#this was supposed to be fluffy. this was supposed to be a FLUFFY fic. i repeat. FLUFFY

[zealouswitchwerewolf]

Dick was so tired. Exhausted, really. He had been for years. It had been that way since he had decided to make it his mission to compensate for the shortcomings of an emotionally stunted man with an adoption problem and no intention to change. Dick didn't regret it, not exactly. He loved his siblings and wanted to give them the world. He also knew he couldn't fully raise them while Bruce was there in the middle. He had tried. He always ran himself ragged and ended up on the other side of Bruce's rage for trying to "push his sons away from him". It took a lot out of him but he still tried for the sake of his younger siblings.

It didn't help that Bruce hadn't ever been great at showing affection and tended to push people away from him whenever they got hurt or too close to him for fear of losing them. It had lost some of its effect on Dick after the second time Bruce had kicked him out, after Jason's death, but he could still see the hurt on his siblings' eyes when they were on the other side of Bruce's cold shoulder. It had certainly made him feel unwelcome at the manor and unable to stay more than a few days at once. It also made him irritable at Bruce, although that might be more about the man's actions than the coldness he associated with the manor. He tried to mask it for his siblings. Compensate with easy smiles and warm hugs. He knew it wasn't enough. He had always had to choose between mitigating the biggest mess Bruce had left behind and truly being there for his loved ones. He could not do everything. He couldn't be everywhere at once. No matter how hard he tried. It was exhausting. And he always failed.

Dick had seen Damian pack. He had just gotten back from the cave after his latest attempt at reasoning with Bruce. He had gone to find Damian and had seen the boy organizing his bags and looking around the room to make sure he didn't miss anything. He had seen him take the family picture on his bedside table. Damian hadn't noticed him. Dick had made a split-second decision and left. He went back to the cave and prepared for patrol, telling Bruce about a case he needed help with in the Narrows and leaving with Batman in tow, just in time to see Superboy flying towards Damian's window. He had distracted Bruce and made sure he didn't see.

He had considered taking Damian to live with him before. Many times. The only thing that had stopped him was Bruce's reaction after Tim had rescued him from the timeline but before he started trying to mend bridges with the family. He had seen the closeness between Damian and Dick and had decided to take it away. He had thrown a fit and forbidden Dick from coming to Gotham, when that hadn't worked, he had told him not to come to the manor, when that also didn't work, he started sulking and gave Damian the silent treatment until Dick backed off and distanced himself from the kid enough. That was when he approached Dick and apologized with words that Dick now knew weren't his own and started trying to bring the family back together. Maybe Dick had always known and was just in denial about it. The point was, if Damian ever left, Bruce would immediately suspect Dick and bring the kid back while enforcing more restrictions. It wouldn't help his brother in the long term. So Dick let him leave and pretended not to notice anything amiss.

The realization came hours later. There were no kids living in the manor anymore. All his siblings had left and were starting to figure out how to live independently from Bruce. Dick didn't need to shield them anymore. He didn't have to keep pushing himself to the limit, trying to be everything they needed, trying to overcompensate for everything Bruce fell short on. He didn't have to go back to a place where he wasn't wanted, no matter how many times he was reassured otherwise (not many. Not even once). He could finally leave.

He ended patrol early and got there just in time to see Clark trying to maneuver the rest of Damian's animals in his arms without having to take multiple trips. "Take care of them?" He couldn't help but ask, even knowing he should be doing more and had no right to ask that of anyone else, let alone Superman.

Clark's eyes turned soft and sad. He nodded solemnly, finally having managed to carry all the pets, and left without another word to Dick. They both knew Dick wasn't referring to the animals when he had said 'them'.

Dick went back to his apartment feeling so much relief he felt guilty to ever feel like that towards his siblings absence. It didn't stop him from going to bed and having a full night sleep for the first time in years. It was more rest that he had gotten since Bruce had introduced him to a tiny Jason and told him he was his new brother. Maybe someday Dick would have enough energy to go back and try to fix things between them again. Maybe he'd reach out to his siblings and try to have a real relationship with them. One that wasn't so dependent on Bruce's moods. Maybe one day he'd be ready to talk to Tim, Damian, and Jay and listen to their experiences at the manor without immediately trying to smooth things out or getting defensive. Maybe the anxiety attacks would go away with time. For now he'd just enjoy not having to worry about anyone's emotional well-being but his own. Maybe he'd call Wally and the other Titans. It had been a while since the last time they talked. His siblings were safe. Dick was free. Everything else could wait.

Bruce comes back from the dead and wants to make things better. Bruce comes back from the dead and Tim was the one who brought him back, so it's obviously Tim who'll know best how to help him reconnect with everyone.

It's Tim who should give him advice on how to bond with Dick. Dick has always been his idol, after all. Tim would know best how to bring him back, and he does. He gives good advice and the two of them begin to get closer.

So Bruce asks about Jason, too. Asks about how to bring his son back into the fold and Tim wished for a brief and brutal moment that it weren't so obvious who the favorite was.

Tim told Bruce to give Jason his space, to loosen his rules, and make it clear that no matter what the Red Hood did, no matter what the Batman believed in, Jason was always welcome. Bruce would always want him.

It worked. Bruce wasn't surprised. Tim was a special sort of bitter.

Bruce asked again for Damian and Tim had to push down his anger. "That boy tried to kill me," Tim wanted to say. "I hate him and I want you to hate him too so that I can remember a time when we had something in common," Tim didn't say, but he got close.

He instead told Bruce how Damian liked art and animals and loved hearing stories of the wonders of Batman.

He told Bruce just how much Damian loved being Robin. Told Bruce to tell Damian what a good Robin he was.

God bless or maybe damn him, but he did and it worked and Tim wanted to start screaming and clawing at something because that would have never worked if Tim tried it and it wouldn't have stopped Damian from cutting his line--something Bruce did not and would never know about.

Bruce asked about Babs. How should he make sure she knew that she was a part of the family? They they loved her and not just for the work she did?

He asked about Steph. How should he make sure she knew that she was more important than his rules and that, if something else should go wrong, she didn't need to run away?

He asked about Duke. He never got the chance to get to know him before leaving--not as well as he wanted to, at least. How should he let him know that he was just as much a son as everyone else? That, whether or not his parents woke up, he'd always be welcome?

He asked about Cass. How should he show her that he loves her even though he has nothing to teach her? How can he convey how much he cares about her, his first daughter?

Bruce gets brought back from time and he makes things better. He brings his family back together by following Tim's advice.

And Tim?

Tim brings his dad back from the dead and Bruce changes, becomes a better father.

Bruce changes, but not everything can.

That, Tim thinks, is why Bruce never calls Tim his son.

[kqutie]

EPIC : THE FAIR MAIDEN (not so platonic ver.)

CHAPTER FOUR : THE WASHED-UP STRANGER

relations. : platonic various epic characters/reader -- platonic odysseus/reader ; polites/reader ; platonic eurylochus/reader ; platonic elpenor/reader ; platonic perimedes/reader ; platonic odysseus' crew/reader ; hermes/reader ; poseidon/reader

chpt. sum. : The crew get acquainted with your villagers while you discover a stranger washed up on your sandy beaches. You know exactly what to do... poke, poke, poke!

tags. : reader continues being a disney princess ; female, mute reader ; pure comfort ; animal crossing new horizons game mechanics ; the villagers are here! ; the crew are simps ; poseidon makes an appearance ; poseidon is kinda slimey... ; hermes to the rescue, kinda? ; hermes is still a flirty menace ; protective crew ; very protective odysseus ; poseidon tried to shoot his shot and failed ; isekai and transmigration ; fix it fic ; characters know their future ; happy ending for everyone!

length. : 6.8k

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Marshal hops over, along with Filbert and Poppy, all three squirrels snuggling up to your form in an effort to express how much they missed you. Their affectionate words swirl into a cacophony of voices you hear directly in your mind. Were they communicating with you telepathically? 

“How did you all get here?” you ask without a voice, simply keeping the question in your head and experimenting with the communication. 

“We’ve always been here, silly. It’s our island home, after all,” Shino adds, coming up to your sitting form and nuzzling her nose into your hair. She looked majestic with her white fur, pink nose and red horns, you can still see the reddish colour brushing the edges of her eyes, highlighting her amber gaze. 

“But it’s strange,” Mitzi comments, licking at her paws adorably, “something feels different, somehow, especially after that flying man urged us into the storage shed. Is this really our same island?”

Hermes... you think, supposing they’ve been sent here through him. It makes you wonder if he’s also the reason you arrived. No, that can’t be. He didn’t know of you when you first met, so how could he possibly be responsible for bringing you into this world? Perhaps the appearance of your villagers was a part of his blessing. 

“All that matters is that we’re finally together again,” Filbert cuts in, snuggling further into you as the others join with hums of agreement. It makes you smile to see such familiar, sweet faces. You miss their adorable character designs, but it was fascinating to see them as normal animals, though they didn’t quite look the part. Their atypical colouring remained, so they look more like fantasy creatures to you. Perhaps that was fitting; you’ve grown quite the reputation amongst the crew so your villagers’ unusual appearance may lend to them believing that they are your close friends. 

“Cha-chomp! We missed you,” Fang snaps his jaws in an almost intimidating display, but you know he’s a sweetheart. Rather than shrink back in fear of his very sharp teeth, you smile and reach up to lovingly scratch at his ear. In his true form, Fang was a menacing size, but his beautiful grey coat looked so fluffy — you couldn’t help cooing at him and the way his ears flicked in delight from your scratches.

“It’s a relief to find you again,” Gaston comments, hopping up to your legs, where he brings a small furry hand up to pat your knee. He’s sweet for saying that but the obvious mustache the yellow rabbit retained was hilarious to you. He’s accompanied by Chrissy, however, who no longer adorns her pink and white polka dot head garment and leggings, leaving her looking like an ordinary white bunny. It was quite unusual, but you suppose they all look unusual without their clothing. 

