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merginyourface · 1 year

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Controlled Burn

WC: 1512

Aether watches over Dew as he undergoes the transformation into a fire ghoul.

Warnings! The themes in this are pretty heavy? I’m sure a lot of yall have read worse but I’ve never written worse and I don’t want to seriously upset anyone! Themes of death, decay, grief, etc. so forth. If that’s stuff that might make you upset pls avoid!!!!

“It fucking hurts, Aeth.” Dew says on a large exhale after drawing in his first full breath in what felt like hours.

“I know,” Aether says in the softest voice he can manage, running a free hand down his back, up to his shoulders, and over again. His own voice is tight, the ever-present burning in the back of his throat showing how close he is to losing it. But he can’t. Not while Dewdrop is here.

He crouches down in front of the seated ghoul and wipes the tears from his face. He was losing control, Aether could tell as the water slipped down his cheek, cascading over his jaw until it fell solid on the floor, splashing out. The quintessence ghoul watches the droplet on the floor, as if maybe if he could collect it, he could give Dew back what he was losing.

“Fuck.” Dew’s voice cracks. It seemed like might have been supposed to be a scream, but it comes out as no more than a broken whine. He fists his hands into his light hair, grabbing at his horns as if he might pull them out.

Aether tries to pull his hands away from the mess he’s making of his hair, but Dew just pulls away from his touch and locks his hands harder in, curling in on himself as if he might collapse into nothing. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into nothing. To have never been, that’s how bad it’s hurting.

And maybe he’d vocalize this. Certainly, he would. If not for the nausea that burns so violently through him every time he opens his mouth, nausea so intense it makes his legs cramp.

Aether can see the way he tenses at the thought, “You need to breathe, droplet.” He uses the nickname out of habit and it pulls a cynical one-huff laugh from Dew. Aether picks up all he needs to know about what Dew thinks about the nickname now just from the laugh. He’ll have to be careful not to use it again.

This was the most responsive he’d been since the beginning of this. Damn them for making him do this. Damn Dew for agreeing. Aether knew, too, that this at best was the eye of the hurricane. He didn’t know how Dew was going to make it through this if it really was going to get worse again. He didn’t know how he was going to get through this having to watch.

“Dewdrop, you need to lay back down.” Aether tried to guide him back down, but he weakly pushed his hands away.

“I fucking can’t” He grits out, before picking up the small trashcan next to him and hacking violently. He coughs and chokes until something comes up. Aether’s stomach turns. It looks like slime but smells like pond scum. Dew takes a shakey breath, struggling to hold his head upright as his eyelashes flutter.

Quickly after, his eyes roll back into his skull and he starts to slump forward. Aether catches his dead weight and slings him back so he doesn’t crash forward. The pail falls forgotten to the side.

“Dew?” Aether tries, shaking the smaller ghoul’s shoulders ever so slightly. Aether calls his name, again and again. Because even as they went into hour 15 of this mess, he’d never passed out like this before. The longer Dew isn’t responsive, the harder and harder Aether’s heart seems to beat.

Heartbeat. He thinks, throwing his head down onto Dew’s chest. But he can’t keep still, he cant focus enough in the panic to hear anything. Does he hear anything? Is there nothing to hear? Did he give up? Is he—?

Bile rises in his throat. “No. No, no, no, no. You’ve gotta—you can’t—” He’s already lost so much. So many people. He can’t lose Dewdrop.

“Dew!” He calls, shaking limp shoulders.

“Dew.” He tries again, but it’s broken, borderline empty. And for a second, all the pain settles away. He stares blankly down at Dew, who’s gone completely pale. And he just…

He can’t believe it. Deep in his chest, he can feel the pain there. He wants to bring it to the surface. He wants to feel it. But, nothing. He feels like he doesn’t even recognize the sharp cheekbones. He doesn’t recognize the face below him without a sneer, a line of tension, a frown of annoyance. This can’t be Dew.

Delicately, as if he might fade into dust, Aether lifts Dew’s limp hand. He brings the soft, cool skin to his face and rests it against his cheek. This is wrong. It can’t be real. He lets go, expecting Dew to hold his hand to his face, but the arm just falls back beside him.

And in an instant, the pain slams back into him. Aether’s lip quivers as his lung coughs out a small, choked sound. Tears well up and spill down his face as his chest shakes and heaves over and over again. In the back of his mind, he’s aware that words are spilling out of his mouth in desperate gasps and pleas.

They had agreed to do this alone. Dew didn’t want anyone else besides Aether to see him when he shifted. But now, Aether felt like he was the only person left. Like the world was a desolate space. That if Dew was gone, beyond that door there would be nothing but shattered buildings and fallen trees. Brittle grass and raging fires.

All he knew, was that he didn’t know what to do. He felt like jumping up, running, screaming. He felt like breaking shit. Killing someone. Killing anyone who ever thought that putting this shit on Dew was a good idea.

But he didn’t move. Barely even a muscle, he wasn’t even sure if he was breathing anymore either.

He couldn’t hold himself upright anymore. Miserably, he collapsed forward, resting his head on Dew’s chest, trying not to think about the way it didn’t move. And would never move again.

He thinks he might lay there forever. Wait until they both turn to bones and the earth swallows them whole.

Eventually, the place where Aether touches Dew stops being cold. His own heat must be keeping him warm, and the thought is sour in his stomach.

That is what he thinks until the places they touch heats up even more, until a sweat breaks on Aether’s brow.

His head shoots up, analyzing Dew for any signs of… anything. He hasn’t moved yet but… has some of the color returned to his skin? Aether couldn’t be positive this wasn’t all some sick trick his mind was playing on him.

And he believes this, that it was nothing more than his imagination, until Dew’s eyebrow twitches. Quickly, Aether sits up and grabs hold of Dew’s hand again, calling his name.

And Aether was right, Dew’s skin was hot before, but burning up now. It continues to burn, to grow hotter and hotter until Aether can’t bear to touch him anymore.

Suddenly, Dew’s eyes shoot open and he tenses up on the bed. Aether is about to ask if he’s okay, as well as a million other questions but he never gets the chance. Dew takes a deep breath in and uses it to scream like nothing Aether has ever heard in his entire existence.

Aether does his best to try and soothe him, but even being in the space around him was growing more difficult as his temperature seemed to climb beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Ifrit had told him not to get involved in the process, to not try and fix the pain. He’d told Aether the Dew needed the pain or else he would never be able to tolerate his own flame.

But the way Dew’s skin was starting to dry, to crackle and split. It was making him sick.

Eventually, Dew’s skin went beyond drying and cracking as his screams and twitches continued. It darkened and darkened until it was entirely the color of ash. Dew began to thrash harder, breaking off chips of skin and leaving a new layer beneath it all.

He leaned as close as he could manage to Dew, using a façade of calm to try and comfort him. Wanting nothing more than to hold him and let him take the rest he needed while Aether cradled him. But it wasn’t possible.

The cloud of heat was so thick around him that it was like a force field keeping Aether out. But he continued to whisper everything he loved about Dew. Everything he cherished about their time together. Everything he looked forward to with him. Everything and anything he thought of.

That seemed to go on for hours until every piece of blackened skin had dissolved away and the heat finally died down.

Delicately, Aether laid a single finger on his arm, worried about hurting him. The skin was impossibly smooth and flawless. Dew shivered but didn’t wince.

And for the first time as a fire ghoul, Dew opened his eyes.

#Anyway I just stamped all this out in an hour or so and its 1 am and I'm pretty upset rn so I shant be reading any of this over #When ur life is a complete mess and you have no idea how to fix it simply take it out on fictional demons #morgan writes #lemme know if I should delete this in the morning :/

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attapullman · 27 days

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letting a fic marinate and come together is *chef's kiss*

#morgan writes

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temporary-dysphoria · 10 months

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it be slow, but it do be coming.

Lupin follows Fujiko to work and meets Zenigata. While he's there he meets a very cute 'eyebrow wiggle' baker.

#lupin iii #lupin the third #lupin fanfiction #morgan writes #lupin coffeeshop AU

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morganwriteblr · 1 year

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I was looking through some of my older WIPs to prepare for World building Wednesday, just to remind myself of place and character names, and now I want to bring them ALL back into the current rotation.

Seems like my master list might need an update already....

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #my writing #writers #writer #tumblr writers #morgan writes #am writing

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imeasyeitherway · 1 year

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Seven Sentence Sunday

Not tagged by anyone or anything, just working on some stuff!

Time came in pieces.

Bobby was there, dragging Eddie kicking and screaming away from Buck. Eddie clawed at him, his arms aching with the effort of keeping Buck's heart pumping.

Hen and Chim took over, hooking Buck up to the LifePak. His body jerked with the first shock, and Eddie felt it like a punch to the stomach.

Bobby was holding him around the chest, talking to him, but Eddie couldn't hear him. The telltale whine of a flatline was the only noise breaking through to him.

#seven sentence sunday #sss #wip #buddie #9-1-1 #buddie fic #buddie wip #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 #9-1-1 fic #911 fic #buck x eddie #eddie x buck #my writing #morgan writes

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imagineannemorgan · 1 year

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Perhaps I should get back into updating fan fiction which I haven't done in a long time with lack of motivation. I am going to continue Evolution but I feel both this fic and Hot Zone need a rewrite.

#writing #fan fiction #story writing #old projects #morgan writes #morgan writes things #my writing #iam

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morganali-writes · 1 year

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An unexpected development

The halls of the Fortemps estate were dark as the former Count, Lord Edmont de Fortemps, made his way towards his chambers – and no less quiet. It was the comfortable hush of household at rest. As he walked, he was startled then to hear the quiet murmur of voices. Most of the servants should have long since retired, late as it was. Curiosity piqued, he snuffed out the candle he carried between the pinch of his fingers and set it aside. He crept towards the adjoining hallway as quietly as an old man could, hesitating before the corridor's intersection.

“—dnight, Mistress Sombreterre,” came the quiet voice of his son.

“Artoirel…” A pause. “You are always so formal with me when we chance to talk alone – did you not instruct your own staff to treat me as family?” The Warrior of Light hesitated, then continued, her voice softer than before.

“Won’t you call me by my name, then?” A telling silence fell between them, and Lord Edmont held his breath despite himself.

“You are right, of course. Forgive me,” came his son’s reply after what seemed an interminable age. “Goodnight then, Cessalie.” His voice was little more than a whisper, but there was a reverence in his tone that was unmistakable. Neither of them made to move. Where once Edmont had been entirely ready to retire for the evening, he was suddenly wide awake.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Her voice was bright, but tremulous. “I… like the way my name sounds when you say it. Would you mind terribly if I told you that I– I like a great many things about you?"

“I shouldn’t mind that at all… Cessalie, may I tell you something—”

“—Please.”

“Oh... Cessalie, I... I’ve grown very fond of you. Mayhap moreso than is wise." He took a breath, and his next words seemed to tumble out in a rush. "Forgive me, but I did fear you might not regard me quite as fondly and did not wish to discomfort you." There was a flutter of laughter at that, so quiet that he nearly did not catch it.

"I knew that should I treat you with the same easy familiarity my brothers seem to excel at, my own regard for you would be plainly writ across my countenance for all to see.”

“Then you do not wish to regard me as merely a sister?” There was a teasing note to her voice, and Edmont could just about imagine the coy smile she must have worn.

“I— No. No, I do not.”

A pause laden with expectation hung heavy in the air. A moment later, he thought he heard a quiet shuffling, followed by a curious thud. A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as their quiet gasps for breath echoed down the hall a few moments again later.

“Sweet, serious Artoirel…” Cessalie murmured, and his son huffed out a quiet laugh.

“Dearest Cessalie…” Somewhere in the distance, the hour chimed – two bells past midnight. Inwardly, Edmont sighed.

“Gods, is that the time?” Cessalie said, dismayed. “Though I regret to say it, we truly ought to retire. Good night then, Artoirel...”

“Good night, Cessalie – dear Cessalie.”

At last, Edmont heard the scrape of her chamber door open and the solid clunk as the door latched closed once more, but it was still long moments before his son deigned to move from where he stood. Once roused however, his eldest swept down the hall and by him without acknowledgement – undoubtedly lost in a world of his own musings. Shaking his head, Edmont smiled to himself and finally turned to make his way back to his own chambers.

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I had started thumbnailing this as a comic, but I absolutely couldn't figure out the pacing without a solid grasp of their conversation, so I had to comit it to writing first. Anyway, another one for the project list :)

#ffxiv #artoirel de fortemps #wol x artoirel #fan fiction #edmont de fortemps #cessalie sombreterre #elezen wol #morgan writes

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pathologicalreid · 6 months

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buried alive | S.R.

in which the BAU races against the clock to rescue you from a killer team

who? spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

category: angsty

content warnings: kidnapping, case stuff (murder yk), suffocation, being buried alive, hospitals, blood, nausea, CPR, funerals, use of pet names, guns, and drugs. i think that's all.

word count: 2.9k

a/n: okay, so i've been reading so much spencer fanfic and i started writing it and yesterday i realized i have 20 fics written and they're doing no one any good just sitting on my computer. i decided to finally try posting one. i wrote fanfic in high school (so like seven years ago) but this is my first time writing for a TV show. i've also never really posted on tumblr so please bear with me while i try to figure out formatting. tysm for checking out my post.

part two part three

You walked into the conference room and dropped the file on the table, allowing it to land on the wood with a satisfying splat. “The unsub’s burying them alive,” you said, letting the rest of the team know the conclusion you had come to with the medical examiner. “The M.E. found metal shavings and satin threads under the nails of our last victim. The most common materials to make up a casket.”

“There’s no way someone could bury someone alive in a casket alone, we’ve got to be dealing with a team, at least three people,” Emily concluded, standing in front of the evidence board.

It was the team’s third day on a case in Nebraska, four women had been discovered dead. Asphyxiation by hypoxia. Carbon dioxide poisoning.

“Approximately 420 people in the United States die from accidental carbon dioxide poisoning every year,” Spencer said, grabbing the file off of the table and flipping through it, taking a few seconds to read through it.

Rossi looked over Reid’s shoulder to look at the file, “but there’s nothing accidental about these deaths. Who would have access to these caskets?”

You shook your head, placing a hand on the back of Spencer’s chair, “A funeral director seems most likely.” You looked around at the Omaha field office, different agents running about in an attempt to solve these very murders. “They’d have the most access, write it off as displays. It could be hard to match the materials since they’re so common.”

Hotch leaned over the table and pressed the conference phone, “What can I do you for?” Garcia’s bright voice rang through the speaker.

“Garcia, I need you to look into funeral homes within the comfort zone. Look for a director who’s ordered more caskets than they’ve had funerals. Find anything, nothing is too small.” He told her.

“Absolutely, I’ll hit you back when I’ve got something,” she said, hanging up the phone.

There ended up being four funeral homes in the unsub’s comfort zone, so the team split up. You went with two locals to a family-owned business, Garcia had sent you all of the files you’d need on the location. “It looks like the Varn family has been in the funeral business since the seventeenth century,” you read aloud to the two agents you were in the car with.

“Does it mean they’re more or less likely to be the killers if they’ve been in business for so long?” One of the agents asked you, a younger man named Harrison.

You pursed your lips as you continued to look over the files, “I’m not seeing any glaringly obvious stressors before the murders started, but over the years I’ve learned that’s no reason to write someone off. Psychopaths can be tipped off by the slightest thing. Things none of us would bat an eye at.”

Harrison nodded in the passenger seat, looking over to his partner Jimmy, “You and your guy sure do make an interesting pair.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment, so thank you.” You and Spencer never explicitly stated to the field office that you were dating, but you walked into the precinct this morning holding hands. The agents must have drawn their own conclusions.

The younger officer cleared his throat, “It is a compliment, ma’am. The two of you are very impressive, your whole team is.”

You smiled, “Thank you, Harrison.”

The funeral home was run by a mother and her two sons, you held up your credentials for the mother when you knocked on the door. “Are you Sheila Varn?” You asked her, raising your eyebrows.

“Yes, what’s this about?” She inquired. She didn’t really look the part of a serial killer, a middle-aged woman who was running her family business.

Pocketing your credentials, you spoke, “We’re investigating the recent murders in the area and we were wondering if you had samples of the materials your caskets are made out of. Might we be able to come in?” You asked, adding a charming smile for effect.

Something flashed across her face before she returned your smile, opening the door and welcoming the three of you inside. “Hold on, let me get my boys up here. They’re so much more versed in the goings on of the town than I am,” she said, opening the door and calling for her sons. Felix and Joss came up the stairs from the basement, now they definitely had the physique to load dead women into caskets and bury them alive.

“Why don’t you two men come with me? I’ll get you those samples,” Sheila said, motioning for the agents you were with to follow her. To your horror, they followed her around the corner. “Felix, Joss, show this young lady what you know,” she instructed.

You took a deep breath before you looked up at the two men.

They were tall, maybe Spencer’s height, but they were built like wrestlers. There was no way you could physically subdue them on your own.

You passed out before you even had the chance to pull your gun.

Hotch was in full Unit Chief mode, Spencer watched from the corner of the room as he separated people into groups and gave them specific instructions. JJ and Morgan walked into the precinct, “What’s going on?” JJ asked looking around the room.

“The Varn Family is the team; two agents were found drugged on the side of the road and when we went to the funeral home Y/N was missing. Her badge, gun, and phone were all there, covered in blood,” Spencer said morosely, watching as Hotch finished giving orders and called the rest of the team over.

Your picture was up on the evidence board with the word “missing” written in bold letters beneath it. All of your belongings had been put into evidence for the time being. “Reid?” Hotch said his name, causing his head to snap up. “Are you okay to keep working?”

Spencer nodded affirmatively, “Yes.”

“Good, I need you to estimate how much time we have, I want a clock on these screens,” he ordered.

Morgan turned to Reid, “What do you think she has, kid?”

“The tidal volume for the average adult is point five at rest. That ends up being about six liters per minute. The average casket is approximately 886 liters in total volume and the average volume of the human body is 66 liters, leaving 820 liters to be filled with air for her to breathe. If she’s been gone for half an hour already, I’d estimate she has less than five hours of breathable air left.” Spencer explained, doing all of the math in his head while Emily put a timer on the screen next to the evidence board.

After a moment, Hotch continued, “Rossi, JJ, go back to the funeral home. Tear it apart, there has to be something there we haven’t found yet. The rest of us will split the list of cemeteries in the comfort zone and search them.”

“That’s a lot of ground to cover, we don’t have anything else to go on?” Morgan asked, looking at the list of burial sites he had been handed.

Hotch looked at Spencer, but Spencer stayed silent. “That’s all we have right now,” Hotch responded, “hopefully we’ll come across leads as we go.”

It smelled like a garden around you. The memory reminded you of spring with your mother, tending to the vegetable garden.

The only difference was that instead of the sun beaming down on you, it was pitch black. The space surrounding you was so dark that you weren’t totally sure your eyes were open.

Your head was throbbing just above your right temple, and you observed your surroundings. Slowly, you lifted your arm until it hit a ceiling.

Not a ceiling. A lid. You were in a casket. You pressed one hand to your chest and tried to slow your breathing. Chances were that the casket was already buried beneath the surface of the earth, trying to open it could be catastrophic. You patted the pockets of your jeans, only to find your phone missing, so the team wouldn’t be able to trace the location.

Even if you had it, there likely wouldn’t be service six feet under.

Your team would find you. They had to find you.

They found Spencer, they found Emily, and they would find you.

Spencer shifted in the passenger seat of the SUV, “You know, carbon dioxide poisoning is a rather peaceful way to die.”

“Reid,” Morgan said, turning the vehicle onto the main road, they had just finished scouring over another cemetery with still no sign of you.

He sighed and stared at his hands, “No, it’s good. We see so many people killed in so many different ways that it’s good that she won’t be in pain when she runs out of air.” He tried to convince himself.

Morgan cleared his throat, “We aren’t out of time yet, kid. We can still find her. Y/N’s smart, I’m sure she found a way to make more air or something.”

But they were running out of time, less than an hour remained on the timer set on all of their phones.

They pulled into the next cemetery, “There’s some fresh dirt over there, what are the names on the graves of people who were actually recently buried?”

Spencer starts to recite the names, and the two of them start to comb through the cemetery.

You had done enough research on this case to understand what was going on. The light-headed feeling had started not long ago, but now you felt like you were spinning, despite the knowledge that you were stuck in place.

It was a high. Not unlike the good kids high. Except instead of trying to chase a feeling, you were dying.

The timer went off when they were still scouring graves, shovels in hand. Derek stopped in his tracks, but Spencer kept going.

“Wait,” Spencer called out, reading the name on the card next to the fresh grave he was standing at, he moved to start digging. “Essie Dunbar was a thirty-year-old woman who was mistakenly buried alive in 1915,” he said, digging. “This has to be it.”

Derek called Hotch, putting the call on speakerphone so he could help Spencer dig. “Hotch, we got her, but she’s buried.”

“We’re on our way, Omaha police have one of the brothers in custody,” Hotch told Emily to have an ambulance dispatched.

What Reid knew that Derek didn’t was that it could take four hours to dig a grave by hand. The soil had been overturned, so maybe call it three. Your odds were still negligible. He didn’t stop, he didn’t stop when a caretaker came running at them, and he didn’t stop when Derek told him to get his digging equipment out here now.

Derek flashed his FBI badge to get what they needed. He had to physically pull Spencer back from the grave so the backhoe could dig, only going until there was less than a foot between them and the casket.

Spencer crudely attached a chain to the casket and the caretaker's vehicle. Carefully, the caretaker dragged the white container out of the earth and up a slant they had dug. It was locked shut, “Reid, move,” Derek ordered.

He leaned back and Derek fired at the lock, taking it off and opening the casket. Spencer gasped, there was blood on the side of your head, dried and raked through your hair. He was vaguely aware of Hotch and Emily arriving as they pulled you out of your satin prison. You had no pulse, but you were still warm. Immediately, Spencer started CPR.

“Reid let me do it,” Derek insisted.

What he was trying to say is that he shouldn’t have to be the one to try to save your life.

Morgan repeated himself and Spencer pulled away, allowing the other agent to immediately take over. There was a siren in the background, an ambulance. More people showed up, Spencer heard their voices, but he just kept watching you. CPR was effective if it was done shortly after your heart stopped, and even then, permanent brain damage was likely.

It had been eight minutes since they pulled you out of the ground. Clinically, you were dead for eight minutes before you gasped.

Spencer smoothed your hair back, away from your face, while you desperately tried to catch your breath. You weren’t moving, and Spencer started running through symptoms of hypoxia. His biggest fear was brain damage, that they had done more harm to you in bringing you back than they would have had you died.

The EMTs came running over to where everyone had gathered, dispersing the crowd, and placing an oxygen mask over your face. As they were loading you on the stretcher, you started trying to talk, reaching your arm out to your side. “Wait, what’s she saying?” JJ asked.

“Sometimes it’s hard to talk after CPR,” the male EMT said as they moved you closer to the ambulance. He listened to what you were saying, “It’s not coherent.”

Spencer didn’t move, all of the adrenaline that had been coursing through his body all day was leaving.

Aphasia. They were saying the lack of oxygen to your brain was causing aphasia. “No,” Emily said, realization dawning on her features as she strained to listen to you. You were whispering, rasping the same word over and over again. “She’s saying ‘Spence.’”

He stood quickly and looked at you, sure enough, you were reaching out your hand and whispering, “Spence, Spence.” Your voice no more than a whisper.

Grabbing your hand, Spencer squeezed it, “I’m here,” he answered. “It’s okay, it’s over,” he told you, moving your hair out of your face. Spencer secured your oxygen mask over your face as you tried to take it off, “You have to keep this on, angel.”

To his relief, you squeezed his hand back.

You had been instructed to get some rest, but you couldn’t close your eyes. You asked Spencer to go back to the hotel and change his clothes because he smelled like dirt, and it made you nauseous. Your head had been bandaged, you’d been run through an MRI, and you did an EEG, so far, the only brain damage that had been incurred seemed temporary.

According to the doctors, the nausea and fatigue should wear off, but they hadn’t been able to fully assess if any permanent damage was done. At this point, the worst of your injuries had been caused by being given CPR, resulting in cracked ribs.

Despite your headache, you kept most of the lights on in your hospital room, not quite ready to be left in the darkness again. “Hey,” a voice called from your doorway, Spencer stood, waiting to be invited in. He was wearing different clothes, a button-up with a green cardigan thrown over it, and clean pants. “How are you feeling?”

A nasal cannula slightly restricted your movement, but you were sat up in the hospital bed, “Better than I was, but not perfect.”

He shook his head, walking in and taking a seat next to you, “No one expects you to be perfect right now.” Gently, he reached out and took your hand, skimming the pad of his thumb over your knuckles. “They found the mother and the other son, and all three of them are going to go away for a long time,” he told you, speaking in the kind of hushed, reverent tones that are reserved for hospitals.

You sighed and tilted your head back, “Good,” you maundered. “That’s uh, good,” your voice was barely audible.

“So why do you look so worried?” He asked, leaning in closer to you.

In an attempt to dismiss his concern, you joked, “I think I owe Morgan some sort of life debt now.”

Spencer offered you a soft smile, “The two of you tend to trade those off, I’m sure you’ll find some way to make it up to him.” He inclined his head towards you as if to silently say, So what is it really?

You swallowed thickly, “I’m scared to close my eyes, Spence.”

His shoulders dropped, “oh, Angel,” he breathed. “Is there anything I can do for you?” He asked, looping a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “Wait, what are you doing?” He asked, watching you as you lifted yourself, so you were on one side of the bed.

Shyly, you patted the new empty half of the bed, inviting him to sit next to you.

He had no choice but to comply, he had the hardest time saying no to you. Leaning the bed back slightly, Spencer kicked off his shoes before he laid down next to you, wrapping an arm around you as you set your cheek on his shoulder.

Your body relaxed into his and you sighed, “Spence?” You murmured.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, “Yes, angel?” He whispered back to you.

“Thanks for coming to save me,” you mumbled, slowly relaxing enough to fall asleep.

Spencer exhaled, “I’m always going to come to save you.”

part two

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #derek morgan #penelope garcia #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid x you #h writes (hypothetically)

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all-that-glitters-is-goldfish · 1 year

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Red

Summary: You try to surprise Luke for Valentine’s Day and it becomes a hot mess. (Just a lil drabble as I try to get back into writing!!)

Pairing: Luke Alvez/Female Reader

Word Count: 759

“FBI, drop your weapon!”

The bottle of wine crashed to the floor, a puddle of red liquid seeping underneath the white shag carpet.

You definitely did not expect to have a gun pointed at the back of your head, a dark figure threatening to drive a bullet right into your skull.

“I-” Throwing your hands up, you blink against the bright light as you slowly turn around ready to show that you were in fact unarmed despite the large shards of glass spread across the floor that could easily be used to slice the jugular of who had the gun that was now aimed between your eyes, but probably not as fast as they could pull the trigger.

“This is a misunderstanding.” You attempt, looking at the blood pooling up at the tip of your finger. You barely registered slicing it as you dropped the bottle, too startled by the booming echo of the man ready to end your life in a second.

“This is my boyfriend’s house.” You desperately explain, attempting to peer into the darkness and put a face to the intruder.

Suddenly, the flashlight burning your eyes drops to the man’s side and you’re grateful that you weren’t blinded.

“Y/N?” The agent lowers his gun and you finally see his face.

“Luke?”

“Oh baby I’m-” He holsters his weapon, crossing the room in one step to see if you were hurt. “I am so sorry. I thought you were out of town- I didn’t know who it was.”

His hands are warm, one on each cheek as he examines you. You gulp once, twice, as you stare into his worried eyes. “I was, but I managed to catch an earlier flight, and I wanted to surprise you for Valentine’s…”

The room was a mess. The red stain spread across the carpet, appearing disturbingly familiar to Luke and the countless number of crime scenes he had shown up to. “I should have known that surprising an FBI agent in the dark with no warning was a bad idea.” You laughed, but it was forced, and he noticed, not surprisingly, given his work with the behavioral analysis unit.

His eyes dart back and forth as he studies you, gripping your hand tightly where he notices the small cut. His eyes don’t leave yours as he reaches to grab a kleenex from the table behind him, quickly pressing it hard against your thumb.

“I’m so sorry, Luke.” What a mess. This is where trying to be romantic got you. Why did you take that advice from JJ? She and Will had been together for years, of course they’d try to surprise each other to spice things up! You do not do this to someone you’ve been seeing for less than a year, especially when they walk around armed with a weapon!

“Hey.” Luke snaps you out of your daze. “You have nothing to apologize for. I pulled a gun on you! I’m the one who’s sorry!”

You shrugged your shoulders. “You thought I was a burglar.”

His hand moves from your face to your shoulder as he sighs. “You alright?”

You nod. “I think the wine had it rougher.”

Luke smiles, pulling you in close for a kiss. His lips are chapped, dry, but you still see the fireworks when you close your eyes like you had the first time he pressed his lips into yours.

He pulls away, though you can tell he didn’t want to, but his face looked like he had better plans.

“What is it?” You smirk.

“I think we should clean up.”

“Oh.” Frowning, you try to move past his tall figure to grab some paper towels from the kitchen. He caught you off guard as he playfully pushed you back.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Huh?”

He pushes you towards the sofa, your back arching against the arm as he pins you down leaning in closely, feeling his breath on your neck. “I’m going to start a bath. And you’re going to grab the bottle of wine I was saving for when you got back from your trip.”

Your heart flutters against your chest, butterflies swarming in your stomach. “Luke…”

“Does that sound good to you?”

Your grin practically stretches ear to ear, completely forgetting the mess. “I love you.” You blurt out, your eyes widening when you realized that was the first time you had said that out loud.

He kisses you again and the butterflies settle when he pauses to whisper the phrase back. “I love you too, baby.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

#luke alvez #luke alvez x reader #luke alvez x you #morgan writes #drabble #criminal minds #adam rodriguez #fanfiction #writing #Happy Valentine's Day

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ssamorganhotchner · 2 years

Text

Protective Detail (Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader)

Parings: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

WC: 1.1k

Tags/Warnings: SFW, pregnancy, fluff, sweet boy Jack, unwanted advances, protective Hotch, angry Hotch, flirty reader.

Summary: Aaron takes care of an unwanted visitor at the readers baby shower.

MASTERLIST

A/N: this was based on this request(: I hope y'all enjoy! As always, feedback is appreciated.

Ever since Penelope had found that positive pregnancy test in your bathroom, she had all but demanded to throw you a baby shower, much to your protest. Now, seven months later, that’s how you find yourself here at the roundtable surrounded by your BAU family and your husband, celebrating the little bundle of joy that will soon make her arrival in a couple of months.

When you open the gift basket from Penelope, the tears start falling. Sitting in light pink tissue paper, was a gray stuffed bear with your baby’s name on the front of it. Beside the bear, lies a rolled up baby blanket that Pen had handmade herself along with an assortment of bottles and pacifiers. What catches your eye though, is a picture that sits just to the front of the basket in a pink picture frame; a photo of the team, taken at Rossi’s the day you found out you were pregnant. At the bottom of the frame in gray sparkly handwriting (probably Penelope's), it says, “We love you, Baby Hotchner.”

“Why are you crying, momma? Is sissy okay?,” Jack asks, tugging on your dress and crawling into your lap, softly putting his head on your stomach.

Running your fingers through his blonde locks, you move his head to face you. He’s frowning, serious even, as his brown eyes stare up at you – all but the blonde hair, he’s a spitting image of Aaron. Letting out a teary laugh, you sigh, “Oh baby, she’s okay. She’s perfect. I’m just extremely happy…” you pause, wiping the unshed tears from your eyes, and hold him tight. “I love you, this little girl, your aunts and uncles, and your daddy so much… so so much. Your little sister is loved already, and so are you.”

Jack lays his head back down and giggles, “I love you too, momma. But can I tell you a secret?” Lowering your ear down to his level, he sits up and whispers, “You’re squishing me.” Laughing, Jack wiggles out of your grasp and runs out of the room, with Uncle Dave trailing not too far behind.

–

As the shower is winding down, Derek, Spencer, and Dave start helping Aaron carry the gifts out to the SUV while the girls clean up. Jack takes his Captain America action figure and some crayons upstairs into Aaron’s office and once you make sure he’s situated and occupied, you walk back to help clean up. Taking the rest of the cake to the kitchenette, you’re abruptly pulled out of your thoughts by the overwhelming smell of Axe body spray filling your senses – it’s a smell you know well, and can only mean one thing – Brad, your ex, is for whatever reason, on the sixth floor.

Turning around, you hold onto the cake a little tighter than normal and muster up all the courage you have to talk to him. Not that you want to; the last thing you want is to see your ex at the BAU and not where he belongs — in counterterrorism, four floors down – but you know if you don’t say something, he won’t stop until you do.

He looks worse since the last time you saw him. His hair is grown out and touching his ears, slick with grease against his scalp. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in months (not that he ever took care of his facial hair when you were with him, but that’s beside the point), and the suit he’s wearing looks like it’s two sizes too big.

“What are you doing here, Brad?,” you ask, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at him.

He steps closer, and when he speaks, you can smell the stale coffee on his breath. “I heard a rumor that you were pregnant and wanted to come see how you were doing. Can’t believe you didn’t invite me to the shower. So who’s the lucky guy?”

Scoffing, you shake your head and take a few steps away from him. “I’m married now, and that’s none of your business.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he says, smirking and walking around you like a shark, “that’s never stopped me before.”

“Is there a problem?,” you hear him before you see him, and you’ve never been happier for your husband's impeccable timing.

Turning around, you give Aaron a small smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes and he takes the cake from you, setting it down, and settling his hand comfortably on your lower back. “Everything’s fine, Aaron,” you explain, crossing your arms, and sending a glare in Brad’s direction, “He was just leaving.”

Brad stares at Aaron as if he’s sizing him up, and smirks. “Aaron huh?,” he shakes his head, and laughs wryly. “You’re on a first-name basis with your Unit Chief? Hmmm.. I should have known you’d sleep your way to the top.” Aaron’s stern gaze is fixed on Brad, and when you glance back at him, he realizes he said the wrong thing.

Aaron towers over him as he takes a step closer, their noses almost touching. “Out.” His voice is low, dangerous and for the first time in your life, you hope to see a fight break out in the middle of the bullpen. The man that once prided himself in being a “real man” swallows thickly, takes a step back and, for a quick second, you see fear flash in Brad’s eyes. Aaron grabs Brad by the collar of his shirt and pulls him forward. “I said, get out. You won’t like it if I have to repeat myself… and if I see you around this bullpen or anywhere near my agents, I will see that you’re fired and arrested on federal charges. Do I make myself clear?”

Suddenly let go from Aaron’s death grip, Brad falls back and stumbles. “Crystal, Sir. I’m so-”

“Leave!,” Aaron cuts him off, voice booming throughout the entire bullpen, and you watch Brad run for the stairs. Letting out a breath, you shake your head and smirk.

Aaron brings his hand behind you, rubbing circles on your back and cupps your face with his other hand. “Sweetheart, Are you alright?” He searches your face for worry, for stress, anything he can find to give him an excuse to run down the stairs and beat the shit out of the man that thought he could talk to you like that, but finds nothing… nothing but, arousal? Your eyes are dark, hungry as you look up and grab him by the tie, bringing him into a heated kiss. With burning lungs, you let go and come up for air, still staring at him like he’s your prey.

He chuckles and wipes the corner of his mouth where your lipstick stained his face. “What was that for? Not that I’m complaining, but you never kiss me at work.”

“Because, SSA Hotchner,” you put emphasis on his title, play with the lower part of his tie, and look up at him through your eyelashes. “... you have no idea how hot you are when you’re angry.”

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