#first meeting 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!!

[meadow-selfship]

We all got our price - first meeting: Joker x Hannah

Title: we all got our price (a first time for everything)

Summary: Joker and Hannah's first meeting. S/I intro for Hannah here. No warnings (yet)

Wordcount: 1433

A/N: 'My' version of Joker lies somewhere between Ledger's Joker and Arthur Fleck. I got the idea to do a retelling in this vein from one of the Joker comics that's just titled 'Joker', the one w the big grin on the cover, where it's Johnny Frost who gets him and becomes his right hand for a while. Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The crime idiots were arguing again. I turned my back to them and popped a paracetamol out of the strip, quickly taking it with a good gulp of water. Fuck, I hated these quiet shifts at the bar - mostly when those idiots were around. I heard too much, and at night I couldn't get my head to quiet down. I cleaned the coffee machine as I listened to them talk.

To them I'm just some background extra, and reminding myself of that was oddly comforting. Sometimes I fantasised about selling information to the cops and getting them all in jail, but then who would be left to tip me well? Tomy landlord it doesn't matter that there's blood on the bills, so why should it matter to me?

"Well, someone's gonna have to get him."

"That doesn't mean it has to be me," said the other. 

"I've had too much to drink to drive," said the bald one, immediately met with scoffs.

"Oh, so now is the time you start caring about traffic safety - very convenient."

They went back and forth for a while. The big dude - wasn't his name Tony? - eventually interupted their bickering. "It's gonna have to be one of us, and it better be one he likes - he's bound to be pissed we didn't try to get him out sooner," he said, looking over his men, all four of them, with a hawk's eye. Behind the bar, I set the wiskeys on the tray and went over to them. Tony's eye fell to me. "You. Would you like to earn a couple extra hundreds tonight, girl?"

My heart skipped a beat as he adressed me, but I carefully set each of the glasses in front of the men, trying my best poker face. I blinked. "Doing what, exactly, sir?"

"Nothing illegal," his grin was like a shark's. "I just need you to get someone and bring him back here. Someone we do business with."

So; a criminal. I righted myself again and collected the empty glasses, ice tinkling as I picked each one up. "From where?"

"It's an easy job, really. He wouldn't hurt someone as... insignificant as you, and you'd make a quick buck," his hand slipped a hundred dollar bill inside the pocket of my apron. So, they're scared whoever they need to do business with will be pissed at them, and will kill them. But I'm not them, so I should be fine. It did sound like good money. Not like this'd be the first time I do something weird and half legal for these idiots.

Tony must've seen the change in my face as I decided, smiling lazily up at me. "Pick him up from Arkham Asylum. It's a bit away, but we can cover for you here - Marco, go man the bar," Tony barked, then continued: "and that note should be enough for gas money. The rest you'll get when you get back here."

I've done similar things before, one time I even had three guys in the back of my car, one handcuffed and with his head in a burlap sack. About that one I made a fuss too, demanding triple the pay for triple the guys. Apparently it's true that everyone has their price, huh. "Will he be waiting? I better be sure who I'm getting for you, or I'll bring the wrong guy over," I joked, which was met with chuckles across the table. Dropping the tray onto the table, I let Marco handle it.

Tony sucked on his teeth. "Oh, you'll know it when you see 'em. He just got out today, and he's aching to do business again. You be good now, sweetheart. I'm sure a gal like you can handle herself." He smacked my ass as I walked off.

My heart beat a mile a minute the whole drive there, so much so that I thought it'd take years off my life. It was late at night, and as anxious as I was, every other car still driving this late immediately seemed suspicious - but that was just projection. When I drove across the bridge to the asylum island, I knew there was no way back. A determination set in. When I stopped the car, there was a figure waiting for me by the asylum gate, one hand in his pocket, a cigarette in the other. The smallest light of the lit end of the cigarette provided enough light to see a glimse of his face. White greasepaint and a wide red lipstick smile. Joker. Fuck me. I got out, quickly checking if there was anyone else around, and went up to him.

"Joker?" I asked, voice surprisingly normal. "Tony sent me to come get you, for business."

He looked at me, taking another slow drag, lazy like a cat in the sun. "Aw, is he too scared to come get me himself?"

I shrugged and motioned to the car. He still made no move to follow me, so I just turned around and went ahead anyway. If he didn't wanna come, I won't make him. It'd be the safer option too - to have as little to do with him as possible. I opened the car door, got in, and as soon as I put the key in the ignition, the other door opened and Joker got in. Good. 

"What business does Tony want with me?" he asked, his tone changed to something lower, less playful.

"No idea, I'm not one of his guys, just the chauffeur," I turned the key and the car sputtered to life. "Don't smoke in the car, please."

Joker cackled, and looked me up and down. "No, you're not 'one of his guys' alright - I mean, look at you. What a sight for sore eyes. Tony sure knows how to butter me up."

I glanced at him and accelerated, eager to get back to the bar soon, passing cars here and there. "I take it you haven't seen many women during your time in Arkham."

He laughed again, the sound of it was infectious, and I smiled along with him. "Do I make you nervous, doll?" He leaned in, bridging the gap between our seats and leaned an arm around my shoulders.

"It's not every day I meet someone this famous," I said, words carefully chosen.

"Or one as dangerous," he purred by my ear. 

I chuckled. "That's debatable. Tony's one of Maroni's guys I think." I took a right, the sound of the turn signal grounding me in its familiarity. "I just work at the bar they frequent, I'm a nobody."

He clicked his tongue. "Aw, don't say that, doll. Of course you're somebody."

We're nearly halfway there. I controlled my breathing, ignoring the feeling of his hand petting at my hair in the back of my neck. Rather a sensitive spot, too. "Sure, I'm the chauffeur and the bartender."

"And does this chauffeur have a name?" he teased, tugging a little at the babyhairs, and I hoped he wouldn't notice how my eyes fluttered shut for the briefest second in from the sensation.

"Not one important enough for you to remember."

"Stop the car," he demanded, suddenly sitting up, at full alert. Alarmed at his change in tone, I did so immediately, stopping in the middle of the street. He pointed to the corner shop. "Lend me some money, will you?"

I leant back in the seat, staring him up and down, considering my options. The only cash I had on me was the hundred dollar bill Tony tucked in my apron earlier - good thing I didn't take that off. The silence was heavy between us as I considered him, his impatience growing by the second. Then I wordlessly plucked the money from my pocket. He snatched it from my hand, and with a "Wait here, doll," he shut the car door with a thump.

Within ten minutes, he returned, several bottled drinks under his arms, a sandwich and a croissant in a clear plastic bag dangling from his hand. He slammed the car door shut so harshly it made the car shake, but with the grin of a kid in a candy store.

"Here, I got you some," a packet of cookies landed in my lap. "Oh, and this," with his goods on the dashboard, he plucked a stack of cash from his inner coat pocket and tucked it in my apron.

"What? You robbed the store? What did you need to lend the money for, then?"

Joker cackled with laughter. "I suggest you drive before the police get here, doll."

[ashesfierybree]

Hi I wrote a small thing I figured I'd share I suppose

A little Anniedrew drabble

[shy-fairy-levele3]

An Instinct Meet-Cute fic. CIA Agent Dylan Reinhart is on an assignment when he meets a promising young law student. “He is rather cute, isn’t he?” a smooth British voice, warm and masculine, whispered in his ear, “just your type I’d wager.”

[annwayne]

Delayed Fate - A Story from The Red Logs

Chapter 1/3

Next Chapter ->

Fem!OC X Crosshair

Word Count: 2395

Fic Summary:

Written for the Love & Lust Flash Fic Contest in The Erotica Abyss (chapter 2)

After splitting up a fight between two clones in her bar, Anya finds herself in the company of the most interesting clone she's ever come across-and she's known a *lot* of clones. (And if you squint-plot)

Or

How Anya and Crosshair's fates first intertwined.

AO3 Link

Warnings for whole fic:

Violence, Injury, Blood, At Home Medical Treatment, Biting, Praise, Gloves, Dom/Sub undertones, PinV sex, Oral Sex (F &M Receiving), Fingering

Authors Note:

A little Valentines gift. Three chapters in total, chapter one today, two tomorrow, and three... in a few days? I'm working on it lol.

The night started out like all other nights. Busy. 

“Six beers to table three, send two Star Vines to table eight, and please no one serve anymore alcohol to the pair of clones by the door attempting to solicit anyone who comes within a ten foot radius.” I, as usual, was in the middle of it all. “They need to sober up if they’re going to find their way back to the barracks.” I sighed, glancing at the clones in question as Lynn and Jayas nodded in agreement. Another normal night taking orders, making drinks, and mingling with the main clientele of my bar-clones. 

Everything considered, I couldn’t complain. Busy was paid bills and a focused mind. No more petty theft just to survive-though Jayas didn’t let that last for too long. No more time lost to memories I buried and locked away deep in my psyche. No, no more problems when I was busy. I was grateful for it, even at the cost of sleep and a sore body. Yes, everything was normal when I was busy.

That was, until a fight broke out by the darts.

The first signs were the unbroken string of swears that rivaled even Jayas’ stubbed toe speech. Then a crowd formed in that semicircle shape that either meant an arm wrestling contest…or a fight. I didn’t think to actually go check until I heard the dull thunk that only armor hitting armor could make. 

“Hey!” I yelled as I stomped through the bar floor, weaving through groups of clones unaware of what was going on. By the time I reached the dance floor enough patrons had gathered around the fight that I had to shove my way through them. “Break it up!” I yelled again as I emerged from the line of white armor made purple by the lights above. Jeering mixed with the pounding music from speakers above, drowning all attempts to talk the clones down. So, without a second thought I jumped into the mess of black and white armor. 

One was on the ground by that point, on his hands and knees with what I suspected was blood dripping from his mouth. I faced white armor first, thinking the fight over. Instead, I felt a long forgotten spark of force–warning. Electricity spiked through my limbs. It spun me on my toes just in time to see the clone in dark armor come up with his fist aimed to uppercut the other clone. Or would have, if I wasn’t in the way. 

Seconds. Pupils shrunk in realization. Less than a second to stop. Anyone normal would lose a tooth or two. I wasn’t. But I was out of practice.

I dodged in time to keep all my teeth in, but not in time to save my shoulder from cracking. 

The impact pushed me off stance and I stumbled back into the intended target. Both men dropped their fists, rage forgotten for a heartbeat. 

Then the crowd jumped in. 

“Get him!” 

“Kick him out!” 

“Get outta here!”

Clones yelled at the other in dark armor while I blinked back tears threatening from the pain. Now wasn’t the time. Jayas and Fathal had abandoned the bar and were running over to check on me. Lyn watched from across the bar, serving tray clutched against her chest as she gasped. A swarm of angry clones pushed the one in dark armor back till he was trapped against the dartboards, the fight in his eyes undeterred by the numbers growing against him. Blood trailed down his busted lip. Before the one v one could turn into a one v bar, I brought my fingers to my lips and whistled. All eyes landed on me. 

“You.” I turned to the clone I had fallen into–he hadn’t moved. His face was pulled into confusion and worry. Though he had sobered up considerably compared to when I jumped into the fight, he was slow to turn his attention back on me. Then, I turned to the sea blocking my path to the other clone. It parted without any orders from me and revealed him. Our eyes met and, even in the dim light, I could see he wasn't like other clones. “You. With me.” 

No one, clone, patron, or employee alike stood in my path as I escorted the pair behind me to one of the few private places in the bar–the office. A tiny room that fit two chairs and one square desk, tucked back into a nook made by all the filing cabinets and boxes lining the walls. Bright yellow light hurt my eyes as we stepped inside. Once the door closed behind us, I turned to face the clones. Now that I could properly see them, their injuries were on full display.

So were their differences. 

“Take a seat.” I gestured towards the chairs in the tight room. One sat normally. The other spun the chair around and sat facing its back. 

I found myself questioning if the man in black (and red) armor was even a clone. He was skinnier and, even though he was sitting, taller than the other clone. At first glance I thought his silver hair was dyed, but then I noticed peach fuzz growing along his jaw–also silver. And then his face–long and sharp thanks to the gaunt look his cheekbones gave him. No one would think this was a clone if they didn’t know better. But I’d seen hundreds of clones. He shared the same deep brown eyes that I’ve looked into hundreds of times before. Maybe there was no other clone like him, but he was a clone. 

And a tough one too. My gaze flicked to the trail of dried blood that ran down a busted lip to his chin. I also noticed purple slowly crawling from his left cheek. He’d come back up swinging despite the hits that landed.

Then I turned to the other clone. His armor was decorated in red stripes, the sign of a clone assigned to the Coruscant Guard. Great. Another reason for Commander Fox to hate my establishment. Unlike the silver haired clone, he was much more typical. He had cropped dark hair, brown eyes, and a full face–albeit made swollen by what would be a black eye given time. Otherwise, the only unique feature to him was a large tattoo that snaked around his neck and climbed up his jawbone. I recognized him from a few other visits, all without incident before. 

Pain spiked behind my thoughts. The only barrier keeping it from consuming me was the need to sort everything out before I could retreat upstairs to slap bacta onto my shoulder. Somehow. I’d figure out the logistics later. For now, my attention was on the troublemakers. 

“What’s your name?” I asked the clone in red stripes. 

His brows pulled together and his eyes darted around the small room. Panic ran through his face, though he still answered me. “CT-823-”

“No,” I cut him off. Trooper numbers were for reports and people who wanted to make clones feel lesser. I wasn’t the latter, and I hadn’t yet decided on the former. “Your name.” Between the effort of submitting an official report to the GAR, Commander Fox’s pre-established distaste for anywhere that let clones get a little too “loose,” and knowledge I needed to treat my shoulder, the chances I’d bother were low. The tipping vote depended on what all of this was about. 

“Binder, ma’am.” 

“Binder, what happened?” 

He glanced up to me, then at the other clone. 

To his credit, the other clone kept his mouth shut. Not that, I suspected, he needed to use his mouth to say much. His arms draped over the back of the chair and his legs spread out wide to support his posture–rather casual for someone who could get into trouble with his superiors. He kept a Sabacc face, betrayed only by the toothpick that wouldn’t keep still between his lips. (Where did he get a toothpick?)

“He was cheating at darts.” Binder muttered.

I got punched. Over a game of darts? “That’s it?” 

Binder shot out of his seat, hearing the disapproval in my words. He pointed at the other clone. “He was! No one can beat my score!” 

“I did.” The silver haired clone interjected. 

Even his voice was different, more gravel and less pavement. 

The taller clone straightened his back, looking up to meet Binder’s flushed face with a shit-eating grin he knowingly used as bait for another fight. Before Binder could take it, I stepped between the pair once again. After swearing under his breath, Binder returned to his seat. The other clone gave me a smirk. I didn’t reciprocate.   

It was a clear holo of what led to the night’s events, in the flesh. “So you beat Binder at darts,” The clone kept his lazy grin. “Flaunted more than you ought to, and got punched for it?” His lips dropped, slightly less pleased with himself when I laid it out like that. 

“More or less…” 

Stars, his voice instantly captivated me. The universe was cruel to drop this man in my lap this way. What would that voice sound like in my ear while he had me pushed against the wall? Would he grunt? Moan? Growl? I took a deep breath.

“How many drinks tonight?” I asked Binder.

Begrudgingly, Binder answered. “Four.” Then he added, “Thermals.”

Four Thermal Detonators. No wonder his temper got the best of him. “Alright, here’s what I’ll do.” I turned around and rummaged through the cabinets with minor difficulty. “I’ll chalk tonight up to more beer than you can handle,” I glanced back at Binder long enough to ensure he knew I was talking about him. Then, I rooted through a collection of various computer parts and some wayward screws until I found what I was looking for. “And someone who doesn't know the rules of my bar.” With the prize in hand I turned back around and looked at the clone in question. Both men met me with confused expressions, one big and curious and the other tight and suspicious. 

“Take this before you sleep tonight,” With my left hand, I threw a tiny vial at Binder. He caught it against his chest. “It’ll help you metabolize the alcohol.” A spike of pain in my right arm demanded attention, so I rushed to wrap up. “Hangover prevention, if you will.”

Binder studied the clear liquid within the vial carefully before glancing back up at me. “I’m not going to report either of you.” The clones didn’t move. “You’re free to go.” I gestured to the door with my left hand, acutely aware of the pain surrounding my right. 

Binder left first, and it was then I realized I never asked the other clone his name. Pain was gnawing at my thoughts, but I had to ask. “Wait.” I rounded the doorframe in time to see the mystery clone walking down the long hall to the back exit. Binder was already gone. “What’s your name?” 

He stopped. I watched as he pulled something out of his mouth–the toothpick–and held it between his fingers like a death stick. “You said so yourself. You aren’t reporting this. I don’t need to tell you my name.” Faux-death stick returned to his lips.

“No, but I’m still asking.” 

We stood there. Strides apart. With me leaning against the doorframe of my office trying to ignore the heartbeat caught in my collarbone and him with slack shoulders and a downturned head. The longer the silence went on the harder it was to ignore the pain.  

“Why?” He broke the spell and turned around, facing me with narrowed eyes.

A feeble smile spread across my lips. “I’d at least like to know the name of the man who broke my shoulder.” 

His jaw clenched and I regretted my teasing. His eyes fell to my shoulder. “You think it’s broken?” 

“I think you’ve got one hell of a punch.” My lips curved into a smirk. Pain burst like a hot flame all around my shoulder, up my neck, and down my arm, causing my expression to falter. I took a step off the wall, then two, then four. When I reached him his gaze dropped behind me.

“I wasn’t aiming at you.” 

“Trust me, I know.” I looked up into his eyes and realized I’d missed something. Thin black lines made a reticle around his right eye. I had gotten so lost in his differences with other clones, I didn’t even see the difference he chose. Half of a laugh escaped my lips. “You’re lucky I’ve got quick reflexes, or I might need more than a little bacta to fix this up.” I dipped my head towards the door that led to the stairwell just behind him. He followed my gaze. “Which, if you don’t mind,”  I moved past him towards the door. “I’ve put off long enough.”  

With a hiss, the automatic door opened and I entered the stairwell. Metal echoed up the high ceiling as I climbed up the steps. It was quiet. So my thoughts were loud. 

You felt the force again. I felt the force again. You are a Jedi and yet you hide your power and strength. I’m no Jedi, I’m not powerful, I have no strength. You let him go and now he’ll never come back. I’ll never know his name. 

I gripped the railing, feeling a wave of nausea threaten in my throat. My breath turned rapid and the stairs before me started to shake. Just as I thought my grip would slip, I heard the doors open again. Quickly, I straightened up and turned to see Jayas. Except, that wasn’t Jayas.

Instead, there stood the clone with silver hair and a reticle tattoo.

“Hey.” He looked up to me. “You need any help?”

Every inch of my body felt like a live wire. Finding my voice took a moment. “Depends.” I managed. One silver brow raised in question at my answer. “You gonna tell me your name?” 

A slight smirk pulled his lips up. He nodded his head once before climbing the stairs to reach my height. Once he was one step below me, he leaned in just enough to make my buzzing heart flutter. “Crosshair.” 

I swallowed. “Nice to meet you, Crosshair. My name’s Anya.” 

Dividers by Djarrex

[milktrician]

(what the. who threw a wife plot device in the middle of a peak lord meeting)

i thought about this bit at the end of the airplane extras the other day. bro why are you looking at your coworkers like that rn

[baeshijima]

mr reca fic where he’s suffering a creative slump due to the lack of good scripts (by his standards) from various screenwriters. he feels himself going positively insane with every script he’s given.

it’s too dull. it’s too predictable. this one has no creative flair whatsoever!! that one just doesn’t spark enough imagination!!!

it’s troublesome, really. some think he’s really going through it, while others believe the scripts he’s been given won’t bring him enough money. but really, who cares about monetary value when it is he who cannot even begin to picture himself enjoying the process that comes with each script?

and so that is how he finds himself wandering around aimlessly. sometimes the outdoors is necessary for the mind, and who knows? perhaps he really will find something that will give him a spark. hmm, those trees are looking a little dull. the sky overhead is too cloudy. hm? did he just hear thunder—

something collides into his chest, a choked “oof!” following soon after. he stumbles backwards a little, papers flying through the air around him. he blinks once, twice, at the sight of you on the ground, muttering something under your breath before a sharp gasp escapes you, hastily scrambling to gather the papers fluttering and strewn around.

one such paper falls into his hands. he glances over its contents, skimming through it as he goes to pass it over to you with an apology at the tip of his tongue, only to freeze.

this… this is genius! this is absolutely the pinnacle of writing!! while a little rough around the edges (as drafts usually tend to be), his once clouded mind is now clear, giving way to a blank canvas which slowly depicts the imagery your writing induces. idea after idea pours into his brain as he can visualise exactly what he wants, his body trembling and heart pounding as he insantly fixates on your panicked form still collecting all the fallen papers.

“yes… yes! this is what i was looking for! everything about this is pure artistry! the possibilities are endless, the sky is the limit!!”

this is possibly the happiest and freest he has felt in what seems like eons! seriously, compared to those other mind-numbing scripts this truly is the pinnacle of writing itself.

a laugh full of pure, unadulterated glee escapes him, careful not to crinkle the god-sent paper cradled in his palms. “you! you’re a genius!”

“i’m a wha…?”

he whirls in the direction of the source of the voice, further praises and a proposal for a collaboration on the tip of his tongue, only for his breath to catch in his throat.

you… you’re so radiant! even with that disheveled appearance and absolutely adorable confused expression you’re giving him, he never realised such beauty existed! not only does your writing fill him with endless creativity, but his pounding heart, parched throat and warming skin tells him you’re definitely the main character!

but wait! if you were to be the main character, then would that make him the main character’s love interest? surely he wouldn’t have had such a cliché meet-cute like bumping into each other if he wasn’t the love interest! but what if there is a second love interest? no, no, he can oust them…

you, on the other hand, believe you’re about to get whiplash instead of the man, baffled at how he instantly switched from a maniac to stark silence to muttering senselessly with a dreamy expression.

well, each to their own. you have more pressing matters, and that’s to quickly return home and continue fantasising before you forget the idea! but first, you have to get the last piece of paper back…

“um… sir? can i have my paper back, please?”

in an instant, he kneels in front of you. now that you’re at eye level, he certainly is very handsome. if you didn’t know any better, you would have thought this was some movie or drama plot with him as the main lead! oh, but why is he holding your hands—

“yes, i will spend the rest of my life with you.”

“…what?”

tldr; you’re just a silly writer who daydreams far too much for their own good, and somehow managed to bag top-tier director mr reca with the power of said daydreams. (his ever-growing obsession with you is concerning to say the least but, hey! what genius isn’t at least a little insane?)

[kittykatninja321]

Biggest pet peeve in fics that write a remix of Jason and Bruce meeting is when they make Jason super timid and afraid of Bruce. Girl Jason did not hesitate for a second with that tire iron:

[libraryofgage]

so i wrote this yesterday and now it's become a whole thing

basically: Steve is actually smart but nobody realized it until he just fixes their various STEM related problems

anyway this is Eddie's very first experience with how smart Steve Harrington actually is

also please don't call me out if my physics explanations are wrong. just suspend your disbelief, i'm begging you lmao

also also, if you see any typos, no you didn't

---

"You're going to fail my class, Munson."

"Gee, no need to sugarcoat it," Eddie mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets and avoiding Miss Chester's gaze. His eyes land on one of the posters behind her desk, a cat hanging off a tree branch. Maybe it would like to trade places.

Miss Chester sighs, looking pointedly at the desk closest to hers. She waits until Eddie sits on it, legs hanging over the edge. "I'm serious," she says. "You're going to fail, Eddie. I don't want you to, but there's just some...disconnect happening here."

He appreciates that she's not totally blaming him. Most of Eddie's other teachers would've been berating him for his laziness by now. This, among other things, is why Eddie likes her class even if he can't wrap his head around physics at all. "I don't know, Miss. It just doesn't make sense."

"So I'm noticing." Miss Chester leans back in her chair, her finger tapping against her desk. Eddie immediately recognizes it as the drum beat from a KISS song. "You know you'll probably be held back if you fail, right?"

"Not the first time."

Miss Chester waves off his words, looking deep in thought. "What do you think about tutoring? I think you'll do better in a one-on-one setting. If you understand the concepts better, I can start grading you based on the work you do with the tutor."

"It wouldn't be you?" Eddie asks, frowning slightly. He's not sure he wants some random geek tutoring him. Not that he has anything against geeks, of course, but he's never known one to talk in a way he can understand. They get all...technical and Eddie's eyes glaze over whenever he overhears their conversations.

"No, I don't have the time. But don't worry," Miss Chester says, smiling reassuringly before pulling her roster close and looking down the list. "The student I have in mind probably knows more than me, if I'm being honest. He should be able to answer any question you have."

"What student?"

"His name is Steve."

Of course, Eddie immediately thinks of that Steve. King Steve. Steve "The Hair" Harrington with his blinding smile that's always looked a little strained in Eddie's opinion.

He then dismisses Steve Harrington as a possibility and reviews the other kids named Steve at Hawkins High. There's Steve Paulson, Steve Meyers, and Steve Barns. Maybe it's Barns? He's the only one that Eddie could imagine being somewhat good at physics.

"Are you open to tutoring?" Miss Chester asks. "For one session, at least?"

"Yeah, sure, one session. Won't help, though."

Miss Chester smiles like she knows something Eddie doesn't. Which, to be fair, she does. She knows a lot more than Eddie in terms of physics, at least. "I'll set it up. Just come by tomorrow after school."

--------

On his first day at Hawkins High, Steve realized two things.

One, his parents weren't kidding when they'd said public school would be vastly different from the private group tutoring he'd received up to that point.

Two, if he wanted to have a good high school experience, he needed to be cool. And being cool, it seemed, meant not being smart. He didn't need to be dumb, but he couldn't breeze through his classes, either.

He's done a good job of it so far. He's bored beyond reason in most of his classes, sure, but he's also popular. Nobody bothers him or tries to copy off of him, and it's great. He can even swallow down the weird surge of frustration and annoyance and guilt whenever his classmates assume he's too dumb to be a good project partner, or when his parents ask why he isn't enrolled in AP classes, or when his teachers give him confused looks after he aces tests for a unit he seemingly didn't pay attention to.

Anyway, he almost rejected Miss Chester's request to tutor a student from a different class period. He was just about to say he didn't have the time when she leveled him with a look so profoundly hopeful that he just couldn't. So, Steve said yes and now he's hesitating outside the physics classroom.

What if the student inside uses this against him? Steve thinks he could play it off, maybe convince his friends that the kid is lying, but he's not sure. Nothing dire would happen, but Steve would have to reorient himself to a new place on the social ladder, and that sounds exhausting.

"Just get it over with," he mumbles. Then, before he can chicken out and just leave the other student hanging, he opens the door and steps into the classroom.

Miss Chester isn't there. Steve knew she wouldn't be. She'd said something about a department meeting that would take her time but leave them with the classroom to themselves.

The only other person in the room is Eddie Munson, bent over a notebook and furiously scribbling on the page. He looks up when the door opens and freezes at the sight of Steve. They stare at each other for a few seconds before Eddie breaks the silence by asking, "What, get lost on your way to the locker room, Harrington?"

Steve blinks, frowns slightly, and takes a deep breath. Okay. Fine. Eddie Munson it is. "Nope. Miss Chester asked me to tutor you," he says, because that's the only reason another student would be in this room after school has let out.

Eddie laughs. He nearly falls out of his chair with how hard he laughs. He's wheezing and clutching the edges of the desk by the time Steve moves another desk to face him and sits down across from him. "Are you done, Munson?" he asks.

"Holy shit, you're serious," Eddie says, his voice slightly strained and his face red from laughing. "No fucking way Steve Harrington is here to tutor me in physics. You probably don't even know what two plus two is!"

"It's four. Do you know what 12 times 40 is?" Steve asks, watching as Eddie blinks.

"I'm not a fucking calculator, man."

"No, you're not. It's 480, by the way."

"You could've just memorized that."

Steve sighs and reaches into his bag, digging around some before pulling a calculator out. He places it on Eddie's desk and says, "Ask me something."

Eddie looks at him like he's grown a second head but still pulls the calculator closer. "1,239 plus 378."

"1,617."

He watches Eddie use the calculator, feeling smug when his face twists into confused disbelief. He then puts the calculator down and frowns at Steve. "So you can add, big whoop. Doesn't mean you can teach me shit about physics."

"Won't know until we try," Steve says, resting his elbow on the desk and propping his chin in his palm. "So, what don't you get?"

"...All of it. Just assume I don't know shit."

"You don't know Newton's laws?"

Eddie snorts, looking back down at his notebook. "There's that motion one and the reaction one," he says.

"Right. Newton's first law and his third. What about the second?"

"It's just...some equation or some shit."

Okay, Steve is starting to get an idea of where things stand. He thinks for a moment before asking, "What kind of stuff do you like?"

"What?"

"What do you like?"

Eddie looks so shocked by the question that he doesn't really think before answering, "Heavy metal. And, uh, D&D, too."

Steve knows heavy metal is music, and he could work with that but the D&D Eddie mentioned might be better. "What does it involve? The D&D?"

"It's a fantasy role playing game. Like, using your imagination to go on adventures with friends and stuff. Needs dice to work."

Oh. Perfect. "Do you have dice with you?" Steve asks. After another brief pause, Eddie nods and pulls one out of his pocket. He passes it over and watches as Steve turns it between his fingers. "Oh, an icosahedron. Cool."

"A what?"

"Icosahedron," Steve says, looking at Eddie. "It just means a twenty-sided polyhedron."

Eddie still looks confused, and Steve is about to explain it again when Eddie says, "Just call it a D20, dude."

"Oh. Sure. Anyway, let's use this," Steve says, rolling it between his fingers before letting it clatter to the desk. It bounces a few times before settling, a 17 facing up. "Do you know what made it stop moving?"

"The desk. I'm not an idiot, Harrington."

"I didn't say you were, Munson," Steve replies, leaning back slightly. "Just...yes, the desk stopped it. This is Newton's first law. If the desk wasn't there, it would have kept falling until it hit the floor. It stopped bouncing because it lost power each time it hit the desk. An object, the D20, will stay in motion, falling, unless acted upon by another force, the desk."

"That...kinda made sense," Eddie says, blinking a few times.

"Great!" Steve says, unable to help the bright smile at knowing Eddie understood him. "Okay, for the second law, the equation is mass times acceleration equals force. Basically, the movement of an object depends on how much it weighs and how much force you apply."

"Aaaand ya lost me," Eddie says.

"Okay, uh, you fight things in that game, right?"

"Yeah, kind of the whole point."

"Right, yeah, and the stuff you fight comes in different sizes, right?"

"Well, an orc isn't gonna be as big as a dragon, is it?"

Steve isn't really sure what an orc is, but he nods anyway. "Right. So if you want to move a dragon, you need to land a stronger hit than you would need for an orc."

"Duh. You're not gonna fell a dragon with a basic cantrip."

"Not sure what that is, but yeah. For this example, moving, or defeating, an object, or a dragon that weighs more than an orc, relies on how much force you apply, which is the strength you use."

"Oh. So, because an orc weighs less, I don't need as much force to defeat it," Eddie says, grinning as he fidgets with his pencil. "This doesn't really sound like math, though."

Steve shrugs. "We'll get to the math part later. Right now is basics. You need to understand those to do more complicated stuff. So, the third law, this is the action-reaction law. Music might be better for it. What happens when you strum a guitar?"

"It...makes a sound. Because it's an instrument."

"Well, yeah, but do you understand how the sound is being made."

"By...strumming it?"

"Yeah, that's part of it. Sounds are vibrations in the air that we can understand. If you touch your throat while talking, you'll feel your voice box, your larynx, vibrate to make the sound of you talking."

He waits as Eddie does exactly that. While holding his fingers to his throat, Eddie says, "Didn't know it was called a larynx. Oh, fuck, yeah, there are vibrations."

Steve nods, waiting patiently as Eddie hums for a few minutes before looking back at him. "So, vibrations. Instruments make sound because playing them causes vibrations. When you strum a guitar, the strings rapidly move back and forth, and that movement is translated into notes."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but yeah, I'm following you."

"So, the action of strumming a guitar creates the reaction of the strings vibrating. That action of the strings vibrating creates the reaction of air rippling, and those ripples create the reaction of audible noise. Did that make sense?"

"Yeah. It did," Eddie says, his voice soft as he stares at Steve like he's really seeing him for the first time.

Steve shifts uncomfortably, unused to this aspect of himself being known so well by someone at school. He's almost tempted to end things now and apologize to Miss Chester for walking out halfway through a tutoring session. Steve is practicing the apology in his head when Eddie says, "Hey, by the way, sorry for earlier."

"What?" Steve asks, trying to blink away his confusion and failing.

"You know, earlier, when I laughed at you? Pretty shitty of me to do. So, yeah, I'm sorry."

"Oh." Steve stares at Eddie for a few seconds before his shoulders relax. "It's fine. I'm not exactly known for being smart."

"Why not?"

"It's just...easier to let people think I'm dumb. Most of our classmates look at me and think I'm just, you know, a typical jock. They don't expect more from me than that, and I don't expect them to look any deeper."

"Does anyone else know, though?"

"My parents and the teachers. And you."

"Well, don't worry, big boy. Your secret's safe with me."

"Big boy?"

"Don't like it? Would you prefer Stevie?" Eddie asks, grinning as he leans in and exaggeratedly waggles his eyebrows at Steve.

Steve can't help snorting at the sight. "Whatever. Just call me what you want, Eddie," he says.

He tries to ignore the weird swooping in his stomach when Eddie's smile gets wider and he says, "You better not regret it, Stevie."

[ghostbsuter]

The house of Nightingale & Constantine ( P. 1 )

> next part

.・゜-: ✧ :-

You know, when Batman reassured him (was it tho? His way of using words is a bit... confusing.) of bringing in a third person for their common problem, Phantom, Danny, didn't press nor worry.

He regrets it now, just a little bit.

—

Dick liked Danny.

The small guy has been an absolute delight!

(He isn't grinning when he and Damian duke it out, doesnt watch fondly when Danny and Jason exchange the most weirdest ways of insulting someone or when He and Steph gossip, Cass sitting behind him with her hands in his hair.)

(He can see from the corner of his eye the way Tim hides a grin behind his hand, texting Danny someone rapidly and their Guest laughing at random times, the way even Duke, despite wearing the sunglasses, seems to warm up pretty quickly to their new brother friend.)

(It's doesn't help that he has black hair and blue eyes either.)

Danny has been living with them for some time now, temporarily as it may be, and grew on them all pretty quickly.

Bruce told them when Constantine arrived at the cave, seemingly irritated for unknown reasons, and they all were ushered to the elevator.

There is no noise as they arrive, Danny few feet off the ground and engaged on a hot topic with Steph as they go down the stairs.

The moment Constantine is in sight however, has their resident ghost snapping out of the conversation and zooming in on the man from afar.

It's kind of funny? The way his black hair fluffs up like in a Ghibli Movie, the way his eyes narrow to slits, glowing a faint green.

Many shout in alarm at the sight of agitation (?), Dick sees Constantines own eyes glow a eery gold??

It's like two cats staring down one another, a showdown.

(Someone should record this.)

The two meet down in the middle of the cave, Danny is bristling and John scowling.

"Really Bats? A Nightingale?" The blond man scoffs, pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat, hands roaming for cigarettes probably.

"Excuse me? I thought the line of Constantine died out back then, with the way you handle your stuff." The teen hisses back, a hand running through his poofed up hair.

"Hah!" The Hellblazer gives a mocking laugh, cigar already in hand and lit. "'With the way we handle our stuff'? Weren't the Nightingales out of commission not so long ago?"

The glow might have died out, but the tension only rose higher.

Danny turns to Batman, glowering.

"Asking for the help of the house of Constantine? Are you crazy? Those nutjobs have no self-preservation!"

John's eye twitches at the remark.

"No self-preservation, my ass. Nightingales do nothing but mess with stuff they shouldn't, talk about self-preservation when you have it yourself, pipsqueak."

And Danny? Danny growls.

"All you do is trick every being to do your bidding! One day all of this will catch up to your house and me? I will watch as it burns."

The blonds cigarette snaps in his grip.

"Burn? Me? Doesn't the house if Nightingales hunt the beings we 'trick'? It seems to me that your lineage is already going down as we speak."

The argument (?) continues and the batclan does nothing but watch as if its a particularly interesting tennis match.

(John looks like he's about 5 seconds away from strangling Danny and the teen about to bite off John's head.)

"What's going on?" Finally, Batman steps in.

"What's going on? What's going on?? You said you'd bring in a third person! Not a constantine!"

The bat shows no signs of anything really, when both teen and man whip around to face him.

"I thought you'd know better than to involve yourself with the house of Nightingales."

"I was here first! No take backs!"

"And yet I know bats longer, don't I, pipsqueak?"

"Foolish trickster!"

"Imprudent necromancer!"

(Apparently, beef between two houses of dark exists and they had the chance to experience it first hand.)

(This is one of the many occurrences.)

[apartmentsmoke]

"Wait, wait, stop," Buck says, and the very pleasant feeling of Tommy's mouth on his neck vanishes.

"You okay?" Tommy's got his Look of Concern plastered on his face. Good thing, because if Buck is right, this is concerning.

"Yeah, it's just - did you hear that?"

Tommy raises his eyebrows. "I heard you moaning."

"Tommy, that's the thing - it wasn't me." The Look of Concern has morphed into the Look of Are-You-Sure-You're-Not-Having-Me-On? It's mostly used whenever Buck regales Tommy with tales of one of the 118's emergencies ("Nothing like that ever happened while I was there, Evan"), but he's seen it in other contexts (explaining the entire Kim situation).

"At this point, I think I know what you sound like in bed." Tommy's mouth is still nicely red. And maybe he's right, it was nothing, and it would be easy to fall back into him. Buck waits a beat, ears perked, but there's nothing - so he does press his lips into Tommy's, Tommy's body relaxing against him.

Tommy rubs his side like Buck's an anxious horse. The hair on Buck's arms slowly flattens, goosebumps leaving his skin. He loses himself in the slide of their kisses, until -

He breaks free of Tommy and looks around wildly, Tommy woah'ing.

"Sweetheart," Tommy says, reaching out again. "Seriously, you okay? Because you're giving Ghost Whisperer."

Buck snaps his fingers at Tommy. "Exactly. My apartment is haunted."

"Evan." The word is a drier desert than Antarctica.

"There was a moan again! And it wasn't me. And when Chimney and Mara and Jee were over here helping set up, they left the balcony door open. It's October. And now there is something living here."

"Last time I checked, Casper wasn't considered alive," Tommy says, and the look on his face tells Buck everything: he really is a skeptic. Falling asleep during Buck's thoughts on Area 51 wasn't just because he found Buck's voice soothing.

When Buck reaches for his phone on the bedside table, a chill runs down his arm and into his spine. "Okay." He's got Google, a helpful army of friends, and the ability to buy anything he needs. That ghost is history. "So first, we need to get -"

He's stopped by Tommy's hand on his wrist. "Baby, do we really need to figure out your ghost thing right now?"

"Do you want to fuck in front of a ghost, Thomas?"

"Is he a hot ghost?" Tommy waggles his eyebrows, then sighs. "Look, I get that this is important to you, but I was away for three weeks for that training camp and I missed you. Can we send The Flying Dutchman back to sea in a couple days? My place has a big bed and a distinct lack of the supernatural."

As they're closing the door to Buck's loft, another faint moan emanates from the air.

"It's the pipes," Tommy says, linking his arm into Buck's to guide them to his car.

(They find out three days later Tommy is technically correct when maintenance pulls a dead raccoon out of the walls of Buck's loft.

"Huh," Tommy says, frowning at his phone. "They really do make that noise."

"And they stink." Buck wrinkles his nose. "Your bed still open?"

By the time the landlord's finished the repairs, Buck's stuff, cleared out for the construction, is scattered over Tommy's house.

"It'd be a pain to pack it all up again," Tommy says. "Keep it here."

"You just want easy access to my hoodies," Buck accuses, feeling Tommy's laughter from underneath the fabric of the stolen blue hoodie he's wearing.

Two hours later, hoodie abandoned to the floor, Buck officially moves in.)

[thanks to @stardustbuck (Buck thinks he's haunted) and @theweewooshow (balcony raccoon) for the inspo 🫶]

[jade-len]

Tired, 39 year old Shen Yuan is constantly nagged by his parents about giving them grandchildren. At a certain point, they were done with begging for him to marry a nice lady and just skipped to pleading for grandkids.

While the idea of having a child does make his heart yearn in a way that will definitely be dangerous if thought about for too long, he just doesn't have the time! No way! And what kind of father would he be, secretly reading cheesy, terrible webnovels in his free time? Which, mind you, is rare nowadays. He'd like to spend that valuable time getting rest via napping, thank you very much.

So what if Shen Yuan's heart swells when he sees his students run up to their parents with adorable, toothy grins? So what if he treats his class like they're his own children from time to time, spoiling them silly and proudly wearing the badge of "Best Teacher!" every year? So what if he wants a child to call his own!?

To love and care for a child, Shen Yuan has accepted that it would simply be a privilege he'll never experience.

...Think, think! Don't get so mopey now, Shen Yuan! Try to outweigh the baby fever with the pessimism you (slightly) obtained from your mean older brother!

How about this: There'll be no time for himself, none at all! Just more and more work. Come home from his job, dealing with a bunch of rowdy kids to find your own permanent little monster running around the house! At least he's getting paid for the first one!?

Shen Yuan had seen those videos and posts of kids accidentally exposing their parents embarrassing tendencies. Knowing him, his hypothetical child would have piles upon piles of blackmail on the Shen family's youngest son! Leave this old man alone, alright? Non-existent dumpling, theoretical baobei, please don't be so careless with your father's reputation...

(It would be careless too, to become a gaping hole in the heart of his child. Wouldn't it be selfish to have one, only to die a few years later?)

Over a decade ago, believe it or not, this esteemed Mr. Shen had gone by the shameless persona of "Peerless Cucumber" on the internet. He'd been an infamous anti-fan of the male power fantasy stallion web-novel series, Proud Immortal Demon Way and would leave scalding essay-length comments and posts ranting about its terrible plot point and flaming the author for his awful characterization and overall writing. That era of his life was when he actually had the time to stare into the digital sea of texts and write entire documentaries as replies for twelve hours straight. Fortunately or unfortunately, Shen Yuan doesn't have the same luxury as of now.

Despite the constant hate spewing from his younger self, present-day Shen Yuan is honestly very impressed by the constant thousand word updates every day. Honestly, looking back, how did that man accomplish that? Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky, dear author, are your hands okay? Youthful Shen Yuan's hands cramped all too much from simply typing up angry comments, now imagine PIDW's author??

Aaah, yes, the former hater Peerless Cucumber had long forgotten about PIDW. The author mysteriously disappeared one day, leaving Luo Binghe out on his own for more wives to dual cultivate with as Shen Yuan had realized his passion for literature (and critique!).

With a newfound, realized passion in his heart, Shen Yuan went off to actually pursue the college education his parents had very lovingly saved (and were ecstatic he was actually using) and became a literature teacher! NEET 21 year old Shen Yuan would be quite astonished to see this dignified Mr. Shen now, yes, very much so indeed.

Now, Shen Yuan.. doesn't quite remember PIDW all too well. He begrudgingly admits that it holds a dear and special place in his heart, but in all honesty, Shen Yuan can remember merely a handful of the wives and plot points. Ah, this is what happens when you actually get a life, interesting! Clap it up!

The most Shen Yuan remembers is the stallion novel character, Luo Binghe. His favorite, and - he really can’t stress this enough - an absolutely wasted potential of a character. Shen Yuan may be an older and wiser man who doesn't waste constant time on the internet like before, but that only means he actually has a degree to be critic. Serves all of those self-righteous, questioning commenters right from all those years ago! Look at him now!

Importantly however, Shen Yuan also remembers just how badly he wanted to coddle the protagonist, blackening or not, pre-abyss, post-abyss, even as a demonic tyrannic emperor! Can you believe that none of Luo Binghe's wives wanted to squeeze his cheeks and kiss his forehead!? Master Airplane, throw in some fluff, will you? Spare the poor boy from all of these succubi (metaphorically and literally) and let him take a nap! Ahhh, who really cares if Luo Binghe has a kingdom he needs to take over? Throw a blanket on him! Cranky, old Mr. Shen knows the feeling of being terribly overworked, so imagine how the protagonist feels!? Shen Yuan nods his head approvingly at the thought.

All of those mistresses flocking over to Luo Binghe... If Shen Yuan were his guardian, he would kick them all out without a second thought in place of good family bonding time.

Women, power, sex... really, what's needed is a loving father who'll coddle and take care of Binghe when no one else can!

So, Shen Yuan guesses he shouldn't be surprised when he wakes up in the body of Tianlang-jun.

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

---------------

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[superbat-love]

Bruce: Are you sure this is where you last saw your dad, kid?

Jon: Yeah.

Bruce: Any chance that you can spot him among these dense trees?

Jon: [shakes his head]

Bruce: Your powers haven't developed sufficiently yet, huh? I don't even know if your dad is conscious and can hear us or not. [hears the rustling of leaves] Who’s there?!

Damian: Stop, don’t shoot! [climbs down from the tree]

Bruce: Damian, I should have known. Why are you here?

Damian: I just wanted to help!

Bruce: [pinches the bridge of his nose] Fine. Looks like we’ll have to do this another way then. Damian, grab the kid.

Damian grabs Jon.

Bruce: Jon, I want you to make the saddest face possible.

Jon: Like this?

Bruce: Hmm, a bit more on the sad side and less disgust maybe?

Damian: Jon, imagine that you switched on the television and realized that your favorite tv show was canceled.

Bruce: Now you look like the world just ended, but we can work with that. [turns around and raises his voice] Superman, I have your kid! Come out and face me or I’ll turn your son into the ultimate weapon of destruction and take over the world!

Clark: [crawls out of the bushes, covered in leaves, with his eyes glowing red] Let. Go. Of. My. Son.

Jon: Dad, you’re alive!

Bruce: Superman, we finally meet at last.

Superbat Family Fics

[inamagicalhallucination]

my favorite sskk trope is ppl like akutagawa’s acquaintances meeting atsushi and being flabbergasted that the sweetest, purest, softest, can do no wrong-est guy is with mr grumpy pants and no one believing akutagawa when he says that atsushi is actually feral

so essentially ppl having a very soft baby boy uwu perspective of atsushi just becuz he’s sweet and smiles a lot and so on 

but akutagawa obviously knows atsushi since theyre dating so he’s like ‘guys. guys no. guys yesterday i told him he should eat something other than chazuke and he tried to bite me. guys. guys please believe me.’

[annwayne]

Delayed Fate - A Story from The Red Logs

Chapter 3/3

Last Chapter <-

Fem!OC X Crosshair

Word Count: 4056

Fic Summary:

Written for the Love & Lust Flash Fic Contest in The Erotica Abyss (chapter 2)

After splitting up a fight between two clones in her bar, Anya finds herself in the company of the most interesting clone she's ever come across-and she's known a *lot* of clones. (And if you squint-plot)

Or

How Anya and Crosshair's fates first intertwined.

AO3 Link

Warnings for whole fic:

Violence, Injury, Blood, At Home Medical Treatment, Biting, Praise, Gloves, Dom/Sub undertones, PinV sex, Oral Sex (F & M Receiving), Fingering

Authors Note:

Well. This took longer than I meant it too lol. But boy is it worth it.

Bitter bacta numbed my lips as I pushed my tongue past Crosshair’s welcoming grin. He pulled me in, meeting me with his own hungry lapping. Our tongues danced while moans leaked out of me. Crosshair’s hands were quick to find my hips and faster to pull me onto his lap properly. My knees pushed into couch cushions as I sat on his plastoid clad thighs. Want pulsed from between my legs, but my thighs were spread too wide for me to find any relief from wiggling. 

Though, that didn’t stop me. 

Instinct drove my hips back and forth against the phantom of friction. Then a knee pushed up between my legs, giving me a thigh to grind on. A gasp left me at the sudden contact. I pulled back from Crosshair’s lips to see the self-satisfied grin he gave me. 

I retaliated by grabbing a handful of silver hair and pulling Crosshair’s head back, gaining access to his neck. A dark chuckle vibrated from his throat as I planted sloppy kisses along the length–from his clavicle up to his ear lobe. While my hips moved with their own mind against the hard armor that covered Crosshair’s thigh, I caught his ear between my teeth. That earned me a growl mixed with pain and arousal from the clone. 

Meanwhile, Crosshair bided his time beneath me. His gloved hands traversed my body. He started at my bare waist, slid down to my clothed hips where he released the clasps of my slacks, and ended at my thighs. He squeezed the flesh like it was a prize. Then he’d had enough.

Before I went for another bite, he caught my braid and pulled my head back. “Enough of that.” His voice rumbled against my jaw and sent shivers straight to my clit. 

“Is that a complaint?” He pulled harder in response. I grunted.

He held me in place like that as his tongue dragged up the side of my neck. “No complaint.” Gravel kissed my ear. “But I have…a hunch.” Crosshair let his lips brush my neck as he talked. “There might be something else that we’ll both enjoy more.” 

“Oh really? What’s th-” I gasped–and then moaned as Crosshair bit down on my neck, hard. 

When he finally let go he lapped at the divots his teeth made in my skin, sending more shivers to my clit. By now I was panting and couldn’t stop squirming against his thigh. “Very good.” He released me with the praise. 

Blush had already painted my face, but a new wave washed up my ears. “What are you talking about?” I asked before finding his gaze. Two parts of my brain were at war. Logic said I’d done nothing–what was the point of his praise? But a less intellectually driven part of my mind only focused on the pleasure that came from the words. 

Crosshair’s eyes narrowed as a huff of a laugh left his lips. “I’m talking about how we’re going to fuck, Anya.” 

My eyes blew wide at the sound of my name on his tongue.

He continued. “You put on a good act.” His nose rubbed against my ear. Crosshair must’ve caught on to the effect his voice had on me. “I’m sure most of the clones you bring up here expect you to take the lead, based on how you act in the bar.” His dark gaze drank me in, my flushed face, heavy lidded eyes and slightly part lips. “Except, that’s just an act, isn’t it?” 

Sex was sex. Sure, I was used to leading most of the clones I slept with. Kamino didn’t exactly have any sex education–and neither did I. What did it matter who led and who followed? At least, that’s what I thought I’d say. Instead I found a twist in my gut at his question–like it was an accusation I’d tried to hide my guilt from. My jaw clenched as I sat with his words. I was more exposed than I should’ve felt, given how much clothing I still had on. When he didn’t take my silence as an answer–or didn’t accept it–I gave in. “What gives you that idea?” 

Crosshair ran his hands up my sides, pulling me flush against his breast-plate. “You follow too easily.” Then, he grabbed my jaw and guided my mouth to meet his. Our lips crashed together. This time his tongue easily spread my mouth open to accept his exploration. “You’ve got a bed?” He asked, pulling back just so his lips were out of reach when I tried to meet them again. 

“Sly.” His breath tickled my lips as I talked. “Follow me.” I stood up and remembered he’d messed with my slacks too late. The fabric slid down till it caught on my hips. Crosshair smirked at his handiwork. I smiled back, turning the situation into a little show I hoped he’d use for later stress relief. He watched as I teased the slacks down and up again, revealing just a little more of my skin and panties each time. His gaze locked onto my moving hips, following side to side in trance, till finally, I let the garment pool around my ankles. I stepped out of the fabric and turned around without a word.

A few steps later, Crosshair caught on and rejoined me. He followed closely as I guided us past the kitchen and into the short hall that led to my bedroom. Once inside, I closed the door behind us. Immediately, Crosshair pinned me against the steel. 

Plastoid pressed hard against my cunt thanks to the thigh Crosshair pushed between my legs. He nestled his nose in the crook of my neck as his tongue and teeth teased my shoulder. Gloved hands explored newly exposed skin. They lingered the most at my hips and regularly pulled me back against him when I’d slip too far. 

“How do you feel about oral?” He asked in a gruff voice between littering my neck with love bites.

“It’s alright.”

“That,” Crosshair pulled back, leaving me yearning and questioning the distance between us. Dim blue washed over him as he stepped into range of the light that spilled through translucent window curtains. “Is changing tonight.” Answers came with the drop of his first gauntlet. One piece at a time, Crosshair peeled out of his plastoid armor. Vambraces and pauldrons caught the light as they joined his gloves on the floor, followed shortly after by his chest plate and cuisses. Finally, he removed his boots, leaving him only in his tight blacks. The backlight outlined his slim figure but obscured further detail from view. I watched intently as he returned to me. Then, Crosshair kneeled. 

Light kisses feathered up my ankles. Crosshair was slow in his worship. He let every brush of his lips linger before moving forward, closer to his goal. By the time he reached my thighs I was shivering in anticipation despite my initial indifference to oral. No one had shown such dutiful dedication with me before, and the effect was clear. Excitement had left a damp stain on the cotton between my legs, and it was only growing. 

At last, his lips met mine below. He lapped up the damp fabric, denying me true pleasure in favor of further teasing that had my hands tugging at his silver locks. Frustrated moans slipped out as he continued kissing and licking the barrier that kept his tongue from my skin.

“Crosshair!” I whined out his name, earning a reprieve from his teasing so he could look me in the eye. 

“Yes?” 

My jaw clenched and unclenched as I struggled to find words. “Don’t act cheeky.” Then I added, “You know.” 

I watched as information processed behind Crosshair’s dark eyes while he kneeled between my legs, looking up at me with an expression I could only describe as conniving. His smirk turned audible when he asked me, “What do you want, doll?”

Damn this clone and damn his mind-melting voice! I hissed in a breath to avoid shaking at the nickname. Doll, doll, doll—the pet name repeated over and over in my head till it was all I heard. Maybe he was aware of what that did to me, beyond just the hitch in my breath. He had to know my walls were cracking by his hand (or rather words) and this was just another sledgehammer added to the mix. The integrity of my controlled persona was at risk, and I didn’t give a damn. 

“Please, taste me,” My heart pounded as I answered his question–admitted to the want. “Directly.” 

Suddenly I was pulled from the door and tossed by the wrist onto my bed. Before I had time to settle, Crosshair grabbed my legs and pulled me down so my hips were at the edge of the mattress. “Since you asked so nicely.” His breath tickled my thighs as he littered more kisses along the soft skin. Then he slid his fingers underneath the elastic of my waistband and pulled down. At the same time, I lifted my hips. 

Crosshair’s tongue moved slow and languid. He took his time dragging the flat of his tongue along my pussy, leaving me restless for more friction. Moans dribbled out of me like the slick from my cunt. Soon my legs wrapped around his shoulders, forcing as much contact between his mouth and my pussy as possible. Crosshair wrapped his lips around my clit and sucked. His reward came via a long moan I tried to muffle with the back of my hand. He went back to lapping up my juices, hitting my clit again and again, faster and faster, till my legs locked him in place and I gasped out more semi-muffled moans. 

I was melting in his hands and I loved it.

But he wasn’t done with me yet. Even as the high of my first climax leveled off he held my thighs in place, lapping away with fervor only found in the devout. Once he was sure I wouldn’t try to move away, he brought one hand up to my folds and slipped a digit into me. Then another, added easily thanks to how wet his devotion had made me. Crosshair dragged his tongue up and down, over and over, stimulating my clit with each pass– all while curling his long fingers inside me. 

My second orgasm came quickly. Moans turned into silent cries of pleasure as only air could escape my sky turned lips. At some point my hand dropped, leaving the few sounds of pleasure that slipped from me crisp and clear. 

 He did not stop. 

My hips bounced with a mind of their own against the affections of his tongue. Stars blew out of my vision as a wave of pleasure turned into an unending surf, racking my body with uncontrollable twitches. “Pl-se” I gasped out the word. Overstimulation clouded my brain and locked my body away from me. All I could do was focus on the pleasure and experience the longest climax of my life, till finally, Crosshair pulled away.

Without his lips to warm me, a rush of air chilled my wetness. My limbs were weak but the urge to find comfort pushed me up the bed to my pillow. Yellow poured into the room as a speeder flew by. I burrowed my head into the pillow, hiding from the light and my own exhaustion. Beside me, the mattress dipped as Crosshair joined me. 

“So,” He let the word hang as he settled into position. Our limbs touched and his breath tickled my right ear. “How do you feel about oral now?” 

“Mmhd.” 

“Didn’t catch that.”

I lifted my head from my pillow. “Fuck.” Crosshair laughed at my answer, which prompted me to turn over and face him fully. “Hey!” There was as much offense in my voice as there was play. “You’ve left me with a terrible situation, you know!” 

“Oh?” He tilted his head at me. Blue light reflected on the missed slick coating his jaw. The sight rekindled the fire in my core.

My resolve to tease him wavered as I met his eyes. As much as I wanted to be snarky, more of me wanted to see how he’d react to an honest explanation. I took in a breath, and answered. “Nothing will ever feel as good as that did.” 

Immediately, I regretted my unabashed honesty. Crosshair’s lips spread into a proud grin that would’ve annoyed me if it wasn’t so damn well earned. He leaned into me, so our foreheads touched and our bodies pressed against each other, and gave me a look that sat all too smugly on his face.

Before he could speak, I warned him. “I can still kick you out, you know.” 

Crosshair closed the distance between our lips. My body melted against the affection. Our limbs tangled together as my hands searched for the seam that separated his blacks in two–that fire growing wild with need. By the time I realized he’d pushed me on my back, his hands were at either side of my head pinning me against the mattress. “I’d bet credits I can prove you wrong.” He purred against my ear.

“About kicking you out?” I smirked back up at him.

My punishment came via three fingers invading my mouth while the other two took hold of my chin. Instinct took over as I lapped at his fingers, sucking on them like I wished they were something else–something currently prodding my inner thighs through blacks. Drops of drool rolled down my jaw as Crosshair pushed his hand in and out of mouth as he pleased. 

“Still trying to be in control?” Crosshair asked with a heavy gaze as my tongue wet his digits. “We both know that you aren’t.” An undercurrent of lust made his words breathy and his eyes grew hungry. Maybe he also wished my lips were wrapped around something else. “Let it go, Anya, and I'll take care of you.”

A partially muffled moan escaped between his fingers at the promise. Was it a promise? Pleasure fogged any answer as I fell further into lust. Sex was never this. Passion and intimacy were reserved for lovers. Yet, tonight Crosshair touched me like he knew my body, whispered honey in my ear like it was second nature, and treated me with care I’d forgotten existed. 

Crosshair removed his fingers from my mouth, but kept hold of my chin. His gaze bore into mine as he asked, “Will you let me take care of you, Anya?” 

Blush flooded my cheeks as the fire within me turned into an inferno. “Yes.” I answered.

“Good girl.” He released my chin and our lips crashed together again briefly before he pulled away from me. “Tell me what you want.”

Hesitation hitched my breath. But I found reassurance in Crosshair’s eyes, in that reticle tattoo I’d so easily overlooked. “I want to see you naked.”

Crosshair smiled. “Of course.” 

I watched as Crosshair’s dimly lit figure stripped off his blacks; first the top half, then, with more ease than I expected, the bottom. Even in the poor light, I could make out several scars littering his body. Some small and evident of bacta applied soon after injury. But others were deep, jagged, and told stories of the war that felt so far away. As my gaze fell, so did my lips. Washed in blue darkness, the evidence of Crosshair’s arousal invited my exploration. 

“Come here, doll.” Crosshair helped me up, then pulled me towards the edge of the bed where he stood up. Before I could ask his plan, he gestured to my chest. “Your turn.” I had forgotten about my bandeau. Deft fingers pulled apart the latches holding the garment in place, allowing it to fall freely to the floor. 

Now it was his turn to take all of me in. Despite being nearly nude the majority of our time in my bedroom, Crosshair made sure to be slow in his study of my body. 

“You’re acting like you’ve never seen a woman naked before.” I teased, but a single glance from Crosshair told me he saw through my words. 

“I’ve never seen you naked before.” He pulled me up and then took my place. “But if you’re so eager for something to do, I’ll give you something to do.” Then, he opened his legs. “Kneel.” 

On his tongue the word sounded devilish–perhaps that’s why I felt so compelled to obey. In seconds I was between Crosshair’s legs and on my knees, holding his shins to support myself, my face a mere breath away from his cock. I swallowed, only to find the saliva would not stop coming. He rested a hand at the base of my head and grinned when I glanced up at him.

“Go ahead.” Crosshair nudged me. “There’s no need to act shy after you sucked my fingers so hungrily. I’ve already seen what that tongue can do.” Then, with his free hand, he grabbed the base of his dick. Hot velvety skin brushed against my face as he dragged his cock against my cheek. Arousal burned through me as the soft head of his cock prodded at my lips. With one last glance up, he pulled my head in and I opened my mouth. 

Spit coated his cock quickly, allowing me to bob my head up and down his length with ease. Even still, I kept my pace slow thanks to his length. Just looking at him, I didn’t notice how much bigger he was compared to the other clones I’d slept with. But now that he was in my mouth, I found myself struggling to take all of him. My focus went from swallowing as much of him as I could to keeping a steady rhythm while using my tongue as I moved up and down his dick. Crosshair rewarded my efforts with a moan. I pulled off him just long enough to spit into my left hand. Then he was back between my lips with my hand pumping what I couldn’t swallow. As my pace increased more moans trickled out of Crosshair, urging me to work harder for the sweet sounds. 

Suddenly my head snapped back and Crosshair slid out of my mouth. He twisted my braid around his fist tightly and kept me in place. Quick breaths made his chest rise and fall rapidly. 

“Careful.” He hissed once his breathing calmed. “There’s no need to rush, doll.” 

A devious smile painted my words. “Struggling to keep your cool?” 

Crosshair pulled my hair tighter. “I think it’s time I show you what’ll feel better than my lips on your cunt.” He practically growled the threat–though it wasn’t meant to frighten me. 

Instead a shiver of excitement ran down my spine directly to my cunt. “I like that idea.”

“Good.” In a whirlwind of motion I was back on the bed with Crosshair hovering over me, legs pushing mine open to make room for him. He kneeled over me like an altar, leaving behind hickeys and bite marks as prayers while his hands worshiped my breasts. Dutiful fingers teased my nipples till I was writhing in desperation. Need burned hotter than the three suns of Tantooine in my cunt. Attempts to find relief only met air, as Crosshair kept his cock tantalizingly out of reach. Whimpers spilled out of me at his denial. “Tell me what you want, Anya.” Then, he closed his lips around one of my nipples. 

Moans filled the room as I struggled to think. Struggled to accept. Crosshair’s tongue swirled around my bud. My whole body writhed in want. Pleasure overwhelmed me–but it wasn’t enough. I needed more, no, I wanted more. “Crosshair!” I whined between pants. “Fuck me, please!”

A gasp ripped through me as Crosshair thrust his cock hilt deep into me in one movement. “You’re so wet.” He grunted as he started pumping into me at a quick pace. My hips matched his pace. I squeezed down involuntarily, in bliss at the feeling of being full with a hot cock. Crosshair bent over me, moans spilling from his lips and tickling my ear. 

“Please.” I begged. “Harder, please.” 

“So needy,” He teased. “Already asking me to fuck you senseless?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” I panted.

Crosshair chuckled. “You’ll have to wait, doll.” 

“No, please, I don’t-”

Crosshair cut me off with his tongue. Our kisses matched our fucking–messy and desperate. Or maybe that was just me.

A spike of pleasure came from Crosshair playing with my tits again, squeezing and rolling his thumb over my over-sensitive bud. Despite the tongue invading my mouth, I tried again to beg for more. The words came out muffled noises. Those noises turned into rolling moans, growing with the cusp of a climax on the horizon. Crosshair took note, pulling back enough to catch my breast in his mouth. His eyes found mine, burning and heavy, as he lapped at my nipple. That was the trigger.

I wrapped my legs around Crosshair’s waist, effectively pinning him in place, and pushed his head down onto my chest. His lapping turned into sucking that had me crying out in pleasure. Wave after wave crashed till finally, I could stand no more. With my hand tangled in his silver hair, I dragged Crosshair from my breast. He came with a wet pop, leaving behind phantoms of touch and a cold, hard, bud. 

“Fuck.” I growled as my limbs fell to my side. 

“Now I’ll fuck you senseless, doll.” Crosshair sat back on his knees and lifted my legs up. Then, he started thrusting. 

The angle left me a moaning mess. Deep pleasure came with every thrust as his cock hit spots I’d never felt before. Crosshair was unyielding, unforgiving, pounding into my body so hard the impact rang through the room. Feeling so full, feeling him hit so hard and so deep, along with his moans mixing with mine pulled another climax near. 

“Fuck, fuck,” I sputtered, coherent sentences too complex to spit out. All I could do was hope Crosshair could hear my mounting pleasure, feel the way my muscles clenched down. 

“You like that?” He growled, pounding away as I could only moan in response. “Such a good girl, taking me so well.” He kept talking. “Cum with me, doll. Cum on my cock.” Then, he folded me in half. 

Pleasure blinded me as I writhed under Crosshair’s weight. With every thrust came another climax–or maybe it was just prolonging one. His cock hit deep and hard exactly like I wanted. There was little I could do under him other than accept all of his lust. His moans turned into grunts, fast and breathy in my ear. Rapid thrusts turned into long draws as he pumped his cum into me. With every hot rope of climax I shuddered, clenching down and milking him further. 

Eventually, Crosshair stopped moving. He released my legs, pulling a grunt from me in the process. Crosshair supported himself by his forearms to keep his weight off me. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him down. We kissed. Exhaustion and satisfaction rolled over me like a slow fog. When our lips parted, I pulled him down to rest on my chest. Not long after, Crosshair stirred under my hold. I let him go.

“You bet right.” 

Crosshair sat up. “Yeah?” He smirked as he stood up.

I followed, triggering a headrush that spun the room. As I leaned against the bed frame with my eyes closed I heard fabric pulling on skin and plastoid clinking together. Once the dizzy spell passed I opened my eyes to see Crosshair nearly dressed. He gave me a soft look, pausing his redressing for a breath. With his eyes on me, I took the moment to gesture towards the attached refresher in my bedroom. “I’ll be right back.” He nodded. 

But I knew he wouldn’t wait. Most of them wanted an easy getaway, so I started making this escape for the men I slept with. The best ones were always most eager to leave. Despite the habit, I couldn’t help myself from smiling sadly at my reflection once the door closed behind me. By the time I finished cleaning up, Crosshair would no longer be in my life.

Dividers by Djarrex