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fortheloveofwonderland · 1 year ago

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Rumoured Nights | S.R

This was written for the lovely and wonderful @foxy-eva milestone celebration. Congratulations love! 💕 I used the prompt - “someone has to unexpectedly share hotel room with their favourite coworker - who apparently really likes to cuddle.”

Set during 5.21 Exit Wounds - this ep just lends itself perfectly for a one bed fic.

Summary - a case in a small town in Alaska forces you and your favourite coworker into sharing a room and a bed. And according to Morgan, Spencer likes to cuddle.

Pairing - Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Category - smut NSFW Minors DNI

Warnings - one bed trope, friends to lovers, sex dream, cuddly Spencer, swearing, making out, Spencer is touch starved, canon compliant death, meddling BAU team, interruptions, fingering, handjobs, penetrative, protected sex.

WC - 7.5k (don’t ask me how, she’s wordy)

“I’m not sleeping with Reid.”

The comment was probably meant inoffensively, an off the cuff remark to make his coworkers laugh but instead only caused the youngest member of the team to blush furiously.

Spencer Reid shrunk down in the armchair, attempting to hide his embarrassment from the eyes of his fellow team members who now all looked upon him.

As far as he was aware, Morgan had never told the team what happened the one and only time they’d shared a room during a case. The confused looks being sent his way went to further that, thank god.

It happened a few years back when they’d been on a case in a town equally as small as Franklin, Alaska where they found themselves now. Like tonight, the BNB was small and they’d had to double up.

And Morgan had woken in the morning to find Spencer’s arms wrapped around him like he was the genius’s oversized teddy bear, and one of Spencer’s legs draped across him.

Morgan had pushed the younger man off of him and apparently Spencer hadn’t even so much as stirred. It wasn’t even until a while later Morgan had filled him in on what he’d subconsciously done in his sleep.

It was perfectly innocent. There was no more to it other than the fact that Spencer was painfully touch starved. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on how long exactly it had been since he’d had another warm body to share his bed with, but if he did he would be able to recite how long it had been down to the minute.

It was an involuntary reaction. His subconscious must have gravitated him towards the body in his bed and held them without thought to who it was. In his unconscious mind, it didn’t matter who it was, just that he needed the comfort of holding somebody.

He was glad Morgan hadn’t woken him because he would have been a hundred times more embarrassed if he had to remember his inappropriate middle of the night cuddle.

While he relented to his own mortification, the rest of the team silently paired off. Garcia was quick to place her hand on Morgan’s arm, nabbing him as her roomie before anyone else had the chance.

Hotch and Rossi exchanged a look of understanding and JJ smiled at Emily, the brunette nodding back at the blonde in response.

Spencer felt his stomach coiling into thick knots as he let his eyes glance across the room and land on you who had also noticed the non-verbal agreements taking place. You met his gaze and offered him a meek half-smile.

“Guess you’re with me, Doc.” You got to your feet, grabbing your bag off the floor.

You tried to hide the look of sheer delight from your eyes, tried to pretend that this wasn’t the best outcome to you. There had always been something about Spencer that you found magnetic, his brain intrigued you and he wasn’t at all hard on the eyes.

Through five years of working together you had kept your little crush underwraps, your poker face was second to none.

So you had to play it cool. You couldn’t show how utterly thrilled you were that the chips had fallen in your favour.

One by one the rest of the team stood with their bags and collected their room keys from the kindly innkeeper and headed towards the staircase.

You hung back for Spencer while he procured the key and with an awkward smile he followed you to the stairs.

“Good luck, mama.” Morgan smirked at you, clapping a hand down on your shoulder as you went to pass him by. “Pretty boy here is a secret cuddler.”

“Morgan!” