#after burn fic

[sincerelybubbles]

it's a date || spencer reid x reader

part 2

warnings: cannon-typical violence/mentions of murder and kidnapping, slow burn, fluff!, early seasons spencer, not proof read

word count: 6.1k

You sigh and crack your knuckles, staring down at the pot simmering on the stove. You know that the sauce would be okay if you left it for a few minutes, did something else, but you remain standing, uselessly stirring it every few seconds. Truthfully, you’re bored. Your mind shifts from cooking to work tomorrow, itching to pull out your documents and scan through them one more time. But you know you shouldn’t, advise about work-life balance tugging at your attention. 

You’re debating if you should pick up a book and try to read, something light to take your mind off of the day, when a knock sounds from the front door. Your dog, Penny, a lovely golden retriever you rescued a few years ago, lets out a weak woof before slowly standing and trotting to the door. She’s old, more grey than golden, but she never fails to answer the door with you. 

You turn the stove off and move the pot off of the burner, wiping your hands as you walk, when another knock echoes through the hallway. It’s sharp, official, loud. The sound fills you with anxiety. You stand on your toes to look out of the peephole.

“Hello?” You ask through the door, not recognizing the men standing outside and seeing no package in sight. 

“Hello, Jason Gideon, FBI, could we have a word?” The older man says, voice stern but not unkind. 

You open the door without unlatching the chain, peering out through the crack. “FBI?”

Jason Gideon, the one who spoke, pulls out his badge first. The lankier man next to him follows in suit. Your eyes linger on him for a second longer than the other agent, taking in his toussled brown hair. You scan the badges for a second before shutting the door to undo the chain. 

“Sorry, you can’t be too careful, you know?”

“Oh, we know that all too well,” Gideon says good-naturedly, “it’s good to be cautious.”

He asks your name, you give it, and nods sharply, looking to his partner. “Well, like I said, I’m Jason Gideon with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, FBI, and this is my partner Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“Well, come on in, Agent Gideon and Dr. Reid,” you say, waving them both in and shutting the door. 

“Just Gideon is fine.”

Dr. Reid sends you a tight lipped smile as he walks in, adjusting his shirt and otherwise avoiding your gaze. He seems nervous. 

“Would you two like something to drink while you tell me why you’re here? Coffee, tea, water?” You ask, twisting the dishcloth between your hands as you lead them inside.

“I wouldn’t say no to some coffee,” Gideon says. You nod and turn to Dr. Reid, who is staring at you with his mouth slightly agape. 

“Oh, yeah, coffee for me too, please.”

“Of course, have a seat,” you say, waving them to the small table in your kitchen and moving to prepare their drinks. Neither of them sit.

“How well do you know your neighbors?” Gideon asks as you start the coffee. 

You shrug. “As well as anyone does these days, I guess. I wave when I drive past them, smile when they’re out front at the same time. Why, has something happened? I saw the police cars earlier, on my way home from work, but I haven’t heard anything else.”

“Yes ma’am,” Dr. Reid says, even though he looks your age, maybe even a few years older. “Your neighbor across the street was murdered last night, Mrs. Furgison, and her eight-year-old son is missing. Did you hear anything?”

You fall still, facing away from the two officers. Numb, you shake your head, “No, I didn’t. I wasn’t home last night. I was watching my niece for my sister.” You turn around to face them, leaning back against the counter. “But there are cameras outside, I’m assuming that’s why you’re here?” “Yes,” Gideon confirms with a nod. “Would you be okay if we took a look at the last few weeks of footage if you have it?”

“You want to see if he’s been visiting before last night,” you mumble, nodding. “Yes, of course.”

“Do you work in law enforcement?” Dr. Reid asks, the question erupting from him like he couldn’t hold it back. “You’re shockingly calm and seem to know what we’re going to ask before we get to it.”

“Oh, yeah,” you chuckle, waving a hand in the air and turning to pull the pot of coffee out. “BAU, of course, you’d see right through me. I’m a victim liaison. I read through this process hundreds of times a week. Sugar?”

“No, thanks,” Gideon answers as Dr. Reid blurts out, “Yes, please.”

You set the mugs on the kitchen counter along with a container of sugar.

“Help yourself, I’ll grab my laptop to get those files for you.”

When you come back, laptop in tow, Gideon and Dr. Reid are having a hushed conversation, both holding their mugs of coffee. You round the corner slowly but loudly, aware that sometimes agents can be jumpy. Gideon smiles at you while Dr. Reid looks over sharply. 

It fits, given their ages and presumably how long each have been in the field. You try to send him a reassuring smile. He reciprocates but still looks obviously awkward, fixing his hair and taking a sip of coffee.

“Would you like me to put the files on a USB? Email them somewhere? Or just,” you motion with the computer, offering it over. 

“I can take it,” Dr. Reid offers, “send the files to Garcia.”

You let him, passing him the computer easily. With your job, the government is already elbows deep in that laptop, anyway; you have nothing to hide. 

You watch as Dr. Reid begins typing away on your computer, leaning over the table and resting his forearms on the edge. 

Both of the agents are dressed professionally: button-down shirts, slacks, dress shoes. Guns ready at the hip.

“You like to cook?” Gideon asks, nodding toward your forgotten pasta on the stove. 

“Yes and no,” you admit, chuckling and turning your attention to him. “It always tastes better than takeout but it’s hard to get the motivation. Are you hungry? Can I offer you anything else?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

“Of course. I know how overworked you lot can be.” You cross your arms and lean back against your counter. “What about you? Do you cook?”

“Not as often as I should,” he admits, smiling sadly. “Victim liaison, you said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You seem a little young.” “Could say the same about him.” You nod at Dr. Reid who doesn’t hear you, too focused on his work. “But I guess drive and pretty much no social life can get you anywhere,” you admit with a laugh. 

“Garcia should have the files in a minute,” Dr. Reid interrupts, looking up from your laptop.

“I’ll give her a call.”

He steps out with a nod to you, walking back into the front hallway of your small home and leaving you alone with the doctor. 

He opens his mouth to say something before his eyes focus over your shoulder and his attention is stolen. “Sorry,” he says, moving past you and into your living room, toward your bookshelf. “Is that a Russian copy of Crime and Punishment?” He asks, brushing his finger over the spine of the book. 

“Oh, yeah, it is.” You follow him, staring up at your own bookshelf like you’ve never seen it before. It’s crammed full of books. There are more filling your bedroom down the hall as well. “It’s a slow read, I have to use a lexicon a lot of the time, but I sort of like the work. Translating’s a hobby of mine, I guess. When I have time. Sorry, that might be weird.”

“No, it’s not weird at all! Not to me, at least. Are you using a Dictionary-based lexicon? Can I see it? I have one that I love. I haven’t read much Russian but I have one for Greek. They’re rarely used anymore, falling out of popularity with the creation of the internet where everything is readily available to just search up, but I find them fascinating and I’ve never seen one for Russian before.”

He talks enthusiastically with his hands. His eyes shine, the interest lighting up his face. You think, before you remember the reason why he’s there, that he’s actually quite handsome. You become slightly breathless at the realization. You don’t really notice people like this often. But, towering above you, buttoned shirt pushed up to show his forearms and a self-concious smile stretching across his face, you’re a little flustered.

You take a breath, remembering that your neighbor is dead and a little boy is missing, sending Dr. Reid a small smile and motioning behind you.

“It’s in my office if you want to go look at it. I prefer it to just typing out the stuff I don’t know — mostly because I don’t have a Russian keyboard — and it’s easier to learn when you have to research it.”

“I would actually love –”

“Reid,” Gideon interrupts, ending his call, “Garcia got the files, we have to go.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“Thank you so much for your help,” Gideon says, walking toward you and offering his hand. “And for the coffee. So sorry to have interrupted your cooking.”

“Anytime detective,” you say, shaking his hand and smiling up at him, “always happy to help. I can give you my card if you need anything else?”

“That would be great, thank you.”

You rush to your bag to pull out one of your cards and hand it to Gideon before turning to offer Dr. Reid your hand. 

“It was nice to meet you, too, Dr. Reid.”

He takes your hand firmly. “Spencer’s fine,” he says, stumbling over his words slightly but still smiling. “Thank you for your help.”

“Anytime,” you repeat, letting them out and returning to your sad pasta. 

Your mind wonders, not to the murder or kidnapping, but to Spencer Reid. Wide brown eyes, tousled hair pushed out of his face, a sweet smile. Smart, too. Way too smart. 

You’re not exactly experienced when it comes to dating, you hadn’t lied to Gideon when you said you don’t make time for a social life, dating included, but you do know that an interest in a too-smart profiler might spell bad news. 

Still, as you portion out your meal, you can’t help but think that you’re feeling awfully motivated to return to working on Crime and Punishment. You don’t lie to yourself about the origins of this sudden spark of motivation, but you do rationalize it. What’s the harm in a fleeting crush, then? Especially if it gives you the push to finally finish one of the many projects hanging on your ever-growing list?

You suppose you might see them arround the office if they’re working in this jurisdiction, but then he’ll be gone and it’ll fade away. In the meantime, you make yourself a plate of food and settle down in your living room with the book and lexicon.

||||

“Well, that certainly poses an interesting problem,” you hear Cheif Saunders say as you walk into the police department the next morning, arms full of files ready for sorting. 

You round the corner to escape this attention but aren’t fast enough and he calls you over by name. Cringing, you turn on your heel and are faced, once again, with Gideon and Spencer. With them are two more men and two girls, all intimidating and confident. 

All FBI, if you had to wager a bet. 

“Morning,” you say, nodding to Gideon and Spencer respectively. “Nice to see you two again.”

“You’ve met?” The tall man next to Gideon asks, pointing the question to Spencer. He grins, white teeth overtaking his dark, handsome face. He reaches his hand out to shake yours, “Morgan, nice to meet you.”

You introduce yourself, explain your position, and receive introductions from JJ, Elle, and Hotchner as well. 

“Where did you meet our friends?” Chief Saunders asks, folding his hands in front of him and setting an accusatory glare on you. “Still preening for a new job?”

“No sir,” you say, uncomfortable. The chief is often cold with you, refusing to acknowledge your knowledge or work. When he found that you were looking to transfer stations to the one a district over, he’d still thrown a fit, though. You guess he can’t ignore how well your numbers reflect on him as easily as he deflects your accomplishments to your face. 

“We stopped by to get access to her cameras, she lives across the street from the Furgison’s,” Gideon explains, watchful eyes glancing between you and the chief. 

“They proved to be surprisingly useful,” Spencer interrupts. “We now know the make, model, and color of the unsubs car as well as his general height. Garcia is still trying to make out plates, but we are able to confirm at least pieces of our profile with the information.”

“You live across the street?” The chief asks, still staring at you. You shift your weight, holding the files closer to your chest. 

“Yes, sir. In a duplex.”

“Then, fellas, I’ve found the solution to our problem. You’ll set up with our little liaison, then.”

“Sorry?” You ask, startled. 

“We have reason to believe that the unsub is returning to the crime scenes after the police have left the area and allowed the family to return. But, if we know our guy, and we think we do,” Elle says, begrudingly, “he’s smart. He’s going to notice if we’re camped out in a car. And, in a residential street, it’s much harder to hide in a building.”

“So, you’ll have the opportunity to make yourself useful,” Chief Saunders chuckles, laying a heavy hand on your shoulder and shaking you.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” Gideon adds, glancing at you with a patient expression. 

“Yes, it would be a complete invasion of your privacy, agents would be there twenty-four-seven monitoring. We would only stay in the front areas of the house, of course, but you needn’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. There are always other ways.” Agent Hotchner fixes you with a level look, voice sincere. 

“Oh, she’s comfortable, aren’t ya?” The chief says, shaking you again with a wide smile. 

“Yes, of course,” you say, nodding at the others. You mean it, you’ll do whatever you can to help out, you just wish you could’ve made the choice yourself.

“This way, you don’t have to worry about confidentiality, either. Little Miss has full access to ongoing investigations, she’ll be there for all of the briefings and such.”

You nod, discretely moving a step back so his hand falls from your shoulder. 

“Yes, I’m meant to be kept up to date with all ongoing, violent investigations where and if possible to act as a bridge between law enforcement and victims and families of victims. Especially those with children involved — I should have mentioned we would cross paths again last night, I just wasn’t thinking.”

“Yes, we’ve worked with our fair share of liaisons,” Gideon chuckles, looking over his shoulder at JJ who gives him a small smile. 

“Then it’s all set. You boys let me know when you have your profile ready.” Elle watches him walk off with a hard stare, obviously just as rubbed wrong by him as you are. 

“Lovely man, isn’t he?” You joke, trying to make the situation lighthearted. 

“We’ve interacted before. Our headquarters isn’t actually far from here, just a twenty-minute drive, we’re up in Quantico. He doesn’t get any better with time, though.” Agent Hotchner shakes his head, turning to grab a file off of the desk behind him. 

“Well, he always forgets to offer his office space to visitors so I usually keep mine available. It’s quieter and there’s a whiteboard, follow me.”

||||

Since you started renting the small duplex by yourself, you’ve never felt awkward in your own home. Now, though, you feel odd taking up your own space. 

The majority of the Quantico team is set up in your front room with laptops, cameras, and microphones. 

“We don’t know exactly how long he usually takes to come back to scenes, only that it typically happens within the week,” Elle explains to you apologetically. 

“No problem — comes with the job, no?” You say, smiling and trying to brush it off. Elle laughs gently, nose wrinkling as she shakes her head. 

“No, not really. I wouldn’t be thrilled if these boys set up shop in my house, you’re taking this with much more grace than I would.”

You shrug, crossing your arms and tilting your head from side to side. “I won’t act like it’s normal, it is pretty weird having you guys here, but if it helps you catch this guy, why would I say no? Better me than some random civilian.” You hesitate, scrunching up your nose, “Better now than waiting for him to kill someone else.”

“Much more compassionate than I am,” Elle jokes, shaking her head and walking away as Gideon calls her name. 

The main problem, you think, is that the duplex isn’t very big. The part of the team that’ll be staying with you — Spencer, Gideon, Elle, and Morgan — have all settled in. They won’t come and go, their car is firmly parked in your garage, and they’ll keep a low profile to prevent the unsub from noticing their presence. You’re meant to come and go as normal to keep suspicion low in case he’s cased the entire neighborhood. But, with only two bedrooms, a baths, and a small office, you’re feeling slightly cramped. Whenever you turn, you feel like you’re coming toe-to-toe with someone. It’s awkward, considering you’re very used to living alone. 

Still, you’re determined to be a good host, so you set to preparing lunch for everyone. They’d insisted that you didn’t need to, but you really don’t know what else to do. You’d been given the day to help them all settle in and provide assistance wherever possible, but there isn’t much to do other than wait. 

You’re pulling out the things for sandwiches when Spencer walks in. 

“Hey, do you have an extra ethernet cable? Garcia thinks that a direct line would be better,” he asks. 

“Maybe, you’re free to check in the office if you want. If you need, you can always pull the one from my desktop,” you say, shutting the fridge and trying to balance everything in your arms in one trip.

“What’re you doing?” Spencer asks, reaching forward to grab the ham and mayo from the top of your stack. 

“Making sandwiches!”

“You really don’t have to. We can have food ordered, it’s okay.”

“I wanna make myself useful, I feel weird just standing around watching you guys work,” you say, dumping the materials on the counter. “I hope you guys like ham or turkey, it’s all I have.”

“You are being useful, though. You’ve let us set up in your home, how much more useful can you be?”

“I could provide food as well,” you say, sending him a smile. “Ham or turkey?”

Spencer looks exasperated, setting the ham and mayo down and shaking his head. Nervously, he uses both of his hands to push his hair back. “Either. Either is fine, thank you.”

You start to prepare the sandwiches, Spencer watching and still looking like he wants to say something. 

“Hey, Reid, I found one, we’re all set,” Morgan says, rounding the corner and waving the white chord in the air. “Oh, what’re you making?” He asks, stepping closer and leaning over your shoulder. 

“Sandwiches. I was asking Spence if you guys like ham and turkey but he wasn’t being helpful.”

“Well, Spence can be like that,” Morgan says, throwing Spencer a smirk over his shoulder. “But we’d appreciate anything.” “I was trying to tell her,” Spencer interrupts, “that it’s entirely unnecessary for her to make us lunch. She’s already done enough for us letting us set up here. The effort is appreciated, of course, obviously, you just shouldn’t have to. Because we’re already intruding.” He trails off as Morgan sends him a look, raising his eyebrow. 

“Well, I, for one, appreciate the offer,” Morgan says, leaning on the counter and smiling down at you. You laugh at him. 

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it! I do,” he says, turning to you and holding one of his hands up in a placating way, “I just don’t think, it’s very kind of course, I just –”

You cut him off, taking pity, “He’s fucking with you. Relax.”

||||

“I just can’t believe that you’re actually processing any of what you’re reading at that speed!” You say, throwing your arms up. 

“I actually am. Speed reading, when done right, doesn’t take away from comprehension at all. Plus, with my eidetic memory, I can always think back and process later if I need to,” Spencer explains. 

“Fine, you’re understanding what you’re reading in a general sense, but where’s the enjoyment in it? How can you possibly understand all the intricacies of the writing, what the author is doing, and appreciate the characters and their growth if you don’t take your time with it?” “I tend to focus my reading moreso on informational writing, so that’s not often a problem. And when I do read something fictional or with more nuance, I’m never lacking in any way when it comes to my understanding of the content, even when speed reading.”

“So you’re not actually taking the time to have fun reading is what I’m hearing.”

“Reading is inherently fun when you’re learning something, though,” he says, lips quirked in a slight smirk and a line forming between his eyebrows as he looks down at you. The look is so disarming that you find yourself deflating a little. 

You’re in your living room, a few books scattered on the coffee table between you two, debating the merits of each one. 

“I dunno,” you say, argument leaving you as you become distracted. 

“Just say I’m right! You know I am,” Spencer says with a chuckle, shaking his head and leaning toward you slightly, hands spread. 

You thought he was cute when he was shy, bumbling in your house yesterday, but after a few hours to warm up to each other, you can’t deny you really like him. 

The only thing that completely blocks the disappointment that they’ll all soon be leaving is that their UnSub will be caught when they have to leave. Your community and neighborhood will be better off for it. 

“No, I still think you’re wrong. Sure, you understand what you’re reading but I just don’t buy that you could possibly enjoy it in the same way that I am!” You’re trying your damndest to regain your confidence, shaking your head side-to-side with a wide smile to erase the vision of his own smirk, his hands, his rolled up sleeves from your mind. “I mean, nothing beats curling up with a book and taking your time with it.” “Well,” Spencer interrupts, lifting a finger, “how can you say if you’ve never tried my way?”

“Speed reading? I’ve done it, actually.” You shrug at his hesitating look, suddenly feeling vulnerable under the weight of his eyes. 

“Really? What method? What was your fastest time? What —” Morgan cuts off his questioning by walking in and calling for him. 

“Gideon wants you to take a look at something.” “Ah. Breaks over.” Spencer stands from where he was sitting on your armchair, brushing his hands off on his pants. He points at you while he walks away, “We’re not finished, though!”

“Oh?” Morgan asks when he’s gone, raising his eyebrows at you. “Unfinished business?” You scoff, moving to pick up the books you pulled out to talk to Spencer about. 

You like Morgan. He’s an easy one to like and he feels like the bigger brother you don’t have with his easy smiles. The chaos in your house hasn’t been easy, you appreciate his consistent presence to lighten the atmosphere. 

You’ve actually come to like all of them. Elle with her stories, Gideon with his dry smiles, and Spencer. Really, you just like Spencer. You’re an adult, you’re not ashamed to admit it. Just, only to yourself, lest you mess something up and make him uncomfortable. 

“You know, I can’t really say I haven’t seen him this excited before because the kid gets excited about everything but,” Morgan shrugs, pushing himself off of the wall he’s been leaning on and coming to sit next to you, “you do seem to get along well.”

“Oh, yeah, Spencer’s nice,” you say, standing to put the books away. 

“Nice,” Morgan muses, leaning back on the couch and crossing his arms. 

“He is! You all are.” You laugh when Morgan raises his eyebrows again. “I’m being serious, I would kill to work on a team like yours. You all actually work together.”

“We have to.”

“It certainly works out better when you do.”

“Yeah, your boss is a real dick. He usually walk all over you like that?” You wrinkle your nose at him as you sit down, pulling your legs under you. “More or less I guess. My personal opinion is that he’d like more men on the team and … no women,” you joke, giving him a what can you do? look, smiling sadly. 

“And you tried to transfer?”

“Stop profiling me,” you say, eyes narrowing. Morgan smiles, all teeth.

“Not profiling, just remembering him saying something like that when we talked at the station.”

“Oh,” you say, slouching back. “That’s considerably less impressive.” “Ouch.”

“Yeah, yeah, I wound you. But I did look into transferring a while back. I’ve been trying to move up for a while and keep getting blocked. But, no surprise, I got blocked again.” You raise an imaginary glass, cheers-ing with the air, “Go government!”

“That’s fucked,” Morgan says, letting out a low whistle. “So you don’t want to stay a victims liasion?”

“No, I do. But it’s not my only job right now. It’s a little complicated, but our office is too small to have a head liaison. So I really just run around filling gaps wherever I can until I’m needed to do my actual job. I’d love to do just liaison work, I really like working with the public. Feels like I’m actually helping people, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” “Hey,” you say suddenly, not wanting to keep the mood somber (or ignore the FBI agent in your house with your silly woes while a murder investigation is underway), “you want some tea? Coffee?”

“Sure doll, I’ll take some coffee,” Morgan says, a confused smile taking over his face, “if you’re offering.”

||||

“It’s actually pretty interesting,” Spencer is saying, flipping through files and leaning over to show Elle something. 

“Oh, I bet. Nothing better than vicious murder,” you say, dry, rolling a pen between your fingers. 

“I mean the process behind deciphering their reasoning,” Spencer says, shrugging. 

“I just don’t know how you look past it to see anything other than the violence,” you say, shuddering. 

He and Elle have taken the night shift and are giving you a rundown on profiling. You’ve worked with profilers before, but they’re small-town cops, more interested in closing cases than being scientific, or, at times, even correct. 

“How do you look past a crying mother after her daughter has been murdered to get the information you need?” Elle asks. “I’ve worked with hundreds of victims, I think I’m pretty good at it, but your records show that you’re one of the best.”

You heat at the praise, shrugging your shoulders. “I wouldn’t say I look past them. I actually try to get into their shoes to figure out what I can say to get through to them.”

“Often the victims families know more than they think. Every bit of information they can give us or the police about the victim only lead us closer to the unsub. We often rely on your job to get important information out of victims and families that we wouldn’t otherwise have. It requires tact, empathy, and extreme emotional control,” Spencer explains, setting the file down and brushing his hair back. 

“Well, thank you?”

“I think he’s trying to say what we do is similar,” Elle explains, “it’s just the opposite side of it.”

“I’m still not following — but I’m definitely not built to be a profiler, that’s for sure.”

“But you could be. You profile in your own way. We look at the bad guys, the killing patterns, stuff like that,” Spencer leans forward, enthusiastic. “You just profile less intense people. Gather information from them, figure out what they need. Get in their shoes, to use your words. You use their actions, small phrases, and what you can gather from their homes to approach them the best way, no?”

“Looking at their clothes and body language and stuff, sure.”

“We do exactly that with crime scenes. Recognize patterns. Just like you can’t imagine seeing past the violence, some of us can’t imaigne having to see past the emotion of someone dealing with fresh loss.” Elle smiles. “You’d probably make a really good profiler. You’re just a better victims advocate.”

You consider that, weighing their words. “Sure, maybe,” you admit. “I still think it’s kinda like magic, though. Your knowledge, your intuition, your teamwork. It’s cool.”

“Thank you,” Elle says kindly. 

Spencer jumps back into his explanation of the types of murder-kidnappers, musing with Elle again about their profile. Their ability to constantly return to the same evidence over and over without any hesitation is still amazing to you. Despite what Elle said, you’re sure you’d get bored. 

You’re even more sure that it would stick to you in a way that working with the victims never did. You visit crime scenes, sure, but you never do everything in your power to commit every bit of them to memory. 

As they talk, you move toward the window and move the curtains over slightly. It’s the middle of the night, the second the team has spent in your home, and you’re curious how much longer this unsub will take to be caught. 

You’ve done your best to keep to your usual schedule and luckily it’s not unusual for you to be up late. The movement behind the curtains won’t be suspicious, so you stand and peek out curiously at the home across the street. 

Penny sighs from her bed in the living room, snoring softly. She’s taken a liking to your guests who are always willing to give her attention and scraps of food. 

The Furgison house bigger than yours, a family home with a large backyard. It’s a faded blue, lightened by the sun, with a white door. Theres a dim porch light that’s been left on, throwing yellow shaddows across the street. 

You swear you see a curtain move in the window and your entire body freezes, breath stolen from your lungs. 

“Hey guys?” You say, dead quiet, as you see the curtains flutter again. Small, nearly inperceptable movement. Greys and blacks angainst more greys and blacks. 

“Yeah?” Elle asks, still reading over the file with Spencer. 

“You’re sure that nobodys gone in tonight?”

“Certain,” Elle says, moving quickly to stand next to you. “Why?”

“Curtains moved,” you say, nodding toward the house. 

“Maybe the AC was left on?” Elle suggests and you shake your head. 

“No, we would’ve noticed it before now. They have no animals, the house should be empty.”

Your heart is racing as Spencer joins you at the window. 

“You sure you saw it move?” He asks, moving to stand behind you, just out of sight at the window, a hand pressed to your back. Gentle pressure, just his fingertips, that makes you siffen even more. He moves his hand, whispering an apology. 

You wish he hadn’t. 

Your mind spins, distracted for a moment, shaking your head again. 

“Yes, I’m certain.”

“Go get Morgan and Gideon,” Spencer tells you, sharing a look with Elle. 

||||

You follow the team out, despite their insistence that you don’t have to, holding your own handgun out and following the light Morgan casts. 

You live in a relatively sleepy neighborhood. Shared duplexes and little houses line the streets, most with little flowerbeds out front. The Furgison house is no exception: it’s a little blue house with rose bushes out front. It backs the small patch of wood that runs along the length of the highway. 

Heart racing and head light from adrenaline, you stay out front to watch for any movement inside while Morgan and Hotch creep around one side of the house, Spencer and Elle take the other side. 

“Back here,” you faintly hear Morgan say through your earpiece. “The cellar door is open. It was deadlocked last time.”

You sitffen, readjusting your grip on your gun. 

“Wasn’t it cleared, though, when we were here last?” Elle asks. 

“Yeah, but he could’ve snuck in through the woods — there’s no telling.”

“Didn’t we position police cars on the highway?” Elle again. You can imagine them all standing behind the house, guns drawn. It’s intersting to hear them communicate so efficiently, voices low. 

“We’ll worry about it later. Morgan, you take the lead, I’ll take the rear, Elle stay out here.”

For a long few seconds, you hear Morgan, Spencer, and Hotch begin to clear the basement, until you’re jolted out of the repetitive “clear!”s by Hotch yelling, “FBI, put your hands up!”

The next few minutes turn into a whirlwind as police cars arrive and Morgan drags the UnSub out of the house by his handcuffed arms. 

The Furgison boy comes out next, disheveled and passed to the paramedics in the back of an ambulance. Once you see Hotch, Spencer, and Elle are okay as well, you jump into action, going to sit with the boy and comfort him. Morgan is there, too, crouched down to talk to the kid. 

“You’re all good now,” he’s saying, reaching forward to ruffle his hair. “And my friend here is going to make sure that you see your dad as soon as possible.” Morgan gestures to you and you nod at the little boy. 

The sight of him makes your chest ache: he’s scrawny with wide brown eyes and a mop of curls on the top of his head. 

“Agent Morgan is right, your dad is going to meet us at the hospital.”

The boy doesn’t say anything, shaking under his emergency blanket. 

“I’ll ride with you in the ambulance, too, and that’ll be fun, right?” You ask, jumping up to sit next to him. Slowly and sluggish the boy rests his head on your shoulder, still shivering. You wrap an arm around him before mouthing ‘I’ve got him’ to Morgan. He gives you a small sile, waves at the boy, and goes to join his team. 

After being checked over again by the paramedics, the boy falls asleep quickly in the hospital, holding his dads hand. You’re leaving the room, shutting the door with a soft click, when you see Spencer sitting in the hallway. 

“How is he?” Spencer asks, standing up at the sight of you. 

“He’s okay, some minor bruises and scrapes, dehydrated but on an IV. They’re just happy to be back together.”

“That’s good,” Spencer says, falling quiet and looking away. 

“And, hey, you guys caught the bad guy — now you all get to go home!”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, turning to look at you again, chuckling slightly without any heart behind it. 

“Are you not excited?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. 

“It’s always nice coming back home after a trip, even one as close to home as this one is. But it’s a little bittersweet.”

“How so?”

You practically see Spencer gathering his courage, straightening his shoulders and sending you a small but genuine smile. 

“Well, we have some unfinished business, remember? And you never showed me your lexicon.”

“Well,” you say, smiling, “you’ll just have to keep in touch, then. Maybe we can get dinner?”

“Yeah. Yes, of course. Dinner.” Spencer is fully grinning now, eyes squinting with the force of it. You can’t help but mirror him, laughing a little. “Well, I do have a car to catch. I just wanted to check on him and say goodbye.”

“Well, goodbye for now Dr. Reid.”

“Goodbye,” he says, smiling at you for a second longer before turning to walk to the exit. He makes it to the doors before he hesitates, one hand on the handle. He stands there, still, for a moment before turning around and asking, “Dinner, like a date, right?”

Giddy, your smile only widens as you nod. “I would really like that, if you’re asking, yeah.”

“I’m asking.”

“Okay, then it’s a date.”

i wanted more to happen here but then i got this far and still had so much more i could write about these two aahhh

lmk if u want a pt 2 bc i kind of have ideas :) tysm for reading!!

[poppitron360]

Dark!Piper is my Roman Empire. I’m loving this glimpse of her.

[mediumgayitalian]

“You ever pray we’re wrong?”

Nico lets his next step sound against the smoothed pebbles, dismissed the shadows he hovered on. Will doesn’t turn to face him, but one of his shoulders slumps, stretched-out camp shirt neckline hanging around his collarbones, in acknowledgment. Nico crouches down, inspecting the pebbles until he finds one suitable — flat, almost disc-like, a little bigger than his thumbnail, smooth as shaved skin.

“‘Bout what?”

It skips when he launches it, on the tail of Will’s, one, two, three times before sinking. Will’s goes much longer, as does his next. And his next. Sink.

“About the —

Sink.

— afterlife.”

He doesn’t look as he scoops up another handful, eyes glued to the setting sun. His pebbles are all the wrong shape, but he launches them, one at a time, one at a time, one at a time; each of them skips.

“About the world —

Sink.

— down there.”

Sink.

“Underworld.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You ever hope we just —

Sink.

— dreamed it up?”

Sink.

One, two, four, sixteen. Sink.

Sink.

“The whole thing. Gods and Judgement and Punishment. Hellfire.”

Sink.

One. Twothreefourfivesix. Seven. Sink.

Sink.

“Like the Mist. An illusion to keep us compliant.”

Sink.

One. Two. Ten. Twenty. Sink.

Sink.

“It isn’t,” Nico says, as gently as he can. He runs his thumb over the edge of a pebble, tracing its ridge. A rough broken corner slices along the pad of his thumbprint, and he jumps, breathing a curse, sliding the irony salt into his mouth. “Do you wish it was?”

“I hope it is.”

The blood is long since gone. Nico hooks his nail over his bottom teeth, tongue twisting at the lingering saltiness, and watches him, eyes hooded; the set to his shoulders, his spine; his sand-covered feet and soaked pants rolled to his calves. Lee’s shirt, worn thin, hanging off his shoulders, still; four camp necklaces on his throat, heavy with beads, one wrapped three times around his wrist. Hair, wilder than usual, knotted, matted, whipping in the wind, thick with sand, curling around his eyes.

“Why?”

“I hope we’re wrong and it’s Mist and it’s softer. And it’s —

Sink.

— nothing. Quiet.”

Sink.

“Why?” Nico repeats.

Sink.

“Because I’ve —

Sink.

— because I’m going to Hell, Nico.”

Sink.

One.

Sink.

One.

Sink.

One.

Sink.

Sink.

Sink.

“I’m going to —

Sink.

— Hell, and I’m scared.”

Sink.

“You’re a hero,” Nico says, quiet, and the pebbles in his fist are loud, are grating, and the bitter in Will’s laugh is stronger even than the lingering taste on his tongue, and louder, and brighter, bright, brighter, like the Sun, like the stars, like the brand new moon, and it sears, and it aches, and Nico looks away. And Will laughs, and keeps laughing, and launches his pebbles into the lake, all of them at once, and they hit the water like spit, and spatter, and they sink, and Nico hears them hit the floor, hears them ricochet through, down, descend.

“I hear the injured screaming and choose which ones die,” Will says, sink,

sink,

sink,

sink,

sink, “and I hear them curse me, as they die, and I am going to rot in Hell.”

Sink.

Sink.

Sink.

“You are a hero,” Nico says. His hands shake and he folds his thumb into his fists. “You are a hero. You’ll go to Elysium.”

Will smiles at him. “Okay, Nico.”

Sink.

“I’ve — judged, you know. Before. Good things way heavy. Good things weigh heavy.”

Sink.

“Okay.”

“You’re not cursed, Will.”

He sits, or he drops, on the rocky shore, bones against stone, and he stares, at the lake, at the Sun, at the Sun, at the Sun, and he waits, and he glows, and he burns.

“The gods aren’t fair,” he says. Quiet.

Sink.

[ghostbsuter]

He was running late for school, Danny groans, it was a new one too!

Jazz had recently moved to Gotham and assured their parents that Danny would always be welcome. He still lives in Amity Park with his parents, but thankfully, they changed their mind and now he gets to attend Gotham Academy.

(Yes they know of his powers, knew he'd be back not even 30 min after school. What worried them was that, if anything happened to Danny, they wouldn't be able to reach him immediately.

That's when Jazz came in in clutch. She told them excitedly about her internship in Gotham, of the university she would attend and learn at.

Their parents helped set up her new apartment and sent her money to help, while Jazz also worked part time. But with Jazz there, Danny got to attend the academy now, too.)

So here is, first day of a new school and already late.

And then the impossible happened, because Danny bumped onto someone.

Why was this impossible you ask?

Danny was flying to school. He is in midair. Alone. The alone part is now debatable.

His head shoots up, and green eyes meet blue ones.

That's how a ghost meets an alien.

[silvers-not-home]

love how i've seen a few stuff about jimmy being a phoenix, representing his break from the curse. the canary finally broke out of its cage and it's taking every torch with him on the way out

[puppygirlgirldick]

the more i look at it the more i realize human domestication guide stuff is really just "what if a species of benevolent but *extremely* patronizing aliens doms invaded, and their master plan was (in equal measure) cherishing and infantilizing autistic trans girls with problematic kinks (who love it)"

and wouldn't you know it, turns out i'm in the target demo

[myokk]

an afternoon by the black lake🫶🫶🫶

[mrghostrat]

one for the editor!au girlies <3

[rainy-matcha]

is billford where Bill gets an honest to god redemption arc and they get back together completely out of the question or no....

(if anyone has a fic recc for this PLEASE comment it on this post-)

[sweetsuo]

𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐬

Toji Fushiguro x F!Reader

Cw. afab!reader. Cheating. Infidelity. Dacryphilia. Temperature play. Burning. Fingering. Smoking.

 Genre. [ fic. Smut. See tags for notes.] You're Megumi's girlfriend and his father is not someone you thought you'd catch the eye of in the kitchen.

Wc. 3.6k

This was fucked up. It was fucked up and you knew it was. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, but it’s the only way your heart squeezed in that sickeningly pleasant way – the only reason you wanted to sleep over any more.

You looked up at him, eyes dancing over the serenity in his features. Handsome. Somehow boyish in the length of his lashes and the way his lips parted in a slight laugh. He made you feel like an endangered animal – preciously encaged for safety and sanctuary yet never letting you see home again.

Your breath fluttered and you were completely certain he could hear the way your heart swirled in your eardrums. It was evident in the way his head tilted slightly as his deep gray-blue eyes went from your chest, to your lips, to yours eyes. You held your breath, rolled your lip between your teeth, and averted your eyes.

The tile of the kitchen floor was cold against your bare feet and Megumi’s shirt was big enough to graze your knees. The chill of the counter against the side of your hand reminded you of everything outside of the one in front of you.

“W-what?”

“Can I have the milk?”

Toji leaned his hip on the black marble countertop, hand laying over yours on the cardboard milk carton as he took it from you. It was a slight graze of a touch, but you felt the calluses of his fingers trickle across the delicate skin of the back of your hand. You repressed a shudder. Your chin dipped down. Your hand let go of the carton.

“Thanks. What’re you doing up so late, Princess? Gumi kick you off the bed again?”

You felt the warmth of his body as he shifted, bicep grazing onto your upper arm as he poured the milk into the coffee. The nickname always peeved Megumi in a way he couldn’t fully explain. You would reassure him it was fine, it’s just because his dad was a dick. Toji said it was because Megumi spoiled you.

“No,“ you watched as black espresso turned to a pretty caramel. Suddenly your tea wasn’t as appetizing anymore. For a moment your brows furrowed and you were aware that it was 3:15am, “why are you drinking coffee?”

Toji laughed. It’s deep and gruff and sounds like tires over a gravel driveway. This time you can’t suppress the shudder. It’s been this way since Toji came back from his business trip. You never met him up until the last semester. At least not in person. He was usually away. Megumi never knew what he did or how he afforded the house. 

Either way, whenever classes let up or between semesters, you’d come to his suburban home and basically live with him. You loved Megumi very much and you have for the year and a half you’ve been dating. You’d kiss him goodbye whenever you left to see your parents, but there was something about his dad that kept you coming back.

Maybe it was the first night you woke up in the middle of the night. Megumi had kicked you off the bed by accident. There was only so much room for two 20-years-olds and a large dog. It was bound to happen one day or another. It was simply unfortunate that you scraped your arm on a bent piece of metal from his bed frame, leaving a long scratch that pebbled red. You traversed down the steps and having forgotten your glasses on the nightstand, had to rummage through the drawers to find a band aid.

Toji was there, leaning on a counter by the sink, gazing out the window. The sweet scent of cherry tobacco lingered despite the open air. At first, your throat cinched around your thumping heart. You thought he was an intruder. You couldn’t see his features, but the way the moon abstractly bounced off them, you immediately knew who he was just by shape. Megumi got his good looks from someone and that someone was right in front of you.

“You’re bleeding,” he stated blandly, only taking a second to look at you from the corner of his eyes.

“I am?” You knew you were. That’s why you had your arm up like an injured paw and a hand in a drawer full of homeless kitchen appliances, “I am.”

“So you are,” he chuckled. Toji stood at full height and you swore you nearly gasped. The corner of his scarred mouth curled then flattened as he turned to you. He grabbed a paper towel, fingers grasping onto the tips of yours. His palm was warm, soft, tender on the flesh of your arm. The paper towel pressed to provide a temporary fix as he guided you along to the bathroom to pull out a bandage.

You remember every moment of that night; how the sink felt pressing against the small of your back and how his thigh leaned almost too heavily onto yours as he meticulously took care of the minor cut. In his defense, the bathroom was small – one of the ones that fit awkwardly under a staircase and only had a toilet and a sink. It didn’t excuse the way his hand brushed your hair back when everything was settled. You still felt guilty that you tilted your chin to better feel the backs of his fingers against your neck.

For as often as you felt guilty, soon to follow was an echo of his parting words.

“Mr. Fushiguro takes care of his guests – especially Gumi’s Princess.” His smile was strangely sweet when he exited the bathroom, leaving you to collect your staggered breath.

It was that night, and plenty of nights after, that you woke Megumi up by putting his hand on your cunt and asking if daddy could take care of you. The kisses he’d press to your forehead lingered warmly, lovingly. Bitterly.

Brought back by the metallic thwip of a bic lighter, Toji cupped his hand to the flame, lighting the cherry cigarette you would smell when you were lonely in your dorm. It overpowered the familiar scent of eucalyptus you’d once loved.

“For the same reason everyone drinks coffee,” He laughed once through his nose, expression slackening as his gaze lingered on yours. He dragged on the cigarette and exhaled for longer than usual. The swirl of smoke passing over the curve of his lips was beautiful. He quirked a brow, curiously entertained, “Withdrawal?”

You dry swallowed. He offered you the cigarette with an offhand comment you couldn’t quite hear. The end of the cig faced you and you leaned, wrapping your lips around it. The subtle graze of his fingers on your lips tickled. You never smoked before. Through thick lashes, your gazes met and you swore something passed over his. You sucked. You coughed. You secretly loved the taste of burnt cherry.

“That’s not how you do it,” his voice was dark navy and for a moment, as small tears welled from the remaining spasm of your lungs, you thought he would scold you for lying. Hushed, he pressed the cigarette back to your lips, “Try again.”

Obediently, your lips found their way around the stick. You had Toji’s attention on you in the same way a starling bird had a peregrine falcon’s. You felt wanted by something hungry.

You waited patiently for his order, looking up to him with those pretty, expectant eyes. You barely noticed his hand slowly pulling the cigarette. Your lips stayed connected. He felt your breath fan the backs of his fingers.

“Are you going to suck it, or what?” There was a bite to his voice and you took a long, nervous drag. The crackling burning paper filled the space between you. You tried to inhale it all and the burn made your eyes water. Toji’s head tilted by a minuscule as your lips detached, leaving a small string of saliva attached to the end. Bleary eyes matched his, desiring his approval. His free hand cupped your cheek, giving a slight tap, “I’m not going to spoil you like Megumi does, Princess.”

Strong hands grabbed under the thickest part of your thighs, hoisting you up and onto the cold marble counter. Megumi’s shirt was disregarded and hiked up to the crease of your hip. The hiss of hot ash sprinkled on your thighs matched the heady hiss your tongue made against teeth. Toji smirked. The burn was replaced by his rough hands smoothing over the supple flesh. He gripped your ass, hauling you to the edge of the counter.

This was wrong.

Your heart throbbed in your chest and even more between your legs. Your Thighs squeezed together as Toji leaned into your neck, biting hard. His thumbs dug into the junction of your thigh and hip, keeping you sat firmly on the counter top.

Megumi was upstairs.

Toji’s mouth trailed down your neck as the tips of his fingers traced up along bare skin. You could feel him smirk against your neck. Surely the warmth of his lips could feel how fast the blood pumped through you. You felt light headed, impatient for the touch of his chilled fingers. The man before you nudged his cheek onto yours and you felt the subtle graze of his spudding 5 o’clock shadow.

He said nothing, but you heard the change his breathing. Hiis middle finger slipped between your glossy lips - the touch was so cold, you gasped and your cunt clenched on nothing at all. The pad of his middle finger moved slowly in a circle, then traced down. It was so slow that your body writhed for more. To try and coax the digit in, your entrance throbbed. He headed to call to its beck. Rather than satiate your starving sex, Toji brushed up to your clit. Totally in control of you, his fingers dance in cruel repetition.

His spare hand trailed up your torso, pulling his son’s shirt up to expose you bit by bit. The shirt never came off, no. It’s not like he needed it to when you wore nothing underneath it. He’d be lying if he didn’t notice how your nipples perked and your stance shifted when he entered the kitchen. He felt your eyes on his back when he opened the fridge. Deliberately (and with the goodness in his heart), he allowed your longing gaze to linger on him. It was laughable that you were pressing your bare chest into the palm of his hand, The tissue malleable and molten under his touch. It was euphoric. You gave into his touch so desperately.

Toji’s grin widened, Cheshire-like against you. His breath was hot against your ear and the baritone of his voice was enough to make you swallow a whine, “Maybe Gumi doesn’t spoil his Princess like I thought. You’re really this cock hungry? I barely touched you,” his finger tapped on your swollen clit and you jerked in response, curling forward and trembling digit gripping onto his impossibly tight shirt. Practically on the brink of tears from the way he teased you, you wondered how hands so cold could feel like they burned like the ash on your thighs.

Fuck. Fuck.  

The hands gripping his shirt slapped the cold counter when you pulled your torso away to back on your forearms. Your brows knit and your chin tilted back. Megumi’s shirt draped over your tits like fine silk. What a fucking delicious sight. Desperate. That’s exactly how you looked with your nose scrunched and lips drawn in a tight line. Your fists were balled and legs spread wide, separated by his body. He admired that the first thing spilled on the freshly installed black marble was the drool of your cunt.

Toji persisted despite the painful ache of his cock. He wanted you to grovel for him, prove his suspicion that his son lacked the same skill to make you a drooling mess. Why? The answer was simple instinct to him. The aftermath of his divorce left him in shambles. But then again, papers were filed the second he fucked his sister-in-law on wifey’s new BMW (and doubled down on when she found the recording of him with the couple’s therapist). Validation, maybe. He had nothing to prove or no need for it. He just wanted to know that he could fuck anyone he wanted anywhere he wanted, no matter who they were.

You opened your mouth to scream in frustration. Your legs shook, every part of your body wanted something to fill you. Empty. Empty fucking. Empty satisfaction. The slap was followed by the sound of skittering upstairs.

You paled and your heart threatened to burst with anxiety. Complete silence took over the kitchen and your mind emptied, listening for the familiar sound of your boyfriend’s footsteps. Eyes looked over your shoulder and suddenly you were very aware of the fact that every entrance leading to the kitchen was an open walkway.

The man between your legs had paused then, lips slack as he listened. He had good hearing. Good senses. His fingertips sprawled on top of your mound, palm pressing against your fluttering entrance absent-mindedly. It was merely the dog. He trained it to only bark or alert of certain triggers. This was certainly not one of them. Your reaction though- he could work with that.

His fingers circled your clit and you feared he would continue his cruel tease. Toji could see through your expression like the Bermuda seas. He leaned forward, hand slowly tipping over your entrance as his words filled your mind, “What happens if you’re caught?”

Your breathing stopped completely. Dread, excitement, and two long digits filled you. Just as you had expected, every second of teasing coated your walls. Every nerve ending had been meticulously prepared for something to touch them, trigger them to ignite. Your walls spasmed readily and your knees gripped the sides of Toji’s hips. He experimented with you for a while, salivating when tears pinched past your lashes. In the back of his mind, he needed you to break before you got his cock. He was getting slightly impatient. His hands were cold and you could feel every single motion of his fingers in you. Your mind could paint a picture of every ridge his digits had to offer simply from his temperature.

He leaned over. His tongue was hot. With a single broad, strong, and long open-mouthed lap along your clit, you unwound. A free hand slapped over your mouth, muffling the near animalistic yowl you let out. He smirked.

Bet Megumi never heard that sound.

As soon as your walls slowed and your voice died out, Toji shoved the band of his sweats under his cock. He could tell by your blissed out glaze that you weren’t entirely processing what was to come. He could fix that.

Hands pulled you half-way off the counter. You yelped, shivering at the slick on the surface beneath you. Toji held you under your knees, practically forcing you to prop yourself up on your elbows. He cooed, “Good girl.” The way you stared at his cock like it were god itself had a dribble of precum roll down his length. A bare minimum of 8-9 inches stood at attention, positioned right under you. Your arousal drizzled over him and if your mind worked, you would’ve offered to lick it off like one would a warm sugar glaze.

He adjusted his arms so that the underneath of your thighs were supported by his hands and your knees hooked over his arms. Your own arms wobbled and shook. The muscle ache was blunted by his thick tip pressing onto your entrance. You had no option but to give him the reins. His focus was entirely on the junction between his tanned cock pressing into you. It was almost endearing, how this look of fascination came over his harsh features, enrapturing your gaze like a renaissance painting.

He guided your hips in a circle, bending his knees slightly to swirl against you. The scar at the corner of his lip twitched in gratification when you throatily let out a long high note. He lowered you onto him in bit by bit. Slight thrust in. Draw back. Slight thrust in. Draw back.

Every. Single. Time. He drew out, you wanted to cry out. You could take it. Toji continued to carefully make his way into you. He was large and he learned from mistakes of drilling in too soon. Sure, he slipped in easy enough, but he still met resistance to the stretch. He didn’t want to hurt you. Or at least that was until you opened your pretty mouth.

“Stop fucking around. I can take Gumi’s dick, I can take yours.”

Your lips formed into a pout and the words backhanded his ego. So this is what Megumi dealt with. Oh no, he couldn’t have that. You were obviously trying to get a rise out of him like the brat you were. Toji darkly chuckled, “So this is what’s got him around your finger, huh? You want me to ‘stop fucking around’?”

He pulled your right leg across his chest so that it rested along his left shoulder. The left leg was guided around his waist. “By your command, Princess.” He thrust in hard, shoving his cock through the tightness. The pace was relentless. Harsher, meaner, heavier than even Megumi’s was at his roughest. Your mind erased the fact that you were in the kitchen of a house. It erased the fact that your arms felt like they were going to tear. It erased the sweat under your palms as you white-knuckled the edge of the marble. It erased Megumi, peacefully asleep upstairs.

All you felt was the hot vibration of your clambering walls and the searing hot brand of his cock burning into your core. Everything fuzzed, scattered with every near full pull, then came crashing back with every push. The position itself allowed for the force of your own weight to freely bounce back on him without him needing to do much. He still gripped your limbs with such force there would be bruises.  He wrapped your other leg around his waist patting your thighs to grip him as he changed his thrusts to slow, deep. Toji peeled off the shirt, a glisten to his every muscle under the dim light as it reached over his head. Arms were up high as it was shimmied off, but his thrusts were controlled. Abs worked, tensed in a motion so beautiful that you were absolutely certain that this was and would be your only religious experience.

The shirt hit the floor. Toji licked his thumb. The palm of his hand rested along your pubic bone, tilted so that he could graze your clit in such a gentle, yet effective way that you reeled. You bucked with him, using your legs to draw him in more until you felt a sharp pleasure rake your cervix, claw down the up-side of your walls. He dragged out. He thrust in.

He was close and was grappling for why the hell it was taking you so long. He felt how you squeezed his cock over and over. Your breathing slowed whenever it happened and there was a certain flicker going off in your half-lidded gaze. Your walls got tighter each time, but never released. For once in his life, Toji Fushiguro thought he had met his match in stamina. There was a click of his tongue, “What the fuck are you waiting for? Are you a dog? Only can cum on command, bitch?” His words came from annoyance and impatience.

You nodded.

Trained her like a bitch, didn’t you?

“Cum.”

There was finally release. The hot iron brandish pressed hard into your walls, your abdomen, your throat. Your walls shuddered so violently, Toji nearly lost grip. A beat behind you, his cock thrusts jerked. You’re mouth opened with a silent moan, all muscles tensing in response. Hot. He was hot and fast and you felt each rope melt along your walls and drip off.

Pulling out his softened cock, Toji looked to the dark tile ground beneath you coated in a mix of a translucent glaze and thick white. He took mercy on you then, leaning and looping an arm under your back and pulling you to him. Your arms wrapped around his neck and for a sprinkle of a second he could see what Megumi saw. One hand held you up under your ass while the other pulled his sweats up. The house was quiet once more as he grabbed paper towels to clean you up.

After all was said and done, Toji sat on the couch with you on his lap, nestled into the crook of his neck. His hand supported your back as you sniffled your way back to the present day. He wasn’t great at aftercare and if he were being honest, any quick fuck had ended when he came (which was usually last). He was indifferent to the sniffles and indifferent to the way you made little sounds of comfort to yourself. You were doing what you needed to to keep yourself together. If that included reliving each moment Megumi placed a loving hand to your cheek and cooed at how well you did, then so be it. Who you craved at the end of the night wasn’t him. 

Toji wasn’t one to be possessive - yet he rubbed small circles on your back, believing that he could be. 

[blueggrass]

i know theres not much of a fandom here for the will of the many but ,,,.., i just finished it and.,,,,, im in shambles. life is moving around me and I'm still in shock. I have things to do but i cant even think. what,, am i supposed to do. just go on? pretend im okay with this till the next one comes out??? I FEEL LIKE A ZOMBE. I FEEL LIKE NOTHING MATERS. ALL I FEEL IS-

i dont think ive ever been hit by a book hangover as much as this like wtf even was that /pos HELLO??? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME??? LKSJFLSKJBFLKSJBFLKSBFK:BSF:KBSF:KJBHSF:KJ

[fairyfortalliance]

the imagery of no health regen…… wounded skin that doesn’t heal…. torn clothes….. burns…. scorch marks….. bite marks….. blood everywhere…… unraveling bandages…… oh…….

[justaz]

s1ep13 merlin, believing he will be dead by morning, goes to say goodbye to arthur and he leans against the door of arthur’s chambers and watches the glow of the fire light his skin golden, full of color and life that it had been sorely lacking while the prince was injured. he stares at the softness of arthur’s features and pressed the line of his profile into memory for while he passes he will wish for nothing more than to see arthur one last time, his smile and blue eyes one last comfort before he passes on to the otherworld. arthur turns to stare at him and frowns at whatever expression merlin is making. the prince kicks a weak foot out at the chair next to him and motions for merlin to join him. merlin slowly shuffles over but ignores the chair completely. he stops in front of arthur who watches him with wary confusion. the tug of his lips and the furrow of his brow sickeningly endearing and merlin allows himself to be selfish and leans down to press his lips to arthur’s.

the prince is sat frozen under merlin’s touch but he can’t find himself to care much about that, not when he finally knows what it feels like to kiss arthur. he hopes that will be his last sensation before the ever consuming nothing, he hopes he will close his eyes one last time only to find arthur grinning at him and calling him an idiot before leading him into paradise where he can watch arthur smile, hear him laugh, and feel his touch for all eternity. he pulls away and leaves before arthur can gather himself to form a response, dropping the letter explaining everything on the table as he passes. so he allows himself to be selfish twice - to take from arthur and to give, to let himself know what is feels to kiss the man, to embrace his feelings for him, and to have the man know him for who he truly is. he wishes to pass peacefully with no regrets. somehow that revolves entirely around arthur.

only…he survives the whole ordeal and yeah has a gnarly scar on his chest but is otherwise fit to return to his duties. which include taking care of the prince. of arthur. who he kissed. and who most definitely know about his magic by now. yeesh.

[youling-the-ghost]

mornings with him – a ditch ficlet

Derek found comfort in his strange yet endearing morning routine. word count: 800

A ray of sunlight peeped through the curtains and cascaded itself onto Derek's bed, jolting him awake. The clock on the wall indicated that it was 6 AM. Derek groaned and dragged a hand down his face, cringing at the stubble that covered his chin—he felt like a teenager, all gangly limbs and awkward changes to his body that he hadn't quite grown accustomed to yet. It was comforting, in a way.

Derek sat up—or at least, tried to sit up. He almost succeeded before a pair of arms dragged him back into the bed, snuggling him into the pile of blankets and pillows. Derek let out a muffled cry of protest, but the arms didn't relent.

"Love," Derek said, the words buried in an airy laugh. "I need to make breakfast."

Titch groaned and leaned his body onto Derek's so that there was basically no space between their bodies, nestling his face into Derek's neck.

"Breakfast can wait..." he murmured. "I'm cold."

"It's August," Derek deadpanned. To be honest, he was overheating in Titch's arms and the blankets.

When Titch showed no signs of letting go, Derek sighed and resorted to his contingency plan; he grabbed the arms that held him hostage and pried them open, which proved to be quite a difficult task—despite what his stature might suggest, Titch was incredibly strong.

In the sliver of time that he bought himself, Derek lunged forward and dove out of the bed, landing on the wooden floor with a soft thud.

Titch mumbled some nonsense, incoherent and jumbled by a half-conscious brain, in protest. Derek planted an apologetic kiss on Titch's cheek and ruffled his blonde hair, which had a golden sheen from the sunlight that peeked through the curtains.

Derek snuck one last glance at his lover, whose face smoothed into a tranquil expression as he presumably returned to dreamland, and found himself smiling. He had come a long way, both of them had. It felt like just yesterday when Titch was lighting candle after candle, refusing to sleep until the first crack of dawn peeked through the night.

Derek grimaced at his reflection; his hair was sticking up in every direction, and he was in desperate need of a shave. He patted his hair in a vain attempt to school it, but the pile of curls immediately stuck back out again. Derek sighed in defeat and decided that he'd bother with his rebellious hair some other time, instead shifting his attention to everything else that needed fixing.

Shaving was something that caused Derek intense annoyance and euphoria in the strangest of oxymorons. The act itself was tedious, and if he had the option to, Derek would absolutely choose to never have to pick up a razor again.

But in a way, the razor in his hand and the shaving cream on his face represented progress that he never thought would be possible. It was a symbol of his growth, his comfort in his own body, which was beautiful despite all the tediousness.

Derek flinched as an improperly-angled movement caused a shallow gash across his cheek. He could do without all the blood that he had drawn in the process of learning this strange aspect of manhood, though.

The shaving cream washed off his face with a splash of water and Derek dragged a hand across his now-smooth skin. It felt like velvet between his fingers. Derek smiled. He was proud of himself.

The pink apron was an essential part of the cooking process, and this was only partially a joke.

Strangely enough, all of Derek's best and fluffiest flapjacks were made while he donned the frilly baby pink apron that James got Titch as a joke for Christmas one year. It was a strange phenomenon that was difficult to explain every time someone asked why he was working in the fields while wearing something that looked like it belonged to a Barbie playset.

Lost in thought about aprons, Derek barely noticed the arms that snaked around his waist.

Derek chuckled. "Good morning, love," he said without turning around. "So you finally woke up, huh?"

"Mornin'," Titch mumbled into Derek's shirt.

Sometimes it was hard to believe that the Titch currently clinging onto him like a koala on a eucalyptus tree was the same standoffish, emotionally closed-off Titch that he was first introduced to years ago.

Derek didn't bother shrugging Titch off. He didn't mind the physical contact; he quite enjoyed it, actually. The two stayed like that in silence, with the only noise in the room being the ambient sizzling of the pan and whirring of the range hood.

"I love you," Derek said as he placed a finished flapjack onto a plate.

"Yeah."

Derek knew that it was Titch's way of saying, "I love you too."

[ghostbsuter]

Yeah, been watching Justice League

Tw!! Mentioned child trafficking, not focused on, just mentioned on the side for reasons.

.・゜-: ✧ :-

Again, they lost him again.

Dick hates it.

They uncovered multiple Meta-trafficking bases and put a stop to Every. Single. One.

Yet each time, they lose only single pot with a young teen inside.

Each time intercepted by weaponised meta children and other thugs.

Nightwing swears on the blue logo on his chest, he will get that boy out.

Cost it what it will.

[crimeronan]

It takes some time to find the inner Luz.

The rooms they walk into clearly housed memories, once, but the bookshelves and the walls are now blackened. The hallways of the castle are cold and empty, devoid of statues and tapestries, lacking places to hide.

Hunter thinks she must be hiding, though. He finally pushes on a loose brick in a place he recognizes, opening a secret passageway they discovered as kids.

And there she is.

She's swapped her royal garb for the loose-fitting t-shirts and jeans of the human realm. But what Hunter notices first are the burns.

You're hurt.

Then the shape of the injuries resolves: not just random patches of black char and red-blistered skin.

Handprints.

Fingers clamped around her wrist. The shape of a palm against her upper arm, where he must have dragged her through the portal. A thumbprint on her throat, blisters on the side of her neck, where he must have grabbed her when she fought back. When she looks up, Hunter sees a burn on her jaw, matching his own oldest scar, where Belos must have struck her.

Fury and guilt and pain rise in him. He tastes acid in the back of his throat.

But Luz isn't afraid of him. Her initial startled flinch relaxes almost immediately into familiarity. She pushes herself to her feet, leaning against the stone for support, and reaches out.

Hunter hesitates. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," Luz says, touching his cheek. "You couldn't. Please. Help me."