiming a new prompt.

The Dates are as follows in MST/MDT:

February 29 (Leap Year): Prompting Begins

March 20: Prompting Closes (Self-Prompting still allowed)

April 1: Claiming Opens

June 15: Claiming Closes

June 16 : Submissions Deadline

July 1: Posting Begins

July 31: Posting Ends & Fest Wrap-up

Further in depth fest rules can be found at the pinned post on our tumblr, please give them a read as they have been updated!

Your mods: Rowan @basicallyahedgehog (tumblr), Ceylon @quackquackcey (tumblr), Kel @slytherinthelibrary (tumblr)

A PSA: We acknowledge that J.K. Rowling is the author of the series this fandom is based in, however all mods involved strongly disagree with and refute any and all racist, antisemitic, transphobic, homophobic, and other prejudiced ideas the author holds. This is a safe space for trans people and two of our mods are trans themselves. If you are transphobic or homophobic or otherwise prejudiced against any marginalized group; you are not welcome here.

[ohdearlingwhathappened]

Failed Plans

A/n: Merry Christmas, @quinloki !! I was your Secret Santa this year. Sorry this is a little late, but I hope your Christmas has been wonderful, and I hope you enjoy this fic!

This is not what you had planned.

Well, not entirely.

The plan was simple- sneak off the Victoria Punk, raid the assholes who shot at the ship and damaged her hull, and get back to the ship before Kid or Killer notice you were ever missing; thus far, you have been able to get about two thirds of the way through the plan, but you may or may not have forgotten to calculate how to get off the enemy’s ship.

Perhaps calling this a plan may have been giving you a little too much credit because now here you sat with a bag full of gold, maps, and anything else that looked marginally valuable- in a dark, damp corner hiding from the pirates who managed to shoot a hole through your thigh only minutes prior. Thankfully, your pant leg soaked up the immediate blood pretty well, but now that you’re sitting, the blood seeping out of the wound is beginning to drip down to the floor. And when feeling around your thigh, you come to the realization that the exit wound you were hoping for, is nowhere to be found. Meaning Hip was most likely going to be scolding you while fishing around for the bullet stuck in your leg.

“Damn it.”

This is definitely not going at all how you planned. 

Any minute now, it is going to become very apparent to both Kid and Killer that a small yet usually persistent presence is unusually quiet- leading them to discovering you left the ship when they docked for repairs. Meaning it won’t be very long before Killer figures out where you are and even less time before Kid starts tearing through whatever is in his way to find you. The red-head is caring- just in his own chaotic, violent ways. 

Footsteps racing down the hall outside of the ship going just past the room you have hidden yourself in. The shuffle of their boots could be heard once and then after a pause, twice- giving the imagery of an indecisive mind trying to determine where the thief has possibly gone. A couple of more cautious steps going this way and that sound out before the footsteps go down the hall once more. 

One problem gone, the primary problem still resides. Knocking your head against the wall behind you, you take the hem where the sleeve meets the rest of your shirt and yank hard, splitting the fabrics away from each other. While your sleeve may not be the best tourniquet, it’ll do in a pinch. Wrapping it around your thigh, you test its stability and after determining it stable enough to run with- or at least hobble- you grab the bag and make your way out into the hallway, keeping an ear and eye out for any suspicious movement or sounds.

“This was stupid and they are totally going to kill me if I survive this.”

Heading towards the stairs leading to the main deck, you look into any room you pass, hoping to find one with a porthole you might be able to squeeze through, but from what you’ve seen here, all this ship was built with was holes so small you could barely see the snow falling outside. It wasn’t long before reaching the bottom of the stairs and after letting out a muted groan, you steel yourself before slowly and quietly creeping up the steps. But before making it even halfway up, the entire ship shakes and sways to one side, a loud booming noise accompanying the movement. 

Looks like they figured it out a little sooner than you expected. 

Finishing the trek up the stairs, you poke your head out of the door that separates you from the underside of the ship and the nippy temperatures outside where you see a frankly shitty patch job on the Victoria Punk and what anyone can tell to be a pissed of Eustass Kid on the bow, slinging large pieces of scrap metal at anyone he can see. If you weren’t in the dire situation of being at risk of death from not only the people on this ship, but also one of your temperamental lovers flinging metal around, you might laugh at his ridiculous hair standing out so proudly in the falling snow. Like your own little, angry lighthouse leading you back home. But now was hardly the time. 

Running as best as you can, you make your way to the side of the ship, dodging any strikes thrown your way by those who aren’t busy dealing with Kid’s barrage of attacks as he gets closer. Of course, due to your decreased mobility, courtesy of the bullet stuck in your leg, more attacks were landing than they normally would. By the time you reach the railing, you were feeling and looking worse for wear- there seems to be no limb that has gone unscathed.

Thankfully, at that point, your crew begins making their advance and you’re quickly picked up from your place leaning heavily on the railing. Before throwing your elbow into whoever’s chin, you see the familiar blue and white striped mask and messy mane of blond hair and immediately relax and lean into his chest. 

“Thank you… I’m sorry.” Your speech is slightly slurred, the exhaustion from your wounds and the adrenaline running throughout your body makes your eyelids flutter. Killer says nothing, but he squeezes you ever so slightly closer to him, trying to be conscious of your wounds. Lifting your arm, you cup where his cheek would be, “Even with that mask, you look so pretty in the snow, Kil.”

And then it goes black.

* * * * *

“I’m going to kill them. How could they have been so fucking stupid?”

“Like you haven’t rushed into situations where your ass needed saving?”

“Shut it, Killer. I’m not the one lying knocked out in the med bay with a countless number of cuts, bruises, and bullet wounds. They are!”

What a wonderful way to wake up- to both of your boyfriends arguing. Granted, it was because you went to an enemy ship, robbed them, got caught while robbing them, and needed to be saved because you had been well in over your head.

“I reckon I’m still better looking than you, Kid.” It didn’t come out as strong as you may have wanted- more of a croak than anything- but both Kid and Killer whip around to look at you as you sit up with a wince. You expect Kid to start yelling, shouting at you for not thinking, or even Killer to say something- ask how you were feeling maybe. But they were just silent. The crooked grin on your face falls, and the shame starts to build. 

“Do you have any idea…” Kid starts. He’s not yelling, and that makes it all that much more humiliating. You feel like a child and you can feel the tears begin to well in your eyes, so you move your head to look away from both of them. Resulting in hearing Kid’s thundering footsteps approach the bed and for his hand to grab your chin to pull your face back to him, “...how worried we were?”

And so the dams break- large tears roll down your cheeks as you take a hold of the hand that held your chin and move it to your cheek to relax into his hold. Killer sits on the bed behind you and rubs your back, pressing his mask into your hair.

“I’m sorry!” Your breath is stuttered, nose sniffling and body trembling. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean for all of this to happen.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Kid.”

Despite everything, they’re talking as if you hadn't just caused a bunch of chaos with your silly decision. It left you confused, to say the least. Why aren't they scolding you? Why Is your usually fiery captain so quiet?

“Why aren't you angry with me?”

Kid snorts, “Oh, I'm furious.”

“We're more happy that you're here with us alive.” Killer takes a shuttering breath- one of the only signs that he was shaken by any of thjs- you feel it escaping through the holes in his mask. “We'll talk about things later.”

You nod, leaning back against him and looking up at Kid, “Could we go back to our room? I don't want to stay in the medbay alone.”

“Not a chance in Hell. You're staying in this bed until you're all healed up, mouse.” With that, he gets up, dropping his hand from your cheek and heading for the door. The drop in your shoulders was visible and you couldn't quite believe he was just going to leave.

Kid gets to the door and shoves a cart of medical supplies out into the hallway before closing the door, locking it, turning off the light before going back to the bed. Gently lifting your body, Kid lies down with you comfortably on his chest and after settling the both of you, he pulls Killer down to join you both. It was a bit of a squeeze between Killer and Kid, but once Killer adjusted to be on his side and wrapped his arm around you, it was quite comfortable.

“Thank you both.” And even though you had woken up just a little while ago, it was easy to fall back asleep in your lovers’ arms.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Common Knowledge 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, power imbalance, bullying, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Geralt of Rivia, Harald Halfdansson, tall & plus-size reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your next study session is a special excursion. Paranoid about your talkative professor and his distractions, you opt instead for the off-campus smoothie shop you passed a dozen times but never went into. You order a simple strawberry banana concoction and claim a table in the corner for your mission.

You take your laptop out and the giant tome with a cluster of tabs poking out from the pages. You've narrowed down your possible topics. You don't know why you're so indecisive. You just feel entirely out of your depth. Ask you about a Hapsburg or even a Roman emperor, and you're good, but gods and goddesses, giants and beasts... You just can't nail it down.

The coming and going of customers is steady but not disturbing. Most enter, order, and promptly leave. The average patron has a gym bag and appears to be on their way to workout.

You peek up now and again but quickly lose yourself in your research. There's something to say about the plight of the feminine figures in Norse mythos. It surely seems a tragic existence. Somehow, you can relate.

You flip to a tab and lean in to read. You reach for your smoothie blindly and take a sip as your eyes flit back to your laptop. A cup lands heavy on your table and a figure falls in the chair across from you. As if they know you, as if they belong there.

It's that man! With the blindingly white eyes and similarly shocking hair. Hair pokes out above the vee of his peculiar tunic and his hair is wave with a sheen of sweat. You give him a confused look and flutter through the pages, ignoring him. You won't ask how he found you, might be a coincidence, but you'd rather he get the clue and leave you alone.

He reaches over and stops your search. He pushes the pages flat and growls, "you wrote in it?"

You squint at him, curling your lip. You shrug. You bought the book. Who cares if you added a few annotations in the margins.

"How could you write in it?" He sneers.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Don't be stupid," he tilts his head, "I know you remember me."

"Mmmm," you drone dully and slide the book from under his hand.

Silence. Still and suffocating. You have nothing to say to him and it seems he approached without a clear plan. You really don't understand what his end goal would be. He can go find the book somewhere else.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" He hisses.

"Excuse me?" You glare at him above your laptop.

"Sure seems like you don't."

"It's a history project. I can figure it out."

"Hmph," he wrinkles his nose, "well, I am a font of knowledge on the subject."

"Really? What are your credentials?"

"I don't need a piece of paper to tell me what I know," he scoffs.

"So you know nothing?"

"Watch it, girl."

"Or what?" You blink, shocked by the interlaced threat.

He laughs darkly and crosses his arms, "you think you're smart."

You shake your head, "I'm studying, so... that's the goal."

He shifts and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. He watches you as you ignore him for the blinking cursor on the screen.

"When a man talks to you, are you usually so rude?" He asks.

You nearly recoil. You give a scoff of your own. What year is this?

"I don't know you," your eyes dart up to meet his, "and I don't want to know you. Why would you even--"

"I'm not ugly," he says, a jarring statement. You wouldn't argue, he isn't hideous; on the outside. "And I offered to help. So..."

"Yeah, but you're not nice either."

You shut the book and snap closed your laptop. If he won't go, you will. You stand and he does too. He's big. You might be tall but he's a brick wall.

"Where are you going?" He asks, almost stupidly. That stern, empty cadence of him is almost robotic.

"Away from you."

"Why?"

You furrow your brows. Really? Is it not obvious?

"I'm talking to you. Asking you questions about yourself. It's small talk."

You let out a long 'um', not able to come up with anything else.

"Geralt," he offers his hand in an overly formal manner.

You can't respond. You don't understand what the hell is going on? You might be a social hermit but this man is entirely inept.

"I don't meet many people interested in mythology, but--"

"I'm not interested, dude."

He sputters, "why?"

"Because... you're a jerk," you shove your things in your bag and zip it up. "Wow, are you really that oblivious?"

You see his eyes scanning as he thinks. It's almost like he's never reflected on his own behaviour. You can't imagine why he is still looking for a friend.

"So... you're not going to tell me your name?" He asks at last.

"Bro, I'm about to scream," you warn as you shoulder your bag, "just get out of my way."

You swipe your smoothie off the table and take a step forward. He doesn't move at first. He stares you down as you steel yourself, glancing at the employees behind the counter.

"What school do you go to?" He asks.

Your head nearly explodes. You have never been so lost in a conversation. You grip the strap of your bag tight and set your jaw.

"Move," you grit out, heart racing.

He pulls his chin back as if surprised. He steps away and waves you out from behind the table. You slowly walk forward, swallowing as you try not to shake.

"I'll figure it out," he mutters.

"What?" You spin back to him.

"I said," he turns to face you, sitting again and taking his cup to sip on the straw. He pops his mouth off, "have a good day."

[jesterwriting]

pairings: mad scientist!law x assistant!reader

word count: 2k words

contents: DARK CONTENT AHOY!!! animal death (cat), animal harm (cat), animal gore (cat), reanimator au, medical student law, medical student reader, unhinged!law, creepy!law, horror, manipulation,

note: this was originally supposed to be apart of an earlier request, but i split it up because i felt like this one had far more horror elements and animal harm that were a lot heavier and darker. you can read them together or separate or not at all! its up to you <33 im kind of obsessed with this au so i may do more with it if people are into it??

playlist: reanimator prologue & main title - richard brand

prequel to this fic

At first, you thought this was a dream come true. It wasn’t often that you got lucky enough to be paired with your crush for a project, but here you were, meeting him at your apartment for the sixth time in one month. It was more than you could ever dare to hope for. For the longest time, you had thought that you were condemned to a life of daydreams and fantasies.

Trafalgar Law was an odd man, one who was not particularly liked by his peers— aside from you, of course. He was cold, and the sort to stare if you managed to garner his, usually unwanted, attention. When he did speak, it was a snarky remark at the recipient's expense, both classmate and professor, Law had no patience for perceived stupidity you realized after weeks of study. His tattoos were off putting to most. What kind of medical student had ‘death’ written across his knuckles? You, on the other hand, found them fascinating. The story behind such morbid body art was sure to be captivating.

If only you could get him to share it.

You shouldn’t be surprised. Law was quiet, only ever speaking to prove someone wrong, or to insist that he was right. When he did talk to you, it was about the project and his own personal plans for it. You could hardly get a word in edgewise. Instead of fighting Law on it, you allowed him to do whatever he pleased with the project, following his orders dutifully, which seemed to earn you the smallest margin of his rarely given respect. Last meeting, he had even acknowledged your interjection with a nod, rather than a scoff, though he didn’t incorporate your idea at all. Progress was progress, you supposed.

Your keys jingled as you pulled them from your pocket. Before you could stick them in the knob, the door creaked open, revealing your empty living room. It was dark, no signs of life. Not even your cat came to greet you. You swallowed hard, anxiety making your saliva thicken until it was stuck in your throat as a hard glob.

You told Law where your spare key was hidden, had he forgotten to close the door after he arrived?

“Law?” There was no response. With your heart pounding, you pushed the door open further and stepped into your apartment. Floorboards creaked under your weight, making you wince. There was something that told you to be quiet, that there was someone waiting for you in the shadows, ready to strike. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

A dim light in the kitchen caught your attention, and you slowly tip-toed over to it, careful to keep your footsteps light. Carpet squelched under your shoes. Maybe Law spilled a glass of water and went looking for a rag. Surely, your organizational skills weren’t so bad he was still looking for one. You choked on an uncomfortable laugh.

Like your front door, your fridge was open. Not gaping, but a small crack to let the barest sliver of light out. A sense of dread settled on your shoulders, though you tried to remind yourself that Law was supposed to be here. Everything could be explained if he would come out. All he needed to do was make his presence known and you would know you were safe. You swallowed hard, staring at the refrigerator door. It was your only source of light in the apartment, if you closed it now, you’d be surrounded on all sides by darkness.

You blinked, cocking your head to the side to get a better view. There was something large and furry on the top shelf. Nausea roiled in your gut, threatening to spill your dinner onto the floor, as dim recognition flickered in your brain.

With your knuckle, you pushed the door open fully to get a better look. There, inside of your fridge, was your cat. He wasn’t breathing, eyes glassy and body stiff under the pale yellow light.

Your cat was dead and its corpse was in your fridge.

You couldn’t help it. You screamed.

“You’re home.”

Scrambling backwards until your lower back hit the counter, you could barely make out Law’s figure through your blurry vision. You choked on a sob and hastily wiped your eyes. He seemed bored as he leaned against the wall, almost unimpressed, though there was a glimpse of something softer in his gaze. Not concern, not yet, but close enough to it that you could pretend.

You pointed a shaky finger at the fridge. “M-My cat.”

“I know, I put it in there.” Law strode into the kitchen and closed the door with his foot. You felt better not having to look at the corpse anymore, even if tears continued to leak from your eyes. “I didn’t want it to decompose and start to stink before you were able to bury it. I know you were fond of it.”

“What happened? How did he die?”

Law shrugged, noncommittal. “I’m not sure. It was dead when I got here. I figured you would rather me not perform an autopsy in your living room considering I have no veterinary experience.”

“An-And you put it in my fridge? You couldn’t have left a note on the door or—“

Law scoffed, “And what would the note say? Cat dead, details later? Think for a second.”

The longer the conversation continued, the harder you sobbed. You loved that cat. He’d been with you for years now, through thick and thin. You’d never feel his warm body on your chest again as he slept, you’d never feel his purr rumble against your skin, you’d never be able to pet him under his chin the way he liked it ever again. It was too much to think about, grief rolling over you like a wave, threatening to drown you.

Law’s gaze softened, even if his sigh was exasperated. “We can postpone working on the project until you’re able to gather yourself.”

He turned to leave, but your hand shot out to grab his wrist. “Please don’t leave me here with him.”

The body. You couldn’t bury him. Not alone. Law thought for a moment, his golden eyes glazed over for a second before a smirk inched across his face. He only ever got that look when he thought of a plan, and this looked to be a good one. With a condescending pat on your head, Law wrenched himself from your grasp, grin still in place.

“That’s alright, Y/N-ya, I’m not going anywhere. I can sleep on your couch and help you with its body tomorrow.” His pupils shot over to the fridge. “It’s best if you leave it in there for the night, corpses are best kept cold.”

Sniffling, you gave a shaky nod. “I’ll set up the couch.”

—

It was three am when a knock at your door woke you.

The weight of mourning felt heavy in your chest and your bed felt too cold without the familiar warmth of your cat. Your heart ached at the reminder of his demise. All you wanted to do was curl up and go back to sleep. Forget about what waited for you in the fridge.

So tired, both emotionally and physically, you were ready to chalk the knock up to a dream. That was, until you heard it again, louder and more forceful this time.

An unwanted feeling of anxiety crawled up your spine. Something felt off, a sense of wrongness filled the air until it was so thick, you could hardly breathe. A horrible yowl resounded through your apartment, blood curdling and unnatural. There was a familiarity to the scream. You took no comfort in it. Your eyes shot open, and you leapt from your bed onto your feet, wired from the sudden surge of adrenaline. Hyperventilating breaths ripped from your chest.

The knock sounded again. “Y/N-ya, I have something to show you.”

Law’s deep voice sent goosebumps erupting down your arms. If you were being honest, it wasn’t the first time it had happened, but this time, there was something different about it. Dread curled in your gut, sleeping inside you like the cat in your fridge. With a cry, you covered your ears and curled in on yourself when whatever was in your living room screamed again.

“Law, do you hear that?”

You didn’t have to see him to know he rolled his eyes. “Come out, there’s something I need you to see.”

Your feet moved on their own accord, drawn by the sound of Law’s voice. Even as the thing in your living room wailed, your fingers found your knob and curled around it. The brass was cold against your palm. It grounded you. The first thing you noticed when you opened the door was that Law had blood smeared across the front of his shirt. It didn’t seem to be from any wounds, and you found yourself relieved, even if you couldn’t begin to explain where it came from.

Law was grinning, all teeth, a manic gash across his face. “I did it. A success, right here in your apartment. You must be my lucky charm.” He patted your head.

“Did what?” You peered around him.

“I’ll show you.” He paused before stepping to the side. “I did it for you, you know? I know how fond you were of it.”

There was something on your coffee table. It twitched and convulsed, mouth open in a soundless scream as its eyes bulged out of its sockets. Blood pooled around it, dripping onto the carpet. It took a second for you to recognize it through the pulsing viscera. He hadn’t been so cut up before. Instead, he had been so whole, you could have mistaken him for being asleep if it wasn’t for the glassiness in his eyes. Beside him was an empty syringe and a container of glowing green fluid.

“My cat,” You choked out. “What did you do to him?”

Law wrapped an arm around you and held you to his chest. “I brought it back for you.” He glanced at the bloody mass, a frown tugging at his lips. “There are still some kinks to work out, but this was a good test of my reagent.” Expectant, Law glanced at you. “But, I need more trials.”

“He was dead,” Your tone was flat, and your body was numb. When you looked away, Law grabbed your chin and forced you to look at the thing pulsating on your coffee table.

“Look at it. I defeated death tonight. I did what every doctor has dreamed of doing for millenia, and the first steps to realizing this were done in your apartment. You should be honored.”

“Why did you do this?”

“Because I wanted to share something extraordinary with you.” He must have seen you were unconvinced because he sighed, the motion rattling your body, still pressed against him. “I need an assistant, and you are my best option. You're respected and well-liked by your professors, they would let you get away with murder as long as you turned that sweet smile in their direction.” Law leaned down until his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. “You can get me into the morgue, Y/N-ya.”

This was wrong, you knew it deep down in your heart, but with Law so close to you, the smell of antiseptic and blood clogging your senses, you could hardly think. Once the project was over, Law would never give you the time of day again. He wasn’t the type of man who had friends. Colleagues, maybe, but not friends. If you agreed to be a part of his sick experiments, you wouldn’t have to leave him. Law would be stuck with you, bonded together by this secret. If you were his assistant, you could have him forever.

“Okay,” You said, still somewhat hollow. A tear slipped down your cheek when you pointed to your cat. “Just kill him. Put him out of his misery, I can’t stand to see him like this.”

“If that’s what you want.”

Without hesitation, Law stepped around you, scalpel in hand, and plunged it into your cat's skull. The twitching stopped. His body went slack, limp against the coffee table.

Law stood back and gave you a reassuring smile. “There. All better now.”

For a second, you let yourself believe him.

[streetkid-named-desire]

Writer's of Night City Tumblr Community!

What started as a Discord server to unite Cyberpunk 2077 fanfic writers, is now also a Tumblr community!

This was created because the Cyberpunk 2077 is such a visual fandom. But, wherever you find visual art, you also find writers. Albeit, in smaller numbers...

Sometimes it can be demoralizing wanting so badly for your work to be seen and you try so hard to remember, "It's a small subset of the fandom, numbers don't matter." And thus, this server and community was born.

As of right now, you cannot use side blogs with Communities. If you have questions or concerns, you can ask or DM @streetkid-named-desire which is my Cyberpunk 2077 side blog.

If you are interested in joining the Discord server as well, DM me!

Reply to this post or DM me if you want an invite!

Rules of this Community

These are the same rules as the server. And, just like the server, I will screen people that ask to join this community to keep Zwei, her sycophants, and other known predators and their enablers.

I am not shy about that, no. I explicitly do what I need to protect the members of the server and this community. If you take issue with that, make your own!

With that being said:

By joining this community, you agree to follow these rules which are subject to change or moderation at my discretion as needed, and agree to any moderation actions that may need to be made for violation of these rules up to and including removing the post or removing you from the community.

No bigotry: Full stop. Zero tolerance policy for any kind of bigotry.

Be nice: You are expected to not start drama in here or be shitty about other people in the community. If you are shitty to people in this community when outside the community and I find out, I will remove you from this community. No shit-stirring allowed.

Constructive crit only when someone asks: As this is an already small subset of the fandom, be nice. Don't like, don't read, etc. If you are looking for constructive criticism, please mention it somewhere in your post!

Keep politics to a minimum: art is political, cyberpunk as a genre is political, but politics are also inescapable, especially when you're of a marginalized identity. Keep it in context e.g. if your work features politics, you want to discuss meaning, etc. We're not here to debate economics, democrats vs republicans, current wars, etc. There are a million other activist spaces and this is not one.

For content warnings: Use common sense and decency. My own work features sexual assault and the genre is filled with sex, drugs and violence. Use common sense: Sexual assault, incest, domestic violence, violence/death against kids, etc.

No AI (defined as art or writing created entirely by a large language model. If all you did was type in a prompt to get the bulk of what "you" wrote? We don't want it.) No exceptions (unless you genuinely couldn't tell it was AI).

Respect established romantic orientations of characters: e.g. Kerry and Johnny being bisexual, Judy being a lesbian. Side-characters or characters where it may be much more fuzzy are okay. Do not argue about this. If you want to argue, take it to your own blog.

Unless this Community grows to become unmanageable, I am the divine ruler of this community. I am too old and have too much to do to worry about internet drama. That doesn't mean I don't care about making this space nice, it means that I prioritize what I want this space to be.

Content Guidelines

As this is a community for fanfiction writers, your posts should be centered around writing. They can include multimedia such as VP, but generally should be around writing.

OC development is also welcome and encouraged. However, that does not includes aesthetic development. We're not gonna discuss mods or review whether this hair color or another looks better. This would be about OC backstories, plans in your fics or AUs, etc.

OK to post:

Original work only: You can reblog into communities, however, it should only be used to reblog your own posts. We want to support each other and that means sharing our own work.

Links to resources: Do not reblog a random post written by some random Tumblr user about grammar rules or what tropes to avoid etc. Quality resources from other places on the internet. *Note: Reblogs from authors, publishers, or other writing app blogs are okay. e.g. Neil Gaiman, Novlr, OTW, etc.

Brainstorms, requests for feedback, etc. If you need to throw shit at a wall and see what sticks, this is the place!

Discussions of lore as it relates to writing: for example, how certain cyberware might be written or changed, fanon, etc.

Gripes about the writing process, personal struggles with writer's block, etc. (Though, try to balance it out with sharing your work/positive posts too!)

Links to templates, lists of prompts (preference given to Cyberpunk 2077 and science fiction prompts), or other creative resources.

Introductions of your OCs: You can share photos, but make sure to actually tell us about them!

Photostories: Use discretion. If it's significant and meaningful, if it has multiple parts, if it is related to your fics or OC development (such as illustrating backstory). It should include captions for dialogue or text explaining/telling the story.

Art/commissioned artwork if it relates to your fanfic or OC development. e.g. if you had a specific scene illustrated or want to write about the symbolism or other details about the artwork.

Your own commission posts: Please tag these as #open for commission and only post once a week if you wish to regularly promote it. Only tag the first post. This is not only to make sure we can easily find the post, but so we also give others fair chances to have their own posts seen.

Not OK to post

Virtual photography not related to introducing an OC, photostories, or fic illustrations. @fereldanwench runs a Cyberpunk 2077 Virtual Photography community I recommend checking out if you want another place to share your VP! You can DM her for an invite or more info.

Ask games unrelated to OC development or fanfic writing. Please tag these with #oc ask game, and check the tag to see if it has already been posted.

Writing unrelated to Cyberpunk 2077: Outside of sharing links to your AO3, this place is focused on Cyberpunk 2077 fanfic. Links to AUs with the same character are okay, within reason. For example, if your same OCs are in a Baldur's Gate AU, you can post the link to the main fic. Please do not post a link to every chapter.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

CM Valentine's Day Fic Recs

Hey friends! I'm back with another Rec List of Fics revolving around Valentine's Day! As always, big thanks to my friends and @dreatine in particular for your recommendations!

If you write/already have a fic about Valentine's Day please let me know and I’ll add it here! Any and all (legal) pairings/ships allowed.

S.R./Fem!Reader NSFW

Saint Valentine by @imagining-in-the-margins: Spencer spends Valentine’s Day with Reader.

Of Lace and Love by @squiggledrop: It is Valentine’s Day, and Spencer has a romantic night planned for Reader, but she has other plans in mind.

A Hallmark Affair by @andiebeaword: For two years, Reader flirts with and buys presents for her crush. Little does she know a single card is what’ll make him snap.

Dr. Reid’s Lonely Hearts Club by @beelmons: [PolyAm, Spencer/Reader/Hotch] When everyone gets the evening off, only three people remain in the office, the lonely hearts come together to not feel so alone on the most romantic day of the year.