“Don’t laugh! We thought we lost you!” Chrissy, huffs crossing her arms. 

“I’m sorry Chrissy, I missed you too,” Chrissy, ever the kind-hearted bunny, immediately unfolds her arms and smiles happily at you. You’ve already been forgiven; she’s never one to hold a grudge. 

“If you’re all here, does that mean—” You’re cut off by a hoot, and you look up to smile widely at a familiar-looking pair of owls perched along a tree branch. The owl siblings are accompanied by a pigeon whose feathers make it look as though he has a moustache and is wearing a suit. “Blathers! Celeste! Brewster!” The bushes shake below and out pops Tom Nook, accompanied by Timmy, Tommy, the Able sisters, and Isabelle. Timmy and Tommy looked adorably miniature, standing next to Tom, who stood high and greeted you with a friendly wave. Isabelle also waved at you, her tail contentedly swishing from side to side. “I can’t believe you’re all here,” 

“We’d follow you anywhere,” Isabelle comments, and you smile at each other. 

“So good to see you, my dear,” Blathers greets with an accompanying hoo. 

“Yes yes,” Tom Nook agrees but scratches at his head almost nervously, “but what’s happened to the island?”

Giving him an apologetic look, you try your best to explain, “I’m sorry Tom, I know it looks quite different, but I assure you that everything’s okay. It’s well taken care of, we actually have an amazing amount of visitors settled here currently.”

“Oh?” Tom and Isabelle share a proud look. “That’s brilliant! Business is booming!” You giggle at his words and nod along, happy to have settled him down. 

“Have you seen the stars? They’re so beautiful tonight!” Celeste comments and you look up in anticipation for any shooting stars but there are none. There was an unusually still, opaque cloud hovering above you, however. Peculiar…

“I suppose they do look extra bright tonight.” Looking around, you smile at the sight of everyone and slowly stand with your squirrel friends still tucked up in your arms. “How about we have a sleepover at my place?” you suggest, earning a cheer from everyone. 

“Hoo-Hoo! That would be lovely!” Blathers comments, a dreading look overcoming him for a moment, “I do so hate the outdoors but can’t find my museum anywhere!” 

“Mi casa es tu casa,” you invite them all inside as Marshal shivers in excitement before pulling a smug look. 

“I see you’ve picked up some of my speech habits. Of course you would. I’m quite the influencer. And you’re too kind, Sulky, thank you.” Marshal instantly recognised the phrase you used and wiggled in happiness from his positive impact. 

⊹ ࣪﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

The next morning, you make your way to the crew with breakfast already prepared and stored from your home kitchen. All animals trail along behind you, eager to meet the new friends you told them of the night before and this morning: all 600 men of Odysseus’ fleet. It might be overwhelming for them at first, but you know that their sweet disposition will make them fast friends with the crew. Hopefully, the men wouldn’t be too put off by your villagers’ odd colours. The only normal-looking villagers you have are Fauna, Chrissy, Fang and the Nook family. 

“Fair Maiden!” came a shout, and you turn to gasp at the image of Odysseus aiming his bow and arrow at Fang (a large, grey wolf) while Eurylochus points his large sword at Boots (your gym-bro alligator). Rushing forward, you open your arms out in defence, shielding your harmless villagers from harm. If you could shout in protest, you would, but all you could manage is a frightful look that immediately makes the two lower their guard ever so slightly. 

“Wh-wha—?” Odysseus voices, unable to comprehend what’s happening, but Polites rushes to your side, opening his arms beside you. He knows exactly what you’re trying to convey.

“Captain! The Fair Maiden doesn’t want these animals harmed!” Polites’ voice is loud and firm, an immediate assurance to you that he was on your side, no questions asked, “Please lower your weapons!”

“But—!” Eurylochus tries to protest, knowing the potential danger that you could be in. Seeing the conflict in the sword-wielding man’s eyes, you shake your head insistently and gesture to your villagers and yourself before pointing between you and Polites. Everyone then watches as you end your non-verbal statement by tucking yourself into Polites’ chest, who wordlessly wraps his arms around you, his resolve solidified. It’s easy to understand what you want to express. 

“See? She’s trying to say that these animals are her friends. Please do not harm them.” Polites voices for you, bringing a smile to your face. You kiss his jaw and hug him tightly to show your gratitude. Polites’ cheeks bloom with a radiant blush but he doesn’t draw attention to it, not even when Odysseus and Eurylochus give him a teasing smirk. The two finally lower their weapons and apologise with a bow of their heads. 

“We apologise sincerely for over-reacting and causing you distress, Fair Maiden. We won’t bring harm to your animal friends, I assure you,” Odysseus looks at you, his eyes flooded with resolve to keep his word. 

“A-are you sure they’re friendly? They don’t seem it at all,” Poppy squeaks and hops over to your leg, hugging your ankle in her short height as her sweet face presses into the folds of your skirt. She’s joined by Filbert, who hugs your opposite ankle with a tearful whimper on his lips.

“S-so scary...”

“How unusual,” Odysseus observes, taking in Poppy and Filbert’s unusually coloured fur. He quickly moves on to observe the strange appearance of the other animals that have followed you as well. Some looked normal, some looked magical, and then there was a yellow bunny who looked like he had a very thick moustache, and Odysseus had to stifle his laughter.

“They are not like any other creatures I’ve seen before…” Eurylochus adds as the rest of the crew strain their necks to get a look, all of them humming in agreement as soon as they realise how different the animals appear. They coo over your squirrel villagers, Chrissy, Mitzi and Fauna, for their sweet appearance. They gasp in wonder at Shino’s divine being. They shudder at Fang and Boots’ intimidating presence. And many had to stifle their laughter when seeing Gaston’s prominent moustache as well. 

“No wonder you protect and care for them,” Polites comments, looking down at you with a kind smile. “Are they also as otherworldly as you?” his words make you look away bashfully, earning a laugh from the headband-wearing third commander. At least he managed to get you back for flustering him only moments earlier. That soft kiss isn’t escaping his mind any time soon. 

“We’ll make sure your animal friends don’t come to any harm,” Eurylochus assures, setting out to warn the back of the crew himself after you introduce him and the first few rows of the Odysseus’ men to your villagers and the other occupants of the island: Blathers and Celeste snoozing away in a nearby tree while Brewster keeps a close eye on them; the able sister nestled together adorably in the bushes; Tom Nook travelling together with Timmy and Tommy, who’ve climbed onto his back. To surmise, all animals that aren’t fish or bugs are under your protection.

After that frightful first impression, you’re happy to find the crew getting along with your villagers and vice versa. Your animal friends are truly so friendly; it’s in their nature to be kind, so it took no time at all for them to find new friends in the crew. It was a fun sight to see. The villagers still tended to gravitate towards you, however. And it took a while for the crew to get used to seeing such animals keeping you company, usually finding them trailing close behind you, the squirrels often hopping about your feet as you walked by. 

At times, it was heartwarming to see you interact with the cute animals. A beautiful lady, smiling, cooing and petting the sweet furry creatures was an image that had soul-healing properties. It made you feel all the more magical to them, floating about the island with a sweet deer following after you with adorable squirrels and bunnies close behind. However, it was more than unnerving to witness you being accompanied by a large grey wolf, a snapping alligator and an albino deer with pointed, red horns, an uncustomary appearance for such a graceful species. This was an initial fear you treated by showcasing how friendly and sweet Fang, Boots and Shino actually were. 

Waving Perimedes over, you smile brightly as he brings Elpenor with him. The two were truly inseparable.”Y-yes, Fair Maiden?” Perimedes asks nervously, eyeing Fang and Boots, who flanked your sides and quite politely so. Though that didn’t matter to Perimedes or Elpenor; all they saw were teeth, teeth and more teeth!   

“That one looks like he goes to the gym!” Boots praises Elpenor as he happily gazes at the man’s broad frame. Unfortunately, Elpenor wasn’t aware that the alligator’s interested gaze was one of admiration and not of hunger, and he tenses up in fear.

“You want us to make friends with them?” Fang asks, holding back his excitement as his tail begins to swish behind him in happiness. “Cha-chomp!” Fang snaps his jaws gleefully, unaware of his effect on the fearful, slightly shaking Perimedes, “Any friend of yours is a friend of ours!” 

Taking Perimedes’ hand with the utmost care, you slowly bring his sweaty palm and shaking fingers to Fang’s soft fur. Fang’s delighted response is instantaneous. The large wolf leans into Perimedes’ touch and urges him to continue petting and scratching his ear with a tilt of his head. 

“Oh...” Perimedes releases the breath he was holding and laughs in relief, eagerly scratching at Fang’s ear. The smile that grows on the blonde’s face is contagious.  

“That’s a good scratch. Mmm~ A little to the left please...” Fang snaps his jaws happily, leaning further into Perimedes’ hand, who quickly grows accustomed to Fang’s habit of chomping his jaws to express his happiness. 

“Good boy,” Perimedes whispers, his gaze softening with fondness. He’s made a new friend.

One down, one to go. You look at Elpenor, who seems to be having a staring contest with Boots. Behind him, Boots’ tail swishes from side to side, and you smile at his eagerness to make a new friend, too. Gently, you also take Elpenor’s hand and softly coax him into petting Boot’s head. The look you give Elpenor says everything he needs to know to follow your lead with confidence and trust in your actions. ’Everything will be okay,’ your eyes say to him. 

“I-If you think it’s safe, Fair Maiden...” Elpenor nods and allows himself to be guided into petting Boots, who eagerly leans into his touch. 

“His hands are calloused and strong!” Boots observes with a toothy smile, “That is evidence of his prowess in the gym! I think we’ll make good friends!”  

“It seems everyone has a favourite!” Odysseus laughs, walking up to you as he’s accompanied by both Fauna and Shino. He looks at them fondly, “Curious how an archer has become good friends with deers of all creatures.” Fauna nudges his hand with her nose, urging him to pet her as Shino playfully butts her horns against his forearm. Odysseus complies by rubbing at the base of her horns and succumbing to Fauna’s gently prompt for pets, “It seems I’ve found their weak spot.” You smile at the easy expression that takes over Odysseus’ countenance. In the days that pass, you find that the crew have grown an eagerness for petting your villagers, who make no complaints; they love the attention and the company of new friends. The crew smile more easily and laugh much lighter than ever before. You liken it to the effect therapy animals have on veterans. 

The hardened men can often be found taking care of and spending time with your villagers in various ways. It’s also clear that many have their personal favourites, as the captain had helpfully observed for you. 

Odysseus is often followed around by Fauna and Shino. Fauna, your sweet and graceful deer with her gentle disposition, reminds him of the elegance his wife, Penelope, often holds herself with. Shino, however, makes him think of his son; she’s more playful and adventurous compared to Fauna, much like his boy, Telemachus. Their presence is familiar, but also not. Nevertheless, they gave Odysseus some much-needed comfort and vice versa. Fauna and Shino adore being treated with such care and especially love the stories he tells them absentmindedly, his guard lowered by their presence. 

Eurylochus, you’re surprised to see, has become good friends with your trio of squirrel villagers. All three have expressed to you how much they enjoy resting on his shoulders and even his head as he walks around. His height makes them feel tall and powerful! Marshal likens it to being perched on a walking tree. Poppy simply loves curling up in his large hand. She tells you it makes for the perfect bed to rest comfortably in. It also helps that Eurylochus often feeds them a share of his fruit rations. Filbert loves it especially; he’s a great lover of food. The tall, intimidating second commander can be seen resting against a tree as the three squirrels play about his gently smiling form. He looks at peace, fondly watching as they play around and on him — he’s become their personal playground. 

“You feed them too much, friend,” Polites laughs while passing by with Mitzi in his arms. “I’m afraid that blue one will become too chubby.” It seems everyone’s picked up on Filbert’s food-loving tendencies. 

“But don’t you think they look especially cute with their chubby cheeks chewing away at the fruit? It feels even more satisfying when I feed them by hand,” Eurylochus points out, and the two admire the way the three small squirrels eagerly stuff their faces with slices of apples Eurylochus hands them, making their cheeks puff up adorably.

“I suppose you’re right.” Polites grins and sits beside Eurylochus with Mitzi in his lap. 

“I see you’re a cat person,” Eurylochus smirks at his friend.

“I’ve always been a cat person,” the two share a laugh. 

Mitzi and Polites have a very calming friendship. The two often fall asleep together wherever they may be. It all starts when Mitzi sits herself in Polites’ lap, and the kind third commander can’t help but coo and pet her adoringly. When enough time passes, Mitzi can be found gently purring in his lap as Polites lightly snores over her, the two of them finding the best rest in each other’s company. 

Elpenor has grown a bond with Boots, thanks to your introductions. Boots had even helped him prank other crew members by patiently lurking in the bath waters and jumping out with a snap of his powerful jaws when a group of crew members came in to take their baths. Elpenor was chased around by those few traumatised men, but he found the prank worth the trouble. He laughed the entire time he was chased about. Perimedes was commonly seen with Fang, the two having immediately bonded thanks to you. They enjoyed each other’s company no matter what they may be doing together, whether it’s fishing, sitting around, sleeping under the sun or eating, they’ve become the best of friends. Together, the four of them have become quite the fearsome quartet.    

⊹ ࣪﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

“Look! What’s that?!” a crew member shouts, and you look to see them pointing up at something in the sky. “It’s a bird!”

“No, it’s a floating red thing carrying a white box!” The helpful description provided by Lycaon makes you pull out your slingshot and take aim. You fire at the balloon three times, but it’s no use, and you watch as the balloon floats further away. With a huff, you shake your head miserably. Why were shooting balloons always so difficult for you? It’s even more difficult now that you’re having to shoot it down in real life. Before the balloon could get too far away, however, an arrow helpfully shoots it down for you. The shooter was Odysseus, who slings his bow over his head and wears it while bringing the gift box over to you. Smiling gratefully, you open the gift before handing him its contents.

“For me?” Odysseus asks, surprised, as he points to himself. You nod, and rather than urge the gift into his hands, you place the purple hyacinth crown onto his head instead. It matches his purple toga. Odysseus laughs and affectionately pats your head as Fauna and Shino prance about around you in celebration. “Thank you.” He silently vows take special care of your gift. He hopes it never wilts.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You’ve already made the dresses and more for Penelope and Ctimene following Odysseus and Eurylochus’ request, and now you were collecting pretty shells for a little something extra. It would be nice for Odysseus and Eurylochus to craft something personally for their wives too, something pretty to gift them when they arrive home again. It’s not an official recipe you know from ACNH, but it’s a simple craft. An unfussy but heartfelt accessory showcasing the pretty seashell collected from your island’s shores, lovingly prepared for their beautiful wives to wear. How romantic would that be?~ You want to help Ody and Eury be good husbands,so today, you’re trying to find the prettiest seashells for them to craft into necklaces or bracelets. 

“My Fair Maiden,” Polites calls, approaching you on the beach with a kind smile, the ends of his headband swimming in the sea breeze. “What are you up to out here?” he looks at the small collection of sea shells you’ve managed to collect so far, your hands carefully cradling the precious beach decorations. “Those are very beautiful.” he admires your selection, leaning forward ever so slightly as he adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. When he straightens again, Polites softens his voice as he looks at you with a fond stare. “May I join you? I’ll help as best as I can.” Unable to say no, you nod your head instantly. It would be nice to have company, anyway, and Polites was always good company. For a while, you two collect sea shells together with only the waves. There were a lot of shells available, but you were very selective about which ones you kept. Playing ACNH on your switch made the seashells look identical to one another, but now that you were looking at them personally and not in a game, each one was distinct and unique in its own way. Yes, there were similarly shaped ones, but looking closely, they were all very different. It was fascinating, and the adoration was visible on your face. 

That admiring visage of you as you stare down at the shells was something that Polites couldn’t help but admire. You’re too precious. How could he not feel for you? He loves it, especially when you find a particularly beautiful shell and run to share your discovery with him. You’re the good in the world that makes life worthwhile. Once again, the two of you split up to look for more shells separately. Polites looks into the distance when a glimmer catches his eye and moves to collect the shimmering glass bottle buried in the sand. There was a trinket inside that looked like something you would know what to do with better than him, so he kept the bottle closed and immediately returned to you. 

“I don’t have a shell but...” Polites offers the glass bottle sheepishly, not knowing what to expect from your reaction. With a silent gasp, you store away your collected, approved shells and clap in glee, happily receiving the bottle from Polites before hugging him as thanks. Polites laughs and hugs you back, his strong arms wrapping around you tightly as he buries his nose into your hair, where he affectionately presses a kiss into your crown. With you around, the harrowing memories and scars he acquired in the war are pushed far behind him. You bring a rare and precious peaceful quietness. And Polites can confidently say you have the same effect for Odysseus, Eurylochus and the crew too. You’re truly a blessing.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Poseidon has felt a strange disturbance in his ocean for quite some time now. It wasn’t threatening nor dangerous, so he didn’t initially feel the need to investigate. However, the disruption to his waters has remained such a prominent irritation to the point that he could no longer resist ignoring it. He sets off to investigate the peculiarity in the early morning, hoping to finish his search as soon as possible. 

When he approaches, Poseidon raises a brow. He doesn’t remember such a large island being located in this part of his ocean. It’s not even one he recognises; he’s never seen such greenery or landscapes. Suddenly, there’s movement behind the trees lining the perimeter of the island, beyond the shady beaches, and the sea god ducks into the ocean. Perhaps glimpsing a creature that occupies the island will give him some idea of its mysterious origins. 

Stepping out of the tree line, you move to the sands to continue your sea shell search for Odysseus and Eurylochus just before you meet the crew for breakfast, blissfully unaware of the fascinated stare pinning you down from the God of the sea. As Poseidon stays hidden amongst the waves, he smirks to himself, his eyes tracing your delicious curves, sweetly dressed in the loveliest dress he’s ever seen. He appreciates your silhouette thoroughly until his gaze finally lands on your beautiful face. What a beauty you are. Such a fine treasure he’s found within his ocean. He should have investigated the mysterious island sooner. You appear so sweet and kind too, delicately picking up different seashells, appearing very selective of which ones you should keep for your precious hoard. 

The new island no longer annoys him for disrupting his oceans; rather, Poseidon has found something else to be intrigued by. And he’s determined to make you his. 

You don’t know how much time you spend picking seashells, but when you look up, all thoughts of your mounting sea shell collection are forgotten. On the shore was a washed-up man in nothing but a simple cloth wrapped around his waist. His brown hair is long and wet from the salty ocean water, his skin a healthy sun-kissed colour, and his muscles prominently sculpted. From what little glimpses you see of his face hidden behind the strands of hair that fall over his features, you can tell that he’s handsome with a light shadow of stubble shaping his jaw. As you approach him, unaware of his intentions and very conscious state, Poseidon wills his features to stay undisturbed. A fair maiden such as yourself will surely wake him gently and with a sweet voice; when he pretends to finally rouse from sleep, he’ll work his charms to lure you into a passionate night together. He will enjoy you thoroughly and savour your sweet sounds, for an angel like you is capable of creating nothing but dulcet tones. 

Poseidon has gravely misjudged you, however. As soon as you were kneeling beside him, rather than gently seduce him out of his slumber and kindly ask about his wellbeing in the soft voice he imagined you to have, you begin to incessantly poking at his cheek instead. It was completely unexpected, and he couldn’t help the annoying twitch of his brow. The subtle action makes you temporarily stop your ceaseless prodding. But before Poseidon could breathe in respite, you start poking him again, this time, with much more force and speed. If he wasn’t a god, he’s sure you’d have made the skin of his cheek bruise already. Is this really how you go about waking an injured man?! It’s not at all what Poseidon expected, ignorant to your experience with washed-up seagull pirates. The only way you knew to wake Gulliver (the seagull pirate) or Gullivarrr (the seagull pirate captain) was to constantly pester them, which obviously meant poking their unconscious forms until they wake up. 

“I’m awake! I’m awake!” Poseidon sits up with an irritated grumble, swatting at your hand and squinting his eyes at you. He’s sorely misjudged you. Perhaps he should leave?

(Distantly, a giggle can be heard, and your ears perk up ever so slightly.)

However, Poseidon is struck once again by your beauty. Up close, you’re stunning, especially when you’re smiling so kindly at him and him alone. Because of your bewitching image, Poseidon was willing to forget about your rude, unending poking. 

“What a beauty you are...” the handsome stranger’s brown eyes examine your face, slowly tracing your features with his eyes as he slowly brings a hand up to cup your cheek. His touch was so unexpected that you startle ever so slightly. The stranger appears to take pleasure in your surprise however, chuckling to himself as his hand leaves your cheek to pick up your hand and bring your knuckles to his lips, “Tell me,” his lips don’t leave your skin as he looks up to meet your eyes with an impassioned stare, “what is your name, my lady?”

Smiling apologetically, you shake your head and point to your throat. “Oh? You cannot speak?”Poseidon frowns as you confirm his supposition with a nod. He was so looking forward to hearing your voice and relishing in the beautiful melody you would sing for him under his touch.

“No matter.” Poseidon eventually accepts the fact and leans forward, inching his face close to yours as you lean back slightly. “I remain grateful to you for saving my life.” the stranger’s eyes briefly glances down at your prettily shaped lips, “Allow me to convey my gratitude,” your eyes widen as the bold stranger closes the gap between you, managing to brush his lips against your own before you’re swept up by a pair of strong arms that fly you into the air. Gasping silently, you wrap your arms over your captor’s shoulders and push your face into his neck, fearful of the height he’s flown you to. 

“I should have known you were nothing but trouble~” A familiar voice teases as a pair of lips press a kiss against your temple. Hermes! Pulling away, you gape at the Messenger god who smugly grins at you. His arms carry you like a princess, ensuring that your dress doesn’t fall and reveal more of yourself to the men below. “Not only have you entrapped me, but you’ve captured the attention of my Uncle as well.” his words make your brows fly up in surprise before you hurriedly look down and gasp once more at the scene happening below. His uncle?! Did he mean...? 

Odysseus is pissed. You had taken longer than usual to meet everyone for breakfast, and they had grown anxious about your whereabouts. Initially, your safety wasn’t much of a concern as they knew your island to be incredibly safe; however, those foolish thoughts were immediately swept away as soon as they found you at the beach with a stranger, who was getting far too close for comfort. 

“Allow me to convey my gratitude.” At those exact words, Odysseus had fired his arrow, narrowly missing the strange man’s feet. It was a warning shot. Odysseus wasn’t one to miss his target, especially not one that is so unsuspecting and easy, but he would endanger you if he aimed straight at the man — you were far too close to him, and Odysseus didn’t want to risk you getting injured too. 

“Captain!” Polites points him towards your form up in the air and in the arms of another familiar god, “The Fair Maiden is safe,” his third commander hands him another arrow, “You’re free to take a second shot.” Polites’ voice grows chilly, deprived of his characteristically warm friendliness. He generally wasn’t the type to encourage such mercilessness, rather, he would have encouraged everyone to hear out the stranger. But Odysseus won’t complain; he knows the level of affection Polites and the rest of his crew had fostered for you — of course, this level of protectiveness was to be expected. 

“Aim for his throat,” Eurylochus strategised, his tone stern and calculating as he readies his sword, “While he chokes on his blood, I’ll move in to severe his head clean off his shoulders.” Odysseus didn’t appreciate being ordered around most of the time, but he didn’t mind it for right now. At least you were safe for the moment. He’ll deal with Hermes later. 

“Wait! Wait!” Odysseus freezes in place, along with everyone else who recognises the plea from the musical quite some time ago but still remember it so vividly. The same musical that had revealed their potential future had made it easy to recognise such a voice. It couldn’t be…

The stranger’s very human features slowly melt away to reveal the God of the sea. The man’s brown hair becomes an opaque black as the skin of his neck grows gills and his ears become fin-shaped. The cloth around his waist falls away to reveal the beginnings of a fishtail. Looking down, his tail can be seen seamlessly merging with the ocean waves lapping at the sandy beach, which pulls him into the ocean and stands him tall, held up by the sea below. 

“Poseidon...” Eurylochus acknowledges as everyone takes on a battle stance behind him, their faces weary but determined. 

“You made an oath not to interfere with my journey home!” Odysseus snaps at the sea god. His words making Poseidon grit his teeth in annoyance. 

“I know...”

“Why aren’t you keeping it?”

“I am keeping it! You have had easy oceans so far, and when you set out to sea again for the rest of your journey home, they will be safe also. The girl is different; she has no association with you—” The look Odysseus sends him makes the god stammer ever so slightly. You are associated with Odysseus. What a mistake this was.

“If you touch her, you will be interfering with our journey home. She is our Fair Maiden and has been a wondrous blessing on our voyage so far! Touch her, and you’ll be breaking your oath!”

Poseidon looks up to see you in the arms of his nephew, whose usually smiling countenance disappears as soon as they meet eyes. You are a precious being not only to the man who tormented him in a potential future but are also held dearly by his nephew. This doesn’t spell well. You appeared to be such an innocent lady; how did things turn out to be like this?  

“She’s off limits, uncle.” Hermes states firmly, his arms tightening their hold on you, “And she has my blessing. I’m sure you know what that means...” Even Hermes’ words make Odysseus and the crew’s eyes widen in shock. Just as surprised as Poseidon. When did Hermes bless you? Had you been associated with the Messenger god this whole time?

“Fine!” Poseidon concedes, his reluctant acceptance punctuated by the momentary violent action of the ocean waves below, “I will leave you be.” As he disappears into the sea, Poseidon gives you one last, longing glance. Yet again, he was at a loss. How disappointing…

As soon as Poseidon vanishes into the ocean’s depths, you look to Hermes with a smile, a small thank you for his help. “You’re very welcome, darling~” he coos but appears reluctant to let you go. It isn’t until Odysseus and the crew have fixed their eyes on you that he finally descends. “My my~ what a surprising turn of events.” Hermes brings a light-hearted air with him, doing his best to distract the crew so he can keep you in his arms for longer. He quite likes the feel of you tucked up against his chest and solely held up by his strength as your arms wrap around his neck. You look very adorable this close to him, your head easily tucked up under his chin. 

“Thank you, Hermes,” Odysseus smiles gratefully to the god. He was one of the only gods to be of help to him in the musical, and it appears he’s sustaining that reputation. It only irks the King of Ithaca that Hermes seems to have made contact with you already, without him or anyone else knowing, and given you his blessing.

“Don’t thank me, friend~” Hermes turns his full attention to you, gently setting you down, “I didn’t do it for you particularly...”

‘Thank you for your help, Hermes,’ you voice in your head, knowing the god can hear your words clearly. 

“Of course, my fair lady~” Levitating several inches above the ground, Hermes bows graciously at the waist for you, smiling an easy smile. “But don’t you suppose that I should be rewarded for my efforts?” he teases, offering his cheek for you to kiss. That was his reward. His actions make Odysseus splutter in disbelief as several crew members, Polites and Eurylochus especially, do their best to keep their protests behind clenched teeth, silently begging you not to yield to the god. 

As you give him a skeptical look, Hermes laughs. He planned to shrug it off, knowing that he wouldn’t have received anything from you. He even made the effort not to ask you for a kiss outright, knowing the disadvantage mortals have against a god’s will. Hermes only meant to get a rise out of the crowding audience, his devious nature wouldn’t permit him to leave otherwise. However, he was surprised when, rather than wave his silly request away, you place your hands on his shoulders, stabilising yourself first before closing your eyes and gently puckering your lips, aiming for his offered cheek — a cheek kiss was innocent enough. 

What a pleasant surprise~ Hermes grins deviously.

Taking the opportunity, Hermes wraps his hands around your waist and pulls you impossibly close—to the point where you can feel his toned muscles far too sensitively. Once securely in his arms, he tilts his head to meet your lips with his own, shooting the two of you up into the air as he does so. He likes an audience, but he’s sure you wouldn’t be the biggest fan. Nor will you be happy if he lingers above the crew such that they could look up your dress skirt so he pulls you with him to perch atop one of your lush trees, far from the crew. Your surprised gasp gives him the perfect opportunity to steal more of your breath away. His tongue swoops in and pulls yours into a heated dance as his hand trails up to press against the back of your head and deepen your embrace. Unable to resist, you fall deeply into the kiss, reciprocating with your heart racing in your chest as heat crawls up your neck to settle over your cheeks. How is he such a good kisser? His lips, his arms and hands confine you to him, making the rest of the world disappear — you’ve barely registered that you’re no longer on the beach but rather cradled in the branches of a tree with him. 

Odysseus and the crew were too shocked to react as they were left behind. The last image of you that they saw were your lips connecting with Hermes’s own. Their nerves had been frozen up from being in the presence of two gods and at such close proximity, but those same nerves were quickly thawed by the heat of their rage. Immediately, they go searching for you, not needing to look for long as they see you lying against Hermes in the branches of a tree not too far into the island. 

“My my~” Hermes pants after pulling away, smirking at your breathlessness and unwilling to let you go. The mischievous nature in him spots the infuriated crew in his periphery and immediately decides to play with them. Levitating the two of you once more, he dangles you before the crew tauntingly before slowly descending, your feet finally touching solid ground again, but his arms remain secure around you. The crew doesn’t dare jump forth and bring you to safety, no matter how much they want to, especially when Hermes dares to giggle at them. Spurred on by the fury on their faces, Hermes dips you down and nuzzles his nose into the base of your neck, his eyes pinning the crew down sharply while his lips tenderly kiss the soft skin of your upper chest area, “you taste divine, darling~ So sweet. Just like the first time...”

Odysseus choked on air as his eyes bulged out. “THE FIRST TIME?!”

Hermes laughs and lifts into the air slightly, bringing you with him and making you twirl with your arm raised and your feet lifted several inches off the ground. He pulls you back in again, just as tightly as before, emphasising his affection for you. “This certainly won’t be the last time, either.” he looks into your rounded, glittering eyes, cooing in adoration at your precious image. Everything was happening so fast that you could barely comprehend it all, your mind still stuck on processing the kiss you shared with the mischievous god. “You’re truly far too tempting for your own good. I’m but a hungry, helpless beast at your service, my lady.” Hermes finally (finally!) sets you down and bows, bringing your hand up to kiss your knuckles before finally biding his farewells for the time being. 

When you finally turn around, Odysseus had come dangerously close, his eyes wild with barely restrained rage and stern protectiveness. “You have some explaining to do, young lady.”

But…But I can’t talk! You wail internally, pulling a helpless expression, but Odysseus is undeterred. Hermes… you jerk! 

navi. | series m.list

next | five. ...→

a/n : once again, I couldn't stop writing until I finished, even if it means sleeping at 3am -- but I'm just as addicted as anyone else to this series so... here you darlings go... i'm going to bed now!

For those of you who need/want the reminder, these are my villagers: Fauna ; Shino ; Poppy ; Filbert ; Marshal ; Chrissy ; Fang ; Boots ; Gaston ; Mitzi

taglist : @bluepanda08 @doodle-with-rhy @sunshinedaisy21 @jolixtreesunn @ellaprime7 @marcelemry @nishayuro @hijinkxy @kerosene-demon @windrosesrasta @keikeiluvyou @darling-eos @iamapotatoe @yuzxi18 @woncloudie

[drarryspecificrecs]

Unleashed! Fest 2023 : Masterlist of DRARRY fics

@unleashed-fest || official masterpost || AO3 || stats : 20 works The Mods : @getawayfox & @stavromulabetaaa Banner © : @the-houseryn's how the hell...

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1. Birds Behaving Badly by @peachpety [E, 10k]

For eight years, Draco has been content living a quiet life of anonymity in Brighton, dodging pesky seagulls and enjoying the ephemeral boys of summer. And if these summer blokes just happen to resemble Harry Potter, it’s a mere coincidence—despite what his friends say. But when a repeat one-night stand challenges him to face his desires, Draco thinks he’s finally over his years-long crush. A seagull named Kevin thinks otherwise.

2. Harry Potter And The Dubious Rescue Of His Ferrety Boyfriend by Animamundi [T, 8k]

Draco Malfoy always ends up getting bullied by other animals while in his Animagus form. Harry must rescue him again. Or must he?

3. It’s Me or the Peacock by harrows [T, 4k]

They’ve been together for two years when Draco finally moves into Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Only, Harry didn’t know he’d be bringing a pet with him.

4. No capacity for feelings by @fastbrother [T, 2k]

Draco's Basilisk might or might not be depressed. Whatever the case, he would never ask Harry Potter for help.

5. Of Magical Beings Being - Magic by @rockingrobin69 [E, 30k]

Out of the blue, Potter's letter says: I need you. And Draco, ever a fool, goes. Cue magical houses, fluffy Beings with a sweet tooth, mutual pining level: infinity, and a truly outrageous amount of tea.

6. Peacocks of the Bride(groom) by @apricitydays-lazynights & @tempestuousblue [T, 7k]

The Big Day is here! Draco and Harry are finally getting hitched. Will the wedding be a smashing success or will peacock-induced chaos ensue? (It’s the latter, for sure)

7. Slithering up the Garden Path by @flightinflame [G, 1k]

Draco just wants to read in the garden. He's not sure why there are so many snakes around.

8. the strays by @owl-of-fandom [T, 13k]

Draco befriends stray animals in his back garden, unknowing that one of them is actually an animagus.

9. Sun Shower by @moonmanatee [T, 5k]

Each afternoon, Harry and his cat lounge in their sitting room, make an elaborate snack, and then head out for a walk. When they run into a certain tall, pale-haired man and his scruffy dog, they find their routine shifting.

10. Waiting for the Moon to Rise by @wolfpants [E, 8k]

When Harry and Draco move into Grimmauld Place straight out of Hogwarts, the last person they expect to find taking up residence is Bill ‘divorced, dishevelled, and dangerous’ Weasley. But what if their new, furry little problem is the help they need to finally bring them closer? Stranger things have happened, Draco supposes.

11. Wings and Slings by @steampunkserpent27 [T, 24k]

After the war, Draco Malfoy decides to turn over a new leaf and in doing so, opens an animal sanctuary for sick and homeless magical creatures. Everything is going well, until he is given a feral herd of hippogriffs and has to ask for outside help to be able to get anywhere near them. Only, it's the very last person he would have asked for help from.

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✔ other fests in 2023 ✔ fests in other years

[greyyson-but-no]

Hey! Can I request a Jake Peralta fic when he’s coming home from Florida or prison and he finally gets to see his s/o (reader) again? Just like super fluffy and cute

that's just the way things go

; yes you can!! requests are my fav ; fem reader ; pure fluff but oopsie that iconic angst as well I just cant help myself ; author doing research for a request? unheard of ; 2.2k is crazy ; 16+ ;

the squad had been nothing but worried for you these past six months. when jake was first sent to prison, you had fallen into a fit of depression, taking weeks on end away from work and letting all your cases go to waste. eventually, you made your way back into work and started on cases again - holt understood completely and did his best to not get you fired over those weeks.

soon enough you managed to come into work regularly, but it was always obvious how the loss of jake had changed you.

together, they had decided it was best to leave you out of the investigation to get him out of prison - just in case it didn't go well and you were crushed again.

so without your knowledge, the squad had been going between precincts, all over new york, to both prisons and back again several times in one day, all to prove jake and rosa innocent. and they had gone and done just that - but you had no idea.

the team had made up a fake case the sergeant was supposed to be working on. somewhere along the way, he had to go pick up information about a higher up in a drug gang from someone down in south carolina. you knew that's where jake's prison was, but why would you ever make that connection? visit day wasn't for another two weeks.

terry had convinced you to go with him, it was on the journey to the prison, where you started to connect the dots.

"hey, sarge?" you questions, terry humming in response as he drove past a sign titled 'jericho supermax prison', "why are we in south carolina again?"

he shrugged. "my informant lives around here."

coughing into your fist, you started to recognize the motorway's surroundings, it hadn't been the first time you had made this drive. a couple months ago; visiting day. "you couldn't just give him a call?"

terry shook his head, signaling to turn into the next lane. "insists on meeting in person..."

you caught his eyes as he looked over at you when he spoke. he knew immediately from the dull look from your eyes that you knew he was lying. you hated people lying to you, the whole squad knew that. terry sighed.

"so you know how boyle and holt have been disappearing every now and again for that murder case?" he asked, and when you nodded he continued. "there was no murder case. they were down here."

furrowing your eyebrows, you spotted yet another sign directed for the prison. "what were they doing?"

"trying to prove jake and rosa innocent."

you swallowed, stomach tightening at his speech, turning your head to look out the window. "and?" part of you didn't want to know the outcome, but then... if there was a chance, you wanted- needed to know.

terry let the smile creep into the corners of his lips. "why do you think we're on the way to the prison?"

"sarge?" you really didn't want to get your hopes up, but all the signs were pointing in the best direction. "don't play around-"

"charles and gina are currently on their way to get rosa, and we wouldn't be on our way to the prison if jake wasn't getting released today."

"he's free?" terry hadn't seen your eyes go to bright in all the six months jake had been gone, but there they were.

he nodded, grinning now and turning into the prison pick up. "yes!"

happiness, hope. for the first time in six months, your boyfriend would be a free man and everything would go back to normal. the two of you would go back to new york and finally be together again.

when terry was finished parking, the two of you swiftly left the car and entered the main part of the prison. there were a couple others standing around, also waiting to pick people up but you stood out in the open, making sure you were visible easily to anyone that walked through the corridor.

the place was a shit hole, to say the least. even this waiting area was drab. yellow, bordering on beige walls, the stone and brick still visible in a lot of places. down the corridor, you could take a peak at where ex-convicts stood to finish the paperwork and pick up their belongings. a tired officer in a beige uniform sat behind a glass screen with a speak on each side, stamping each piece of paper that was slid underneath the glass. he probably hated his job just as much as the convicts hated being in the prison.

it was as you noticed a mother to the left of you hugging her 20-odd year old son who was just released, when you saw him.

he had the largest smile possible on his face, still in the beige prison uniform, donning a beard that had only been a work in progress since you last saw him. you didn't hate it, you realized, as you watched him pick up his stuff, a bit of cash, keys and the clothes he first arrived in all those six months ago. oh, it felt like a lifetime ago, now.

when he turned, his eyes were at his feet. the officer accompanying him undid his handcuffs, letting him go. you saw him thank the officer before moving forward. he was truly a sweetheart, even in the worst possible circumstances.

then he saw you, and his smile only grew larger.

you caught his eyes, dropping your bag at your feet, knowing terry would take care of it while you were away. you ran to him.

"jake!" you shouted, as you did so, jumping into his arms as he also dropped what he was carrying. he caught you perfectly as he mumbled your name, burying his face into your neck as your legs wrapped around his waist. "oh my god."

"i missed you so much." he sighed into your skin, breathing you in and simultaneously breathing in the reality: he was a free man now.

dropping your legs from around his waist, you resting a hand on his cheek, pulling him down to your level. his hands fell to your hips, one moving to the small of your back as he kissed you like a starved man finally given a meal. okay, the beard was definitely growing on you, you had to admit.

pulling away, you grinned up at him. "what's it feel like finally being a free man?"

"so good, babe." he cooed, soft 'baby browns', as charles called them, staring back down at you, reaching down to take your hand in his in order to start walking back to terry. "there's so much i've missed, i wanna do everything."

"ti-"

"title of my sex tape, i know." he chuckled under his breath, looking at you with purely a look of love. full of hope, full of a future. just a couple days ago, the world looked bleak; he had years left rotting away in prison, but now everything was looking up. life would go back to normal. "come on, let's get home, i need to get back to normality as soon as possible."

you hummed at him, making your way back over to terry.

"it was so difficult keeping it from you!" boyle admitted, taking a sip from his beer as he was sat at the booth's table at shaw's a day later.

jake slid into the booth, sat next to you, the next round gathered between his hands. "they didn't tell you?"

when the three of you had landed back in brooklyn, nobody wanted to do anything. you texted rosa, making sure she was okay and everything went well with her release but soon enough, you and jake had caught an uber back to your shared apartment and collapsed into bed, too tired to do anything but sleep.

the next morning, the captain arranged a set of drinks at shaw's for everyone to meet to celebrate jake and rosa's return. everyone that was important turned up. after so long without jake, you were practically glued to his hip. rosa and gina were catching up with holt up by the bar, terry and sharon had to leave early to get back to the girls, which left you, amy, jake, charles and genevieve in one of the booths.

you laughed at jake as he rested a hand on your thigh, drinking from his glass as he looked to you for an answer.

"no, i had no clue." chuckling, you turned to charles. "they were so worried i'd fall into yet another pit of depression if it didn't work, they just didn't involve me, then suddenly terry had got me onto a flight to jericho, and well, you know the rest."

everyone but jake laughed, with eyebrows furrowed he set his beer down onto the nearest coaster, looking directly at you. you noticed, but didn't get to say anything before charles continued the conversation further.

he shook his head, laughing. "i tried to get the sarge to let me take you down to jericho instead, but of course, there was no way i would have been able to keep the secret for even five minutes so terry insisted he take you."

"you were so bummed." amy chimed in.

picking up your own drink that jake had bought over just a couple seconds ago, you took a sip, trying to distract yourself from jake's gaze.

it wasn't that you didn't want him to know about your state when he was away, you just didn't want to have that conversation. him being gone had knocked you down an insane amount, and that was embarrassing to admit. you had personally decided it would just be better for him to never find out about it. to save yourself and him having that conversation.

but jake peralta was an insistent man. he wasn't going to let it go unnoticed, that was for sure.

as charles, amy and genevieve fell into conversation, jake turned to you, lowering his voice in order to not let the others pick up on what he was saying. you gulped as he started speaking. "babe, what did you mean by a pit of depression?"

"don't... uh, don't worry about it." you brushed it off, trying to weave yourself back into the groups conversation, but jake simply did not let that happen.

"please talk to me about this."

you looked him dead in the eyes, seeing love and worry mixed in with the brown and knowing that you would have to speak about it. you nodded, gesturing to the door and watching as jake slipped out of the booth, taking your hand.

"jake and i will be right back." you spoke, letting the others wave you off as jake let you outside.

it wasn't cold outside, still early september, but a shiver ran down your spine as you leant against the brick wall of the alley that ran down the side of shaw's bar.

swallowing, you crossed your arms over your chest and watched as he looked over your figure. "jake, i think you might possibly be the best thing that's ever happened to me. so, naturally, having to live in our apartment without you, having to wake up without you, go into our place of work knowing you wouldn't be there, having to work on cases without your input, it got to a point that i couldn't handle."

his eyes softened at you, your gaze falling to your shoes against the ground. "oh, honey."

"it got better eventually, but for a couple weeks, i let cases go, i stayed home a lot, you get the idea." you admitted, laughing a bit about it now, knowing that jake was standing right in front of you and everything was okay again.

"it makes sense why the squad didn't tell you that they were investigating my innocence," he nodded as he spoke, understanding the situation better. "because i don't even want to think about what would have happened if you had known and they hadn't been able to get me out."

smiling softly at him, you nodded.

"c'mere." he mumbled, palm against your cheek as he lend down and softly, softer than ever, pressed his lips against yours. you let yourself fall into him, fingers grasping at his shirt as he hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against his body.

you sighed through your nose, eyes fluttering open as he relaxed backward. "i love you."

smiling, he lifted your chin with his index finger. "i love you more, always. i'll do anything to make sure i never leave like that again."

hand in hand, the two of you made your way back into the bar. you knew you wouldn't stay for much longer, just wanting to spend time with each other. as you slid into the booth again, jake leant into your ear for one last comment.

"i think you're the best thing to ever happen to me, too, by the way."

you smiled as he pulled back, inserting himself into a conversation with charles again, watching as he spoke. everything was okay again, after six dim months: everything was okay, and it would stay that way for as long as the two of you were able to make sure it did.

[nereidprinc3ss]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

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

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

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

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

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

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

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

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

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

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

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

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

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

You go still.

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

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

And god, that does something to you.

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

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

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is morning, and then there is night.

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

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

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

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

"Spencer."

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

"Come to bed."

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

"I can’t."

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

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

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

A pause.

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

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

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

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

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

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

You just want him to rest.

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

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

So instead, you say nothing.

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

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

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

Morning. Again.

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

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

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

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

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

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

Morning.

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

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

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

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

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

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer is slow to let you go.

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

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he says simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

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

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s nothing rushed about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

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

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

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

He answers you with a kiss.

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

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

“Again,” he whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

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

And you let him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

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

You don’t let him finish.

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

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

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” he whispers.

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

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

"I know, I know."

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

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

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

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

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

Spencer bursts into laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

Your stomach grumbles again.

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

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

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

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You knew this would happen.

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

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

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

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

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

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

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

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

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

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

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

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

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

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

You are in his arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

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

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

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

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

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one word for it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

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

Spencer just stares at you.

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

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

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

"I would never say that-"

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

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

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

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

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

“You make coming home easy.”

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

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

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

It’s the perfect time to strike.

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

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

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

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

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

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

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

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

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

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

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

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

“I do not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[fatuismooches]

Now I realized we're always comforting the segments since the time of their life is depressing, but we never comfort Prime himself. The one who experienced everything. Reading the Zeta fic honestly broke me, I just want to go up to Prime and hug him and pamper him and everything.

The segments are from one point in Dottore's life. One phase. They don't usually stray from the personality or actions they've had during that time. Perhaps that's why you found it easier to comfort them, as they never left that state, and you could read them better. But Prime, he is a culmination of all of them, he is them and yet he is not at the same time. He has a bit of all of them ingrained in him and yet he's not the same as them.

The more you get to know about the segments, the more you indirectly get to know about Prime as well. On the very rare occasions you get to see the segments being vulnerable, your heart aches not only for them but for Prime as well. At least the segments now have you for comfort and reassurance, but who did Dottore have back then? He had no one, only faced with the reality of your sleeping body daily. When the realization hits you, it just hurts you... really bad. Prime never shows any weakness - he's always cunning. Intimidating. Manipulative. Around you he was confident. Teasing. Bold. One could never guess how he felt all those years ago. You could have never guessed, and you know him better than anyone.

You don't even know how to bring up the topic, you imagine that even if you try he'll brush it off and change the subject. That was simply the man he was - he'd never admit to such things, at least not without a lot of nudging, (and you meant a lot.) Instead, you settle with making sure that he knows you're here now, and that you're always going to be with him. You randomly hug him throughout the day (even if he does get a bit annoyed at times.) Nuzzling your cheek on the top of his head, into the soft fluff of his hair, arms gently but firmly wrapped around him as he questions your sudden presence, shuffling through paperwork, but you remain silent as your grip tightens.

You don't even care if the position is uncomfortable, you just hold him and hope to transfer your feelings to Dottore somehow. You don't care how weak you are, if you can do something to make him less stressed you'll do it. Cooking his favorites to pampering him in the bath (the lazy way he lays on you while you wash his hair, it's almost as if he's going to crush you) to even organizing his office just the way he likes it without him knowing. You mumble sweet things into his ear while he gives you that look at the almost nauseating cheesiness, you kiss his scars and rub your hands over his calloused areas.

You don't care about anything. You just want to provide some comfort to him. It's the least you can do, after everything you've caused in the last few centuries.

[scurvgirl]

The Milkovich house is a disaster. Actually, disaster is an understatement. Ian always knew how the Milkoviches lived, shit he'd lived that that too for a bit. But it hits different when you're one of two people now tasked with sorting through everything.

Most of it is trash. Some of it, though, is meaningful. An even smaller portion of it is pure treasure.

Ian pulls out a picture, clearly taken years and years ago. It shows two young children, more like toddlers really, dressed up in matching costumes. A Mickey and Minnie Mouse.

"Holy shit," Ian breathes as he stares at the picture. He knows it's his husband but he has to be sure. He flips the picture over and in neat, blue ink reads "Mickey and Mandy, Halloween 1997". He can barely process it. Little Mickey. Little Mickey dressed as Mickey Mouse. He flips the picture over again to stare at how adorable his best friend and husband were when they were little. Mickey is smiling in the photo, a big open mouthed smile, maybe even mid laugh. Adorable. Precious.

"Hey, whatcha got there?" Mickey's voice cuts through Ian's thoughts. Oh no, Mickey shouldn't see this. But also....

"Just a picture of you and Mandy." He tries to deflect, but Mickey's quick. He darts to Ian's side and snags a peak of the picture before Ian can hide it.

He expects curses, eye rolls, maybe a hand to snatch it from Ian. What he did not expect is how Mickey goes still then looks away.

"Throw it away."

"Mick-

"Throw it away! My...my mom took that. Before she...look, just throw that shit away." Mickey picks up a beyond-repair shirt and stuffs it into a 'throw away' trash bag. He stomps off into the house, leaving Ian alone with the picture.

He looks down at little smiling Mickey and Mandy. He can't throw this away, he can't just toss whatever evidence that some parts of Mickey's childhood weren't all bad. He tucks the picture into his coat and continues to sort through the mess.

__

Much, much later, they're home. They shower together for quickness and it really is quick (okay, there is some groping) before falling into bed together. Fuck clothes, they're married and at this point, everyone in the house has seen them.

Ian turns to Mickey and tentatively places his hand over his husband's. Mickey accepts it, a finger worries at Ian's wedding band.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Shit, Ian, when do I ever want to talk about it?"

There's a long pause before Mickey presses his free hand to his eyes. "I dunno, man, it's just...I'm a fucking orphan. Terry was fucked up and terrible and I wanted to kill him, should have killed him, but he was...fuck. I dunno. I dunno all this feeling shit is just fucked."

Ian doesn't respond verbally right away, instead he scoots over and gently coaxes Mickey into his arms. Mickey allows it, his head coming to rest on Ian's pec while Ian holds his hand.

"I fucking hate him. He taught me how to shoot, how to hotwire a car. I hate him and he's gone. He...he hurt you."

"This isn't about me," Ian whispers, giving Mickey a squeeze.

"It is cuz I'd be...I'd be in jail right now because I'd have killed that stupid fucking nun by now if it wasn't because of your stupid ginger ass."

Ian pauses, listens to Mickey's breath hitch, feels wetness not from their shower on his chest.

"Do you want to kill her?" Ian asks softly after a while.

"No."

Oh so gently, Ian cups Mickey's jaw and tilts his reddened, tear streaked face up.

"I'm sorry you're hurting, baby, and I am not sorry he's gone. He hurt you and he can't do that anymore." Ian presses a kiss to Mickey's forehead.

Mickey doesn't say much more, either from exhaustion or not wanting to talk about it anymore. Either way, Ian holds him and he doesn't pull away.

"That picture you found was the best day of my life before you. Mom dressed Mandy and I up, we went trick'or'treating, ate so much fucking candy. Then she had to fucking die." Mickey sniffles and Ian holds him closer.

"So stupid, dressed up as that damn mouse."

"You were cute," Ian cuts in because he can't help himself, "you're still cute."

"Sap." Mickey pushes Ian without any real force, making them both smile.

"Yeah, I...have a confession, Mick."

"Fuck, what?"

"I didn't throw the pic away."

Mickey doesn't respond right away, just runs a finger along Ian's chest, fidgeting with some of his chest hair.

"Good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

__

They're back at the house the next day. More trash. More hateful messages and books and shit that Ian would like to forget.

In the end, it's Mickey who finds it. He walks out of one of the smaller bedrooms holding a short, black book. He's staring at it like it's some foreign object or a bomb about to go off. Ian is by his side in a moment.

The book's label is written in that same neat script as the picture - "Mickey and Mandy Growing Up".

"It's a photo album," Ian whispers.

"Yep." Mickey's eyes don't move away from it. His body is still.

Ian places a hand on Mickey's shoulder, "You don't have to open it here, or even today or tomorrow. Let's pack it and when you're ready, we can look at it. Together." Finally Mickey moves. He nods his head and gives the album to Ian.

"Keep it with the picture."

Ian takes the album then leans forward to press a kiss to his brave, emotional, incredible husband. His husband who has the chance to be as happy as the little boy in the picture.

[skyyguy]

Last Line/WIP Thursday

Tagged by @onyxsboxes @wayrad and @thegrandpineapple It's from the current winter fic I'm working on and I'm so mad at this fic okay

“You need a damn muzzle,” Gale huffed back, but he knew John could hear the silent plea in his voice, feel it in the way he pressed back against his fingers, the groan that vibrated through his spine, pressed against John’s chest. “And you called me the dog,” John growled, ignoring the snide remark to comment on the way Gale's cunt flexed around his fingers, pulling him in, eager and soaked. He nipped along the ridges of Gale’s spine, sliding his legs down the bed till he could sink his teeth into the plushness of Gale’s ass. Gale yelped at the pain that shot through him from John’s unusually sharp canines, his cunt squeezing around John’s fingers, a groan passing his lips before he could stop it. “Shut up and fuck me, John,” Gale ordered, voice rough and feral, and John hummed as he lavished his tongue over the bite mark, pumping his fingers, scissoring them to help stretch an already-well-fucked stretched Gale out.

Tagging @swifty-fox @sleepr-agent420 @air-exec

[wikiangela]

wip wednesday🎄

tagged by @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove

i wasn't gonna post anything but i wrote quite a lot today and need validation lmao (I think I might be about halfway done but who knows, it always gets away from me haha) today some buckley siblings feels, and hopefully soon ill get to the fluffy christmas part haha

prev snippet

___

"(...) I used to make stuff for Maddie, and then when I was older I would save money to buy her something small and mostly symbolic.” he glances at Eddie. There’s a mix of bittersweet nostalgia and sadness on his face. “She made all my Christmases bearable, and after she left-” he stops abruptly and quietly clears his throat. When he speaks again, he doesn’t finish the sentence. Eddie wants to ask, but he figures Buck will share what he’s comfortable sharing, he doesn’t want to push. “But that was the one thing I wanted so badly, more than anything, more than any cool toys or- or anything,” he chuckles again, “and Maddie tried to give it to me, and she got in trouble for it. So after that, I just never asked again.”

“Buck.” Eddie says softly, wishing he could do anything to make it better, to fucking go back in time and give Buck all the Christmases he ever dreamt about.

“But I always wished-” Buck continues, then glances at Eddie nervously. 

“Wished what?” Eddie’s thumb softly swipes along Buck’s neck and jawline, as far as he can reach. He just wants to comfort him somehow, and at the moment this is the only way he knows how, just a comforting touch, being there, listening.

“That one day, when I grew up,” Buck looks down at his lap again, his voice getting even quieter, “I’d have my own family and I’m gonna do matching Christmas sweaters every single year, and take tons of pictures of us all together, and-” he pauses again, and, with a teary laugh, raises his hand to wipe at his eyes. Eddie wants to wrap him in his arms and hold him. (...) “But it doesn’t matter, I don’t-” Buck shakes his head, and leans away from Eddie’s touch. Eddie aches to keep touching him, to reach out and follow, but he respects that clearly that’s not what Buck wants anymore, that’s fine. “I don’t have my own family yet, so it doesn't matter. Let’s just drop it.” he says, tone decisive, face red, eyes glued to the screen again. 

Eddie frowns. What the hell is Buck talking about? He has a family, right here.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @911onabc @spagheddiediaz @housewifebuck @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @honestlydarkprincess @underwater-ninja-13 @eowon @weewootruck @loserdiaz @evanbegins @steadfastsaturnsrings @ladydorian05 @malewifediaz @pirrusstuff @theotherbuckley @911-on-abc @hoodie-buck @wildlife4life @fortheloveofbuddie @nmcggg @diazpatcher @jesuisici33 @lover-of-mine @giddyupbuck @spotsandsocks @exhuastedpigeon @buckaroosheart @hippolotamus @king-buckley @callmenewbie @jeeyuns @disasterbuckdiaz @monsterrae1 @thewolvesof1998 @jamespearce9-1-1 @daffi-990

[beanghostprincess]

"Jealousy and other pathetic feelings"

(Zolu/Sanuso fanfic)

Luffy’s like the sun. So bright and hot that it burns if you approach him enough. Everybody wants to stare at him, but only Zoro is brave enough to get blinded and melt in his rays. Usopp, on the other hand, is so domestic and fragile Sanji fears he might slip in between his fingers like sand. It’s delicate. Both things are. - Zoro and Sanji pining over their boyfriends and moping around with jealousy because Luffy and Usopp are acting closer than usual.

This is a silly fluffy prompt that @leiatroublecat gave me and I turned it into a bittersweet, character analysis, angsty fic because I am a menace to society! That being said, I hope you all enjoy it!! <3

[citrine-elephant]

hey who wants dilf leon tied up and squirming again

[headfullof-ideas]

took a break to stop screaming at the ONE PART of the chapter I’m working on (which is the VERY last scene and a half of the entire thing, btw, which makes it all the more frustrating that words refuse to come) to do some doodles that I told myself to wait to do until i finished the chapter. And by doodles i mean out of context storyboard scenes. I have a few different sets to post

Most of these are actually from the next few chapters in a row, or the chapter i’m working on, save for two. I will not say which two. That’s the whole point of ‘out of context’

[dacialogansuperfan]

hi hello here's a megarod drabble

rated g

rodimus yanks open the door to his favourite supply-closet-turned-hiding-spot and promptly falls face first into chest armour like a brick wall. the door is swiftly tugged shut again, a broad servo brushing against his lower back for an astrosecond before fingers close around the handle and pull, plunging the small space into near darkness. their optics, fixed on each other, provide just enough light for rodimus to make out the slight downward curve to megatron’s mouth. not a frown, more of a wince.

“so,” rodimus starts, leaning back against the door to put what distance he can between them. a frame as large as megatron’s, built for hard labour and cobbled together half from spare parts, runs hotter than the average mech. so does rodimus, for obvious and significantly cooler reasons, and the two of them stuffed into a space that can charitably be called tailgate-sized are beginning to throw off uncomfortable levels of heat, even for him. “come here often?”

megatron sighs. just that small movement of his chest, a quick breath in and released, knocks their plating together, megatron’s armour scraping lightly against his cheek. it already feels a little hot to the touch. when he speaks, rodimus can feel that too, the soft rumble of it passing through him, almost shaking the tips of his helm. 

“no,” and somehow, there’s no reproach in that tone. just a faint, lingering amusement that could be about the existence of rodimus’ secret hiding place, in general, or their present situation, specifically. “but i’m guessing you do.”

rodimus grins. for once, megatron doesn’t have a leg to stand on, vis-à-vis being the more competent captain, if he’s been holed up in the secret hideout longer than rodimus has. which he has. right now, at least, rodimus is totally kicking his aft at being professional, and captainly, and pretty much everything else regarding heading up the lost light, if only because he hasn’t spent the majority of his duty shift in a closet.

never mind that he was planning to spend the rest of his shift in said closet. still is, tentatively, provided megatron’s bizarrely good – as good as it gets with megatron, which pretty much means he’s not actively annoyed at something –  mood lasts, and he doesn’t decide to haul the both of them back to the bridge.

speaking of –

“why are you in here, anyway?” this close, he has to crane his neck to get a good look at megatron’s face, and even then, he’s mostly staring at scuffed chest armour, swooping engravings to either side of an autobot symbol mostly obscured in the dark, and the curve of megatron’s lip plates. he watches them curl into a slight grimace, deepened by the shadows thrown from rodimus’ own optics.

“i’m avoiding minimus.” straight to the point, with only the tiniest bit of shame. rodimus is starting to feel a weird kind of deja vu, but for an experience he’s only ever been on the other side of. it’s both deeply strange, and a little thrilling stepping into megatron’s role, seeing that chastised look in his optics. rodimus takes a step forward, forcing megatron to take one back to keep their plating from colliding.

megatron looks down at him, still wearing that almost-frown, but with a tilt to his helm that suggests confusion, rather than anger. rodimus just smiles at him, brings one hand up to rest over the patterns on his chest.

“i thought you two got along?” at rodimus’ questioning look, one massive shoulder shrugs, scraping against the side of the closet with a muffled shriek. megatron winces, optics shuttering against the noise, and tries to shift his weight away from the wall. he only succeeds in knocking over a cluster of mops leaned against the other side of the supply closet, and his optics stay closed throughout the ensuing clatter that creates. rodimus muffles a laugh into the crook of his free arm, the one not resting against megatron’s heated plating.

when megatron’s optics finally flicker back on, rodimus pokes him in the chest. “so?”

megatron sighs, jostling rodimus’ servo. “you’re right, we usually get along… surprisingly.” that last word softer than the rest, like it wasn’t entirely intentional. rodimus gets that. megatron liking any of them, them liking megatron, was possibly the most surprising thing to happen on this ship – and that was a difficult, if dubious honor to earn. it wasn’t bad, just – hard to wrap a processor around. the relationship between all the autobots on this ship and their co-captain was still tentative, delicate.

rodimus is not entirely sure he’s including himself in that, though.

something else thunks heavily to the floor as megatron brings his arms up behind him to rest, at a somewhat awkward angle, on a low shelf. they’re doing sort of a terrible job at hiding, if that’s what this is. his mouth is a wry smile when he says, “he loses me at alphabetizing.”

rodimus laughs again, a quick burst that is mostly muffled into megatron’s chest. he seems to be doing that often in megatron’s presence, since the universe jump. it’s another one of those tentative, delicate things that he mostly avoids thinking about.

the light of their optics, blue and red overlapping each other in the diminishing space between their faces as rodimus leans up to do something stupid, if only because he hasn’t in a while and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to not think about those delicate things in this tight, hot space with megatron smiling at him like they’re sharing a secret. it reminds him of those flimsy little glasses he’d once picked up on earth, red and blue, held up to his optic and watched the world split into two. this feels sort of like that, between one blink and the next megatron’s smile disappears and is replaced with that same, oddly charming looking of confusion from earlier. rodimus is practically on the tips on his pedes, his arms coming up to wrap around megatron’s neck. holding him in place, or holding himself up.

likely a bit of both.

“well, since we’re here, and we’ve got time to kill,” he says by way of explanation, before brushing his lip plates against megatron’s. quickly, before he can lose his nerve.  

megatron makes a small sound of surprise against his mouth, the soft derma cracked in a half-dozen places of gentle friction against his own, but doesn’t push him away. instead, two rough, large hands come up to rest at his waist, grip paradoxically light. he shivers anyway, pushes himself more firmly against megatron, who finally starts kissing him back.   

rodimus’ back hits the door behind him with a dull thump. he feels himself being pushed, gently, back to the ground, until megatron is bent over him, above and all around him, rodimus’ pedes planted firmly on the floor.

it’s nice. really nice. rodimus can feel the beginnings of charge building lazily between them, the temperature in the already muggy closet climbing by degrees, but for now just this is enough.

when they finally pull away from each other, rodimus slaps a hand to megatron’s mouth.

“we can talk about it later,” and yeah, maybe he makes a face at that, but he does mean it. “okay?”

the look on megatron’s face, what’s visible of it, is almost comically relieved. rodimus snorts, keeping his hand over megatron’s mouth until he gets an eager nod. for a guy who made a name for himself by talking, he avoids the personal kind with an efficiency bordering on pathological. rung might have something to say about it, at least, but rodimus is all for it.

they have time, to deal with whatever this is properly. for now, megatron’s lips over his, warm and yielding, moments after he pulls his hand away – like he can’t wait – is good enough.

[skyfumgus]

I am sadden by the lack of pizzahead fluff fics.

Like come on man, let me read fluff of the fucking clown. I feel like it would be very cool

[hanamuranobuyuki]

Preview: A Birthday Drabble for Jiro

Hello, Hi, Hana here with a little special preview for Jiro's birthday. I fell asleep while writing this, so I couldn't finish it, but I hope to finish it soon. I thought that I would share a little sneak peek preview of it here though. Hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Jiro x Jyushi

Rating: T for a bunch of fluff and shenanigans

Jiro never thought much about birthdays. He thought that he had all that he needed already. He had Ichiro and Saburo. He had his family. What more could he ever ask for?

Well, all that changed when he came across a certain individual, contrasting him in every single thing he embodied. With layered locks that shone in the sunlight, with eyes that glittered under the stars, with skin as unblemished as untrodden fields of snow. He was… something. Something divine. And Jiro honestly thought it was something sort of a miracle that he even got to know someone like this.

If anything, Jiro would have to thank his experience in the Division Rap Battles. Because that’s how they met. And unintentionally… it was how…

They fell in love.

A blue cased phone buzzes in his pocket as he waves goodbye to his friends. And suddenly, his smile is almost blinding.

“Happy Birthday, Jiro!”

It’s just a simple text message right now, because Jiro knows how he likes to text. He’ll receive a barrage of messages soon enough. And then just in time, because he sees a picture of the person in question, posing with his beloved and well-loved stuffed pig.

“Amanda also wanted to wish you a Happy Birthday!”

Jiro lets out a warm laugh as he enlarges the picture to get a closer look at his love. Today, he has decided to wear a fuzzy sweater that exposes his defined collarbones. Adorning his neck is a leather choker with spikes. And he’s completed his look with a full on black smokey shadow, partnered with a black and deep red lipstick. It’s a little more than what he usually wears, so Jiro can only surmise one thing and one thing only.

He was preparing for a performance, or already performed.

Jiro grins. And he spends another few moments saving this precious picture into his ever growing folder of pictures of him.

Pressing some more buttons, Jiro presses the call button.

After a couple rings, the dial tone ends.

“Jiro! Are you done with school?”

Jiro gazes up at the sky with the largest grin on his face.

“Yeah, Jyushi. I’m done. Thanks for the birthday wishes.”

“Ehehe. You’re welcome! I’m just happy that I managed to reach you before my performance…”

Jiro touches the back of his neck with a small smile.

Who would’ve thought that just a simple phone call from Aimono Jyushi would make him sappy like this…

When they first met, Jiro thought that there was no way that they would get along. But so much has happened in the course of these months, that those initial thoughts seem so far away now. Especially now, when Buster Bros!!! and Bad Ass Temple are basically as close as family itself. It almost feels like it was going to be an inevitable change. Jiro is… taken aback by it, sure. But, looking at where he is now, there’s just no way that he would exchange this for any other experience.

Not when he realizes that what he’s experienced has to have been…

Love.

The two continue to talk about the simple things, as they normally do when they have a moment to chat like this. It’s something that they don’t take for granted, especially because of the fact that they are in this… long distance relationship. Wow, that's hard to believe, Jiro realizes. He's been in a long distance relationship! And he's still going strong with this relationship!! Maybe the reason why is because of these things. Their little conversations. Even if it feels like they talk about nothing important, it’s important enough for them. Because they’re willing to share moments with each other. The most mundane, mindless ones of them all.

And if that isn’t love… then what is it that they have?

Jiro reaches a sidewalk and he catches his dopey expression in a reflection in the reflection of a storefront. He can’t wipe that dumb expression off of his face. And frankly, he has no desire to anyways. Whenever he looks at his expression like this, Jyushi has always bubbled in this adorable laugh that made his nose crinkle and his radiance just blinds Jiro into this dumb stupor. But then Jyushi would reach out, interlacing their fingers into a tight hand hold. And he would hold their locked hands right over his thudding heart, with a content smile.

So Jiro will just continue to look like this: love struck and simply stupid in love. It pretty much applies to their situation anyways. And who cares if Saburo makes fun of him for looking like this. It’s his birthday, after all. He can look dopey for his birthday!

“So, are you going to have to leave soon?” Jiro asks Jyushi. A gentle hum is his response.

“Yeah… I’m going to have to leave… but I’ll call you later, okay? I want to be there when you blow the candles on your birthday cake!”

Jiro stifles a chuckle at that response. “Well, I certainly won’t complain. But I’m not gonna hold it against you if you can’t make it. You’re busy with your live and all that…”

“But I want to be there! Jiro is my- Jiro is m-m-my partner and I wanna share all the moments with you!”

To Be Continued...

[do-you-know-this-adhd-character]

Do you know this (canon) ADHD character?

Proof: Discussed within the book, from chapter 2