S.R./Fem!Reader (SFW)

Maddening One, My Goddess by @imagining-in-the-margins: Spencer hooked up with a goddess on February 13 and almost immediately comes to regret it when he attends a pre-planned Valentine's Day blind date.

Got a Crush On You by @andiebeaword: Spencer is dating again. Reader sabotages every one.

Love Notes & Lipstick Kisses by @andiebeaword: Spencer hated Valentine’s Day. Reader decided she wanted to make this one special for him.

The Not Valentine's Date by @kingdom-by-the-sea: Mutual pining, an office bet, and baby sitting make for an interesting Valentine’s Day between Spencer and Hotch’s daughter.

My Sweet Valentine by @samuel-de-champagne-problems: Spencer finds himself thinking about his firsts…and the one he has yet to accomplish.

One Love Token by @judeswhore: Spencer is more than happy about his not-so-innocent valentine’s day gift.

Closing Time by @radiant-reid: Spencer hasn't ever thought about how to tell you he likes you until he has a little too much to drink on Valentine's Day

Keep reading for other Characters/Pairings!

The Hunt of Love by @90spumkin: Spencer sends Reader on a scavenger hunt for her to find the ultimate Valentine’s Day gift.

A Galaxy of Love by @90spumkin: It’s Spencer and Reader’s first Valentin’s Day together.

Happy Valentine's Day by @speed-reiding: In which Spencer gives Reader a letter.

One Hell of a Valentine's Day by @moeyy-writes: In which Spencer and Reader discuss Valentine's plans on the jet.

Beautiful by @spencerreidsmiles: In which Spencer makes Reader feel beautiful.

First Official Valentine's by @babymetaldoll: Spencer has no idea what to do for Valentine’s Day. After all, he has never had a girlfriend before.

That Wasn't For You by @wheelsup: Spencer receives a Valentine that Reader intended to give to someone else.

No Plans by @wheelsup: Reader has no plans for Valentine’s Day, so she hangs out with Spencer instead. An accidental date ensues.

Paper Rings by @reidyoulikeabook: Drunken Valentine's Day with Spencer at a kid's party.

Emily Prentiss/Fem!Reader (SFW)

Daffodils by @urwarriorangel: In which Emily gives Reader flowers.

With a Turn of Phrase by @sweetmidnight: Emily was Reader's high school sweethearts but the two had to part after graduation. Until now.

Candy Hearts by @girlswholikehotolderwomen: In which Emily spends the second Valentine's Day with her girlfriend.

Aaron Hotchner/Fem!Reader

The Love Profile by @reidscanehand: (SFW, Series) Everyone in the BAU knows that Reader and Hotch are meant for each other, but they're at a loss at how to get the two together.

Be Mine by @ssahotchswife: (NSFW) A misunderstanding after a Christmas party hookup leads to heartbreak. A Valentine’s miracle may be necessary.

Valentine's Day by @hotchs-bitch: (SFW) Reader's second Valentine's celebration with Hotch.

Character/Character Pairings (SFW)

A Year in the Life: February by @gaelic-symphony: [Temily] A vignette from the married life of Tara and Emily.

Be Mine by @masterwords: [Hotchgan] Hotch is a sucker for Valentine's Day. He's' also got it bad for Derek.

A Valentine's Surprise by @justiceforralvez: [Ralvez] Spencer surprises Luke with (an attempt at) a romantic evening.

[imfluentinfangirlandgay]

A Father's Resolve - Ch 10

Ingo returns after a decade - with two extra cars in tow. Years later, his kids are swallowed up by time in the same way he was. Will he be able to find them? Will they be able to make it out alive?

Word Count ~3400

hope yall missed me cuz im back on my bullshit. i already have 14 more chapters written of this garbage and youre gonna like it cuz im not even halfway done with the fic as a whole yet

“Hmmm…” Rei sat with his sister in Laventon’s office as he hummed to himself. They had told him about Kleavor, and he had been deep in thought ever since. They had taken out their pokedexes to work on them, Rei drawing in the margins of his dex and Akari filling out the words of hers, as she insisted that he was the better artist of the two. He was currently doodling the little Budew that sat on the table in front of him, drawing a diagram of how its top buds opened and closed on command. The lone Rowlet also observed them closely, occasionally turning its small head one way or another as they sat in silence. It had even begun to drift off, a small bubble forming in its nostril as it breathed, its wings tucked into itself. 

“EUREKA!” Rei and Akari jumped in their chairs so hard, they smacked their knees together painfully. Budew screamed, letting off a Razor Leaf on accident, giving Rei some painful cuts. Rowlet let out terrified “HOO?” as it fell backwards on the branch and flailed, its feet snagged on the wood but unable to right itself. Akari hopped up and grabbed the poor thing, helping it down and placing it back into the tree. Its feathers were a bit unruly now as it blinked and glanced around wildly.

“We’ll simply have to throw the food!” Laventon shouted. Rowlet shot him a dirty glance at the ludicrousy of that statement. Rei rubbed his arm where small bubbles of blood were welling up from the sharp leaves. Budew sat down, tears in its eyes, as it looked at him apologetically. He rubbed its little buds. It was an accident. “You’ve quite the arm for throwing things, haven’t you both? Might I suggest taking Kleavor’s favorite foods and throwing them at him?”

“How would that help?” Akari asked from her spot by Rowlet. In an attempt to placate the upset bird, she had snagged a couple berries from its food dish and offered one to it. It had accepted the bribe. For now.

“By taking the foods Kleavor loves and wrapping them up into little balls, we can achieve the same calming affect - but from afar! A genius idea, if I do say so myself. We could call them Teatime Balls!”

“Why not Laventon Balls? You came up with the idea.” Rowlet had settled on Akari’s arm now and she brought it over to the table. It continued to munch on a Persim as she stroked its feathers. 

“I worry that’d make it sound like I was the projectile being thrown…” Laventon trailed off. “In any case, we can trust that the Pearl Clan will gather the necessary foodstuffs, yes?” The twins both nodded. “Then you should head back to the Grandtree Arena to let them know our plan! It would be best to set off from the Heights Camp- oh, Rei, my dear boy, wherever did those scratches come from?” 

—

The twins crested the ridge that separated the Heights Camp from the rest of the Fieldlands. Rei was surprised to find some people waiting there for them. 

“Wyeeeer!” 

“Rei! Akari!” Adaman smirked at them from his position beside the Noble. Mai stood just a couple paces away from him. The twins scampered over to see what he needed. “I’ve been telling Wyrdeer all about what you two have been doing for Kleavor, like how you’ve been traveling all across the fieldlands to help him. All for someone not even from the Pearl Clan or our clan.” He grinned at the majestic white deer pokemon. “And you can see how he responded!”

“I trust you appreciate it,” Mai added. 

“He’s found you worthy, you see. You’ll need a flute like we have. Mai, mind demonstrating?” 

Mai nodded. She brought a silver instrument to her lips and played a series of seven notes. The musical tones reverberated around the clearing, loud and crisp. Wyrdeer huffed loudly in response to the notes she played, tossing his massive head.

“That’s a Celestica Flute,” Adaman explained, “an instrument that can be used to call upon pokemon like the mighty Wyrdeer. It is said that the flutes are gifts from almighty Sinnoh itself… and now, we’d like you both to have these. Do not lose them,” he added with a sly grin. At their bewildered looks, he shrugged. “It’s not that grand a gesture, really. I can’t play the flute for the life of me.Try to replicate that melody.” 

Akari met eyes with Rei. He played the tune first, the lilting timbre of the flute eerie and somehow, it seemed that the notes could be heard all around Hisui. Akari played them next, each sounding exactly the same as the one Mai played. Wyrdeer huffed and strode forward. They both lowered their flutes in confusion as he bowed his head and shook his horns, allowing something to fall from his mighty beard. A small brick-like object fell directly into Rei’s hand. It was a deep fuschia. He had no idea what it was. 

“I- uh… Thank you, Lord Wyrdeer.” It was probably best to be polite. 

“Use that flute wisely and gallop across the land with the great Wyrdeer!” Adaman announced proudly. Wyrdeer tossed his head and huffed again. 

“We can ride him?” Akari asked incredulously. 

“He deemed you worthy of it,” Mai clarified. “He will allow you to ride his back.” 

Akari grinned at her brother. “I call the front.” 

—----

Wyrdeer thundered down the path, its hooves tossing aside leaves and smashing through twigs and tearing up clumps of mud and grass as it wove its way up the hillside to the arena. It was all poor Rei could do to hold on and try his absolute best not to be thrown off the back of the massive beast. He bounced up and down uselessly, holding on to the saddle for dear life. The trees passed by in a blur, along with smaller pokemon on the ground. The Lord was careful never to run any of them over, resorting to leaping over any pokemon in his path. 

Just as suddenly as they started, Wyrdeer skidded to a halt. Rei had to wait for the world to stop spinning before sliding off the pokemon’s back, his legs wobbling. He waddled his way over to Lian as Wyrdeer’s footsteps pounded away behind them. “...throwing them at him,” Akari was saying. 

“You want us to ball up his favorite foods so we can THROW them at him? That’s quite an unorthodox approach…” Lian scratched his chin. “Though I must admit, you Galaxy folk are quite inventive. Let us not waste any time! Let us begin!”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lian! We still need to prepare!” Irida came up the path to join them all at the offering table. “I have his favorite Plump Beans, but I still worry about having someone outside the clan do this. They do not follow our customs and values…” She knitted her brows, taking on a fighting stance. “I must ensure you are worthy of the Lord. Battle me! One of you! Battle me and let me test your worthiness! You may order about the pokemon in those silly balls, but I have with me a pokemon as close as a sister!” At her shout, a Glaceon tumbled down the path where she had been and let out a battle cry. 

Rei could feel his blood beginning to stir. Honestly, the more Irida complained about pokeballs and assumed that the relationship with his pokemon was strictly a boss-and-slave type of work, he grew more and more frustrated with her. He stepped forward. He tossed a ball in the air. If he had to show her that pokeballs weren’t shackles for his beloved partners, then he would show her the old-fashioned way. 

“Campfire.” His voice was calm. Too calm. “Quick Attack, Agile Style. Then Ember.” The little Cyndaquil hadn’t even hit the ground before it shot off like a rocket, careening into the side of the icy opponent. Glaceon tried to fire off a Swift, the stars readying themselves by its side, but they never even had the chance to be released. Campfire spit out a red-hot coal that buried itself into the ice-type’s fur, hitting it so hard, it careened into a bush and quivered as it fainted. A critical hit. Campfire huffed as it turned back to Rei. 

Rei blinked. He needed to calm himself. It really wasn’t that serious. He took a breath and knelt down to pet the excited little pokemon. “Good job, buddy! You did so well-” He stopped as a glow enveloped the tiny blue ‘mon. He gasped, backing up to allow it space. An ethereal, primal power emanated from Campfire’s body, swirling in a blinding flurry of activity until it just as suddenly exploded out, rushing past all the humans. And there stood Campfire, a freshly-made Quilava. “C-Campfire! You evolved!” Campfire took inventory of itself, looking at its much more elongated body. Its eyes were much wider than they had been prior to evolution, the irises a vibrant red. Fire now came from a mohawk on its head, as well as in a ring around its behind. It blinked a few times. 

“Qui…?” 

“Campfire evolved?!” Akari rushed forward, standing with her hands on her knees as she watched the fire starter. It ran towards its trainer as Rei squealed and hugged it close. “Now you and Riptide match! Look at you both!” Akari released her own starter, the blue fur of the water pokemon almost matching the fire-type. They investigated each other. Quilava sniffed at Dewott. Dewott showed it its two shells on its hips. Quilava burst into flame and tried to stand on its hind legs. 

Rei patted his starter’s head again as he stood, recalling the pokemon. They would have a proper celebration later. Akari recalled hers as well, clipping the ball safely to her belt. 

“I see now…” Irida murmured. “The balls are simply tools of choice, not products of disregard for your pokemon…” She looked up at the two. “You still treat the pokemon you catch as partners. I feel better putting some trust in you now. Allow me to heal our pokemon’s wounds. As I do, tell me the Galaxy Team’s plan.” 

Akari explained what Laventon had devised as Irida healed up Rei’s pokemon with poultices and berry mashes. She nodded along to the explanation. “So you have developed balms to throw at Kleavor to calm him, I see…” She stood up after everyone was revived, including her Glaceon, which now was curiously sniffing at Campfire. Her eyes were lit with a rejuvenated fire. “Very well. If it is to help Kleavor, we will make these balms with our very hearts and souls!” 

—------------

Emmet put away the last of the groceries and sighed to himself. He grabbed all the cloth bags used for grocery runs and placed them on their hook by the door so as not to be forgotten. Ever since he'd come home, he'd heard not a peep from his brother. He was half-convinced Ingo wasn't even aware he'd come home. 

To say he was worried was an understatement. 

Emmet peeked into the bedroom. There sat Ingo, books piled up around him as he combed them meticulously. A page flipped.  Ingo’s thinning hairline seemed to be thinning faster than Emmet's in the last month from the amount of times Ingo ran his hand through his hair, as though the goal was to rip it right off. Emmet could hear a foot tapping away. 

He hesitated before leaving. He should pull Ingo away from his studies, but to be honest… He wanted a minute to himself. Granted, he got many of those lately, but just a minute he needed to not argue with the brick wall that was sitting in his desk. 

He flopped onto the couch with a deep sigh. His arms rested at his sides as be stared at the ceiling. His mind could not seem to slow down. More often than not, he was throwing out food as of late, because he could not eat the food for two he bought. Someone needed to be working to pay their bills and quite honestly, it was exhausting for him to bring Ingo to work because he practically had to babysit him. Ingo would space out on the tracks and was not able to battle properly. 

Emmet ran a hand over his face. He knew, he knew, it was not fair for him to be so harsh on his brother. He'd been in that place before. Even thinking about it sent a wave of guilt over him, for the millionth time. But it was so damn exhausting. Having to be the sane one was usually not his forte. 

“Drill?” Emmet peeked through his fingers. Ingo's Excadrill stood in the doorway. It's drill hands were threaded into each other as it glanced up at him awkwardly. 

“I'm alright, Excadrill.” Emmet sat up straighter. “What do you need?” The pokemon gestured to him and pointed down the hall. Emmet stood and followed the ground pokemon as it led him away from the couch. 

He was dimly surprised to come to a stop in front of the spare bedroom. “In here?” 

“Excaaaa.” The mole nodded at him and stood back to let him into the room. What could be in here? Ingo was in the room back where they had come. Emmet opened the door and flicked on the light. 

On the bed, in a makeshift nest of blankets, laid his beloved Butternut. All her legs were curled underneath her, her pedipalps tucked against her chin as she investigated the scene before her. Emmet smelled a thick scent of wet electricity. He sprinted to the bed, skidding down on his knees. His eyes were wide with excitement as he took in the objects of interest. 

Thirteen yellow orbs with blue speckling sat in a blanket. If one looked hard, some of them were beginning to shake imperceptibly. Emmet listened hard for the tell-tale scritch scritch scritch from the inside of the shell. Yes! They were there! 

The pair waited alone with bated breath, watching the eggs like Staraptor. One of them began wiggling more than the others, knocking aside other eggs as it rolled out of the blanket. It nearly fell to the floor, making Galvantula give a strained “VAN-”, but Emmet caught it with ease. 

He went to place it back as the shell cracked in his hand. A small blue foot stuck out of the shell. More scratching emerged from the egg as the occupant struggled around inside. Another leg erupted from a different spot. 

Finally, the legs retracted and a small head burst from the shell, shattering it to pieces. A soggy little spider was left in his palm, wobbling as it took in its surroundings. Galvantula clicked her mandibles, prompting Emmet to move the infant closer to her. She rubbed over it with her pedipalps, working on drying off the little creature. Emmet plucked a towel from the floor and rubbed it off the rest of the way, making its fur downy soft. Then he placed the baby onto its mother's back, where it burrowed its way down and settled in, blinking around with large blue eyes. 

They continued on with eleven other eggs. One would begin to hatch, it would fully emerge, Galvantula and/or Emmet would dry it off, and the little Joltik would be brought to sit upon her abdomen. 

Finally they were left with one egg left. Scratching noises were still coming from it, though Emmet had noted them growing weaker and weaker over time. He worried for the Joltik within. They waited for the last egg to hatch for several minutes. Emmet bit his lip. 

The scratching stopped. 

Emmet plucked the egg out immediately, standing and rubbing his socks against the carpet. Galvantula squealed in surprise and concern at him. He worked up some static for a moment and then laid the egg directly against the carpet, eliciting a loud shock. And then they waited again. 

A crack appeared in the shell. Emmet scurried back to the bed and propped up the egg again, murmuring, “Come on, little one. You can do it.” A little leg appeared, quickly followed by a second, a third, a fourth. They flailed around wildly, trying to get some purchase on something. Emmet set the egg down as the baby scuttled blindly into his chest, the shell shattering as it splatted to the blanket. It blinked up at him. He gasped. 

Its eyes were a bright purple instead of blue. Its fur, upon closer inspection, was a greener shade of yellow than the others. Emmet grinned and shouted in excitement, scooping the baby into his hands. A shiny! He'd never actually seen one before! 

Galvantula waved her frontmost limbs at him. He wiped the baby dry and went to set it on her back with its siblings as the door creaked open. 

“Emmet? What was that?” Ingo was peeking into the room, trying to find the source of the shout. 

Emmet gently took the baby, getting permission from Galvantula. He strode to his brother, the newly hatched infant in his palms. “After almost two full decades of breeding Joltik, we have had a truly special one hatch. Behold, a shiny!” He held the little one up to his brother’s face for him to see. The small spider could still hardly stand, it was so fresh. It blinked up at Ingo with large eyes. 

Ingo cocked his head as he examined it. “Ah! That is rather exciting.” Emmet could swear that a ghost of a smile danced on Ingo's features. 

“Indeed!” Emmet quickly returned the infant to its mother before shooing his brother and his lamp from the room - Chandelure had come in to see what was going on. She bobbed at Galvantula from a distance, likely offering congrats, but left quickly. Emmet shut off the light as he left her with her newest brood. Every pokemon in the house knew that a new clutch meant that Butternut would prefer to be alone for at least a week or so to bond with the babies and keep them safe. Only Emmet was allowed into the room to care for her and the babies. 

“I did not know that she had laid eggs,” Ingo confessed. His voice cracked from disuse. Emmet did not mention it. 

“She laid nearly six weeks ago. They were due to hatch any day now,” Emmet grinned. “I was beginning to get worried they might not come. Usually they hatch closer to five weeks.” 

Ingo hummed, but said nothing else. He followed Emmet around the house for a bit, deciding to dwell in the kitchen and grab a snack. “I didn’t see the food…”

“I just got home from the store an hour ago. I do not believe I forgot anything.” Emmet noticed Ingo staring longer than usual into the fridge. “Is something missing?” 

“What?” Ingo blinked and shook himself out of whatever he was thinking about. “Oh no, nothing like that. I… how long have I been in there?” 

“At seven hours, give or take,” Emmet admitted. “I tried to bring you out for a break, but I do not think you heard me.” 

Ingo said nothing as he closed the fridge. He instead watched what Emmet was doing - putting away dishes from his solitary breakfast that morning. He busied himself with wiping down counters and the stove, starting the dishwasher, tidying the silverware drawer… but Ingo was still staring. “What’s wrong?” Emmet asked finally. 

“Do you need help?” Ingo returned after a minute. 

“If you want to.” Emmet shrugged. “You could help in the living room. We haven’t dusted in ages.” 

Ingo nodded and grabbed the cleaning spray and a rag from under the sink and shuffled into the living room. Emmet had no idea what he was on about but if he was offering, Emmet would by no means turn him down. 

Emmet began the laundry, swept the kitchen, and even pulled out the vacuum before checking on his twin. The entire room was spotless, top to almost-bottom, as Ingo was finishing up the last shelf. His brother wordlessly grabbed the vacuum from Emmet and began to run it under the couch. Emmet stood and openly stared at Ingo as he did so, gears slowly turning in his head, but approaching no conclusion. 

[First] - [Previous] - [Next]

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes.

ATLA

Perfection is Overrated by JaggedCliffs (+ podfic) (NOTE: I've recced this fic before and I'll rec it again. When I die, I want to be buried with this fic)

For his first thirteen years, Zuko was raised in a palace. And yet somehow, it's the three years outside the Fire Nation that seem to count more – at least to the palace staff, who act like he's been raised by fox-wolves.

At first, this only annoys Zuko.

Until he begins to think that the Fire Nation needs more than a formerly-banished prince.

a brush of fingers, a kick of shins by lesmiserablol (+ podfic)

"Okay, I’ve been thinking all day, and here’s my idea,” Toph tells Zuko on their way to dinner. “You’re so sure he’s not into you, so I’m going to help you out and give you a gentle nudge every time he flirts so that you notice it.”

“Okay,” Zuko says slowly. He doubts it will be necessary, he and Sokka have been best friends for over five years now and that is probably all that Sokka thinks of him as. A good friend. “I don’t know if it’ll come up, but if it does...just don’t make it obvious, yeah?”

“Don’t worry, I have a plan,” Toph smiles. Zuko knows her fairly well, he knows he should be worried at that, but he just follows her into the dining hall.

Stranger Things

who wants to live forever? by starbeyy

In which Steve Harrington has two nightmares: The one he has about the fire at the Starcourt Mall every time he falls asleep, and the one where Eddie Munson visits him at Family Video to ask him for a favor.

shape it up (get it straight) by fivecenturiesverse (+ podfic)

Mike doesn't know when he started caring why Steve and Eddie are friends now, but Dustin has made him curious. Eddie and Steve were enemies before, sort of. So why are they now best friends? They've just got to do a bit of surveillance to work this puzzle out. If Mike accidentally finds out he has feelings for his best friend along the way then... well, shit.

-

“At least I’m not using binoculars.” Mike shoots a derisive look over at Dustin. “Like we’re not in the middle of the high street, if they spot us how are you going to explain away those, huh?”

“Bird watching,” says Dustin. “My new hobby.”

Lucas punches him on the arm. “God you’re so fucking stupid.”

“You gave them to me!”

Shadowhunters

Portable Magic by smilebackwards

Magnus may go slightly overboard helping Alec set up for the book club gathering.

Technically, perhaps, he didn’t need to create a signature cocktail or barter a favor to Raphael for O neg blood for the vampires or source the biscotti directly from Italy. But hospitality is important and these are Alec’s friends. He wants to make a good impression.

Or: Alec is in a Downworld book club and Magnus finds this unaccountably fascinating.

count the ways by smilebackwards

"I know the nephilim have some truly skewed perspectives on our history and culture but have you ever seen anything like this before?” Magnus holds out the book, open to Warlock Courting Traditions. The text only takes up half a page, a mystifying run-on list of odd and impossible tasks. It’s formatted almost like poetry and his dear, pedantic Alexander has turned it into a checklist, penciled lightly down the margin.

Ragnor snorts into his tea.

“Oh,” Catarina says, looking at the book. “That."

In somno veritas (In sleep lies the truth) by lawsofchaos (+podfic)

Jace blinks, peering at the loft in vague stupefaction. “This,” and Alec’s parabatai’s voice sounds like he’s dragging each noise out from his exhausted mind and forcing it out before he can forget what word he just discovered. “Isn’t the Institute?” The final phrase comes out as a question.

Alec tilts his head in puzzlement, glancing at his brother as if wondering how he could possibly consider that Alec had taken them there instead of here. “No?”

Alec’s head moves back to level and he narrows his eyes instead. “We said we were going home after patrol.”

The ‘ergo, we are home now’ wasn’t said, but it was obvious in implication.

bloom by smilebackwards

Alec loves watching Izzy get flowers but he thinks he would have liked, just once, to know what it felt like for someone to send him something so bright and sweet, frivolous, just because they cared.

[daddydindjarin]

The Long and Winding Road

Part One: The Proposal

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader (no physical description of the Reader given) Rating: 18+ Mature Wordcount: 1371 Summary: You’ve made plans to road trip across America, but you need someone to drive you. Enter Frankie Morales.  Warnings: None A/N: So, I’m going to actually TRY to put out a multi chapter fic, since this isn’t leaving my brain, and inspired me enough to actually write. We’ll see what happens. Literally written in two hours, and un-beta’d. Lemme know if you see any glaring errors!  Dividers by @firefly-graphics!

Masterlist | Next→

The plastic taste of the pen cap that you were chewing on was just bitter enough to remind you of the task at hand. Glancing up to check to see if any new faces had appeared in the coffee shop, you could feel the tension rippling across your shoulders as you looked back down to the black journal in front of you.

He probably wouldn’t show. Not that you could blame him if that was the case, the whole idea was crazy, and you were more than likely just as looney for being the mastermind behind it. When you told your co-worker and the closest thing to a friend you could claim, Alyssa, about your plan to spend the next few months travelling the United States, she was skeptical and concerned. You had lived in Tampa your entire life, and while you had often dreamed of travelling, work and life kept getting in the way.

For 30 years.

You had finally decided that it was time. You had no surviving family save an ancient great-aunt whom you had never met, that sent a Christmas card out of an old school sense of sentimentality, but more likely because when your grandmother died, she left you her house and small fortune, and Aunt Matilda had been sending cards to that address for 60 years, so why stop just because her sister was dead? You had enough in savings to quit your job and still be comfortable for a few months- longer if you made smart choices, and nothing keeping you here except for common sense and the knowledge that it was a safe option.

But, you reminded yourself, scratching a quick figure in the margins of the journal while you tallied the price of gas, safe options hadn’t really worked in your favor, or you would be making this trip with friends, or family or at least a boyfriend, instead of waiting for the stranger Alyssa had recommended to you after you told her your plan.

“He’s kind of rough around the edges, but he was in the military with Benny,” she had told you in the break room while you stirred a vitamin powder into your tea, mentioning her long-time boyfriend. “He’s a pilot, fly’s helicopters.”

You had been quick to reply, not quite believing the possible luck you may have just fallen into. “And you think he’ll just be able to a few months off to chauffer me around the country? Doesn’t he have a family or something?”

Alyssa raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Are you really one to talk?”

Flushing, you waved a hand for her to continue.

“He’s divorced, and he’s got a kid- but she lives with his ex-wife in Miami,” Alyssa cocked her head to the side, thinking. “He told Benny they were going to Chile to visit with family for a few months, so now is a perfect time for him to be free. For the right price, that is.”

You had told her not to worry about that, you’d compensate him fairly, and asked her to help you set up the meeting. The next day, she gave you a date and time to meet him at this little coffee shop, and here you were, waiting rather impatiently, though you refused to show it.

The bell on the door rang, and you looked up again, trying not to get your hopes up, mostly convinced he had changed his mind. To your shock, the man from the picture Alyssa had showed you of “Catfish” stood in the doorway, looking around for you too. You raised your hand to get his attention, and catching sight of you, he quickly made his way to your little table with long strides. As he approached, you studied him, realizing his picture did not do him justice. Tan skin, a square jaw peppered with short facial hair that stubbornly refused to grow all the way in, a full set of lips and a strong hooked nose sat below deep brown eyes framed by long lashes and laugh lines. He was incredibly handsome; you’d have to be blind not to see that. He was then standing in front of you, watching you closely before extending his hand. You grasped it firmly, pleased with how warm his large hand was as it almost completely enveloped your own.

“Hello,” he said, his voice deep and pleasant, “Frankie.”

“Hello,” you responded, gingerly taking your hand back and gesturing to the seat across from you as you told him your name. “Please, sit. Do you want a coffee or anything?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” He sat heavily, still watching you with those dark eyes. “So, Alyssa told Benny that you needed help with a job?”

You barked out a laugh, shaking your head. “I mean, technically yes, if you want to put it that way. But you make it sound like I’m trying to take a hit out on someone. It’s nothing like that.”

Frankie chuckled, leaning back in the chair, and crossing his arms across his chest. “Alright, so what do you need me to do?” he asked, his eyes never leaving your form.

Taking a deep breath, you clasped your hands together under the table, wringing your fingers as the nerves built up. “I want to spend the next few months travelling across the country, mostly sight-seeing, and I need someone to drive me.”

His eyebrows raised high on his forehead, almost disappearing into his hair, a look of skepticism crossing his face. “You want me,” he said slowly, as if he was processing your statement even as he spoke, “to drive you around the country?”

You nodded, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the table. “I’d pay for everything. We’d use my Jeep, and I’ll pay you for your time, as well as food and board. There are a few “musts” on my list, but the only real requirement is that we’re in New York by Christmas.”

“That’s…” he stopped himself before he said anything else, clearly deciding against pointing out that it was only September now. “You wouldn’t really need three months to travel the states. Few weeks would work just fine.”

You shook your head. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and it’s a lot of time, but I want to take my time doing this, and really enjoy it.”

He frowned, rubbing his chin, and studying you. “Why so sudden? Got family or something you’re meeting in New York?”

You waved a hand, dismissing his questions. “No, it’s nothing like that. Just something I want to do, and have wanted to do for a while. The ‘why's’ aren’t really that important.”

He sighed, but didn’t press you further, shaking his head, and you could feel the rejection coming, panic rising in your chest. “I don’t thi- “

“I’ll pay you 30 thousand dollars.”

Silence spread between you; his face shocked. “Wha- “

“I know that this is crazy. I’ve been planning this for a month now, and if I’m going to do this, I want to be able to spend my time actually seeing the sights, and I need someone to drive me for that. I’ll give you $15,000 today, right now, if you agree to this, and the rest when we get to New York.” You could feel yourself speaking faster, almost begging him to agree to this crazy plan.

He was quiet for a long moment, and you were ready for him to decline again, but instead he spoke quietly, “Are you sure about this? That’s a lot of money, and I’m stranger. You don’t know me, but you’re wanting to spend three months in a car with me?”

You smiled brightly, nodding to him. “I’m positive. Sometimes you have to put your faith in strangers to make things work. Alyssa said that Benny trusts you, so I’ll trust you too.”

He blinked at you and then scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “This is completely insane. But if you’re sure, then let’s do it.”

It took everything in you not to squeal, excitement bursting from you. “Thank you, thank you, so much! Oh, my gosh, I can’t believe this!”

He chuckled at your rambling, tapping the table with two fingers. “So, Chiflado, when do we leave?”

Grinning back at him, you stood from the table, closing your journal, and placing it in your bag while pulling out a heavy manila folder and handed it to him. His eyes widened, looking at the $15,000 in cash you handed him so nonchalantly.

“Could you be ready in two days?”

----

Next→

[ralith]

Canvas

Ghost/Soap fic

Rated M for suggestive themes. Fluff, Body and scar worship. Edible body paint.

Soap has run out of journal space so Ghost gifts him his body to use as a canvas. He wants to see in himself the beauty that Soap envisions with each of his sketches.

Can also be found posted to my AO3.

“I hadn’t taken you for much of a reader,” Ghost had commented on the first day he moved in with Soap, bringing with him only a few boxes of personal belongings. Soap’s house off base was slightly smaller than his own had been, but it was so much brighter and warmer. More lived in. In the corner of Soap’s, no, their bedroom, was an overfilled bookshelf.

“They’re journals, not books. Well, there’re enough stories there to fill novels, but it’s mainly doodling. Little snippets of what’s on my mind at the time.”

Ghost was aware Soap enjoyed drawing on the nearest available paper, stealing napkins from his mates at the bar or scribbling in the margins of official paperwork much to Price’s irritation. But he had no idea it was to such an extent as to fill bookshelves.

“You’re free to look through them whenever. If you’d like.” Ghost had caught the slight blush on Soap’s cheeks. He was taken back at how easily Soap trusted him. First letting him into his life, his home, and now the inner workings of his mind. Ghost hadn’t allowed Johnny to so much as see him unclothed from the mask down, still uneasy at undressing in front of the sergeant, instead slipping away to the bathroom.

A nod was all Ghost could muster, and Soap smiled at him. “Not to brag, but I’m a pretty good artist.”

He was an exceptional artist as Ghost would learn. He had found himself spending hours flipping through those journals, admiring the sweeping lines and attention to detail. The journals looked like they went back to Soap’s basic training days through to the present. The newer journals were all about the 141, sketches of Price and Gaz, their latest missions, trips to the local bar which turned into late night karaoke sessions with Gaz belting out tunes to a riveted audience.

Then, Ghost noticed he quickly became the center of attention in the most recent collections. Side profiles, headshots, the mask, the mask, the mask…Soap was obsessed for a while there until just after the ordeal in Las Almas. And then his face was everywhere.

With a finger, Ghost had traced these images of himself. He marveled at how Soap had made him look so soft. In the mirror, all Ghost saw of himself was sharp edges and severe angles. He saw no gentleness in his scarred form. But Soap clearly saw him otherwise.

Soap had a preference of what kind of journal he used. These weren’t bargain bin notepads. Each journal Soap had bought while on leave, visiting a small artisan shop in town where each leatherbound journal was handmade. He would usually buy enough to hold him over until his next leave, whenever he estimated that may be.

But due to a scheduling error, Soap’s latest leave had been pushed back to an indeterminate time and his last journal was full. And it was frustrating the hell out of him. Soap was desperate for a relief to the mounting thoughts in his head. Bar and restaurant napkins were far from a sufficient replacement. Ghost didn’t want to see his Johnny in such a state.

So, he had set out to plan a mission. One that would benefit Soap’s creative output and where Ghost would force himself to be more open. The idea left him a bit shaky, but he wanted to do this. For them both.

--

Soap was freshly showered when he walked into the bedroom wearing only sweatpants. Ghost looked up from where he sat on their bed, eyes momentarily fixated on how the sweatpants clung to damp skin in all the right places.

“Like what you see?” Soap chuckled, the lieutenant’s gaze all too obvious. He bent down and nuzzled his cheek to Ghost’s in greeting. His skin was still warm and the stubble catching on Ghost’s mask created delicious friction between them.

“Always,” Ghost murmured. Soap placed a chaste kiss to his temple and sat across from him on the bed.

“What’ve you got there?” The sergeant nodded at a box that rested casually in Ghost’s lap.

Ghost contemplated the box. He had no idea how Soap would react. Would he think it’s stupid? Have a good laugh with Gaz later, telling him how ridiculous Simon Riley was to think of something like this? But Ghost was a man who followed through with each mission. He had planned this and would see it through to the end. He was a good soldier. And he wanted to be an even better lover, the softer man Soap envisioned in his art.

“A gift for you.”

“A gift?” Soap’s eyes lit up immediately, though it didn’t ease Ghost’s nerves any. The lieutenant was a man of few words and an unstoppable force of the battlefield, but Soap had come to know the tenderness Ghost was capable of, in his words and his touch. But a gift, this was a first in their relationship.

Soap took the offered box and balanced it on a knee. Inside were several jars of brightly colored liquid. He withdrew one and gave it a shake. It jiggled some, but that didn’t help identify the contents. Next, he gave it a quick whiff. Was that fruit?

“Lime?” Soap questioned, looking a little bemused.

“It’s body paint,” Ghost clarified. His voice came across a bit sheepish. “I made it. It’s…edible.”

“Edible body paint,” Soap repeated. Ghost could see the gears turning slowly in Soap’s mind. His next move helped to grease those gears.

Ghost began to tug his hoodie and undershirt over his head. He felt like he was peeling away so many layers of himself that had accumulated over the years.

“I noticed your last journal was full. Your art is an expression of your soul. It’s a part of you, a damn beautiful part of you. You miss sketching. And I miss your art.” Ghost tossed his clothing aside and laid back with his legs coming to rest on either side of the sergeant, hooking his heels just beneath Soap’s ass to coax him forward and atop him. Soap followed effortlessly. “I know painting isn’t your preferred medium, and this body isn’t high quality material. It’s been scorched and torn, stapled and taped back together repeatedly. But, if just for tonight, I hope this body can suffice as your canvas.”

Ghost watched Soap’s face, waiting for any minute shift in his features- a furrowing of the brow, a wrinkling of his nose in disgust, anything to tell the lieutenant that this was a bad idea. Behind the mask, his cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Fucking beautiful, Si,” Soap breathed and the tension in Ghost’s body bled away. The Scotsman raked his eyes slowly down Ghost’s chest, over his clavicle, the gentle swell of his breasts, the curve of each muscle that built the solid wall that was Ghost’s frame. Soap traced him deliberately with his eyes and Ghost could swear he felt his gaze as if it were a physical caress.

“You like it?” Ghost’s voice was uncharacteristically small.

“I love it.”

“I’m sorry there’s not much room to draw,” Ghost spoke, referencing the scars carved into his flesh, the agony inflicted on him by other’s hands. “These marks can’t be erased, no matter how hard I’ve tried.”

“Aye, some art is indelible. But sometimes art is about taking what you already have and redesigning it. Telling new stories with it.”

“There are…a lot of stories here.”

“Think of them more as individual words and write a new story. Sometimes it’s easiest to write from past experiences.”

Ghost had enough of his past experiences. Saw them written on his skin every day he looked in the mirror. Soap could make something new from them, something he could smile or laugh about instead of flinching away when he touched himself.

“Can you tell me some of your stories?”

Soap searched Ghost’s chest for a starting point and zeroed in on an old keloid scar along his ribs. He grabbed a jar of white paint and dipped a finger in before bringing it to his lips and licking a long, slow line up the digit, Ghost’s eyes wide. He pushed the digit past his lips down to the knuckle, sucking hard and loud.

“Coconut,” Soap hummed, his finger now nice and wet. He dipped it in the paint again and began to doodle along the scar like his little show hadn’t left Ghost breathing harder.

“When I was a kid, maybe nine or ten, my family went skiing.” Soap sketched the outline of a mountain range along the raised scar. “I was nervous as hell. I’d never been skiing, let alone up in the mountains. Well, I didn’t make it very far up the mountain. Broke my fucking leg first thing.”

“Did you hit a tree?”

“Nope!” Soap laughed. He capped the mountains with snow. “I couldn’t sit still on the ski lift. Was kicking my legs and I slid right off the damn thing! Wasn’t a huge drop, but it was enough.”

“Ruined the family vacation.”

“It wasn’t all bad. When I got out of the hospital, mom brought me to get ice cream.” Soap bent forward and dragged his tongue along the creamy mountain range he’d drawn. The sudden wet heat had Ghost sucking in a breath. The sergeant smirked against the fluttering muscles beneath and suckled a red mark into the skin beside the scar. “It was delicious.”

Next, the tease of a man eyed a cluster of knife marks. He scooped some of the green, lime-flavored paint onto a fingertip and began to draw the outline of a box from the ends of several scars.

“A bit further back from the ski incident, there was a Christmas my parents thought I had disappeared. Christmas morning rolls around and I’m nowhere to be seen. They said they started to freak out, but all the doors and windows in the place were locked so I couldn’t have gotten out.” Soap switched to purple, grape, and doodled little swirls and stars into the box, making a present complete with bow. “They found me a while later, curled up inside one of the presents. A large box at the back of the tree with a giant teddy bear. I’d gone snooping earlier that night and crawled inside with the bear and apparently fell asleep.

“Somewhere at my parents house there’s a picture of me curled up in tissue paper around a big ol’ teddy.”

The sergeant swept away the present as quickly as it was drawn, tickling the nest of old wounds with kisses and nipping. He tasted it all, lime and grape and beneath it all, Ghost, a man he had longed to taste this way.

Soap shimmied up the larger man and pressed a kiss to Ghost’s masked lips, kissing with fervor as if the mask were nonexistent. Ghost was pressing back, trying to capture the sergeant’s lips. When they parted Soap noticed the absolute mess he had made of the man’s mask. It was now smeared with body paint, Soap’s own face sporting a similar look.

“Ah shit. Sorry, Si,” Soap apologized. Ghost was smiling though, the corners of his eyes crinkled with a joy he hardly let himself experience.

“Don’t worry, Johnny. I would have stopped you if I didn’t want it.”

“Ghost,” Soap murmured and pushed in for another kiss, sloppier and more awkward than last but nonetheless exciting.

“Do you want to hear more?”

“Please,” Ghost sighed, almost breathless.

Ghost propped himself up slightly, watching Soap’s work with fascination, the quick, fluid motions of his fingers dancing along his skin, weaving stories out of scarring both new and old. Tales from his childhood, family gatherings and holiday mishaps that had them both laughing and leaving Ghost a bit envious of those joys he never got to experience. The many times Soap had almost blown himself up as a cocky new recruit. Things he had seen while on missions, both benign and unbelievable.

“You did not see a UFO!” Ghost challenged, trying not to moan as Soap worked over a perked nipple, drawing what he remembered of the flying object.

“Swear on my life I did! Damn thing probably would have abducted me if I hadn’t squeezed off a few shots at it.”

“You said you hadn’t slept for three days. Not only were you hallucinating, you gave away your field position!”

“But the aliens didn’t abduct me.”

“Fucking hell, you’re stupid!” Ghost laughed.

When Soap wasn’t chattering away, his mouth was full of Simon, the lieutenant’s flesh reddened with bite marks and hickeys sucked into tender spots. He worked his tongue along every rise and dip of Ghost’s abdomen, taking his sweet time to learn his partner’s body. Where to scratch with fingernails to elicit a repressed moan, or where to tug with teeth that had Ghost’s hips rolling. Soap peppered kisses amidst the trail of blonde hair that disappeared into the waistband of Ghost’s pants, fingers scratching down his sides. Ghost was left quivering.

Ghost’s eyes fluttered open when he felt fingers slip into the waistband of his pants. He didn’t remember shutting them. Soap was looking up at him, his chin resting on the other man’s navel, his cheeks bright with a rainbow of paint. He was asking permission to delve further south. He nodded and Soap all too enthusiastically made short work of the lieutenant’s pants.

Simon’s thighs were no less scarred than the rest of him. Pink and pale lines were carved into the creamy surface. A burn scar here. A shrapnel wound there. A bullet wound that had carved a small chunk of Simon’s outer thigh away.

Here Soap paused his artwork, instead wanting to taste Ghost pure. He followed the curvature of muscles from knee to groin, breath hot on the rarely exposed flesh. He made each scar sloppy with wet kisses and dragged teeth down the inner thigh, biting his own marks into Simon, claiming the man.

Ghost’s breathing quickened. Over the rise and fall of his chest, he could just make out the mohawk moving as Soap devoured him. He reached down, his hand finding the ridge of hair and grasping. Soap growled low and pressed sucking kisses dangerously close to the clothed dick.

Then Soap bit down hard, growling Simon’s name hungrily against the tender flesh and Ghost practically yanked the Scot away, Soap eliciting a rather undignified moan at the movement. He held the ravenous man at a distance to catch his breath, admiring how absolutely debauched the sergeant looked. Ghost mused he probably looked worse.

“You’re like a fucking leech.”

Soap chuckled and wiped spit from his lips with the back of his hand.

“You taste so fucking good, Simon.”

Ghost released Soap, the sergeant sitting back to admire his work. Ghost’s body was a smattering of colors, most scars now hidden beneath a layer of paint. Designs had been doodled, licked clean, drawn anew and licked away again. Over and over again from neck to navel.

“You look like a fucking treasure, Simon. Beautiful, ornate.”

“Well, you have the hands of an artisan.”

“Aye, I’m pretty good. But I bet you’re capable of making a masterpiece too.”

Ghost made a questioning hum. The only thing he was good at making were bodies drop. His sewing skills weren’t complete shit, though.

“Simon,” Soap breathed and hooked a finger beneath the edge of his mask and tugged. He guided the lieutenant to switch positions, Soap now shaded comfortably in the larger man’s shadow. He angled Ghost’s head down to whisper against clothed lips. “I want you to touch me. Make me beautiful.”

“I can’t improve what’s already a masterpiece.” Soap was all solid muscle and dark hair. Bright eyes that warmed Ghost’s soul. He was strength when Ghost needed to feel weak.

“Ghost. Simon. Will you touch me?” Soap’s palms rested on his cheeks.

“I don’t have heartwarming tales to regale you with. Nothing funny or feel-good.”

“Then tell me something that you want to happen.”

Ghost contemplated the jars of paint. Of all the colors, red and yellow were still mostly full. Soap had steered clear of red, averse to staining Ghost’s skin the color of blood.

Yellow though. A color Ghost heavily associated with spring and new beginnings. Sunshine. Johnny was his sunshine on the darkest days.

Didn’t hurt that it tasted like pineapple.

“Something that I want,” Ghost mused, dipping a finger into the paint and beginning to draw along Soap’s collarbone. “I’ve found myself thinking about retirement more often lately. To be honest, the thought of leaving active service scares the shit outta me. I think I might lose a part of me that day. There’d be nothing to tether me to reality. But if I had someone to keep me grounded, someone who knew that feeling too, we might make it through together.”

“What kind of someone are you looking for? Someone you intend to keep around?”

“Someone for the long haul.” Ghost teased the swell of a pec and down over a nipple, bending to brush his nose against the other. Soap sighed and pressed his head back into the pillow. “Someone who is the first thing I see that day. Someone I want to curl around on cold mornings, their body like a damn furnace. And I’m cold because they like to steal the blankets in the night and somehow keep one while tossing the rest on the floor.”

Ghost worked his hand through dark curls of chest hair, making no effort to draw any specific design, just wanting to mark Johnny.

“I want someone who can cook an amazing breakfast and yet still manage to brew an absolute dogshit cup of tea.”

“That was one time,” Soap grumbled.

“But I choke it down because I love them.”

Ghost clawed at Soap’s stomach, fingertips tracing the sergeant’s own scars, concealing them in paint. He painted the dark hair that disappeared into Soap’s sweatpants. The sergeant’s hips rolled up, eager for more, but Ghost pulled back and instead buried his face into Soap’s belly, rubbing his cheeks and pressing masked kisses into the fluttering abdominal muscles.

“Want someone who has my six, and every other time of day. Who gives me their all and expects nothing in return, when they deserve it all and more. Someone who has all the patience in the world for a slow sod like me to come around.

“Just someone I can love unconditionally.” Ghost spread paint over the palm of his hand and pressed it over Soap’s heart.

“Sounds like a lot to ask of one person,” Soap smiled sweetly and his hand brushed over Ghost’s skull. “Do you have anyone particular in mind?”

Ghost closed the distance between their frames, grinding his body into Soap’s as he came up to meet the sergeant’s face. He pulled away his mask and tossed it to the floor.

“I love you, Johnny.”

They kissed soft and slow, hands buried in hair, their bodies feeling as though they were melding into one.

“I love you, Si,” Soap whispered against the other’s lips when they broke apart.

Ghost hunkered down atop Soap and nuzzled his face into Soap’s throat. The Scot held him tightly, one hand idly toying with his hair.

“Our hands are filthy, so I’ll let you grab it later, but I hid a second present in your bedside drawer.”

“Oh? You engaged on a stealth mission?”

“Sort of,” Ghost chuckled. “I ordered a few new journals from your favorite hometown shop.”

“You beautiful bastard!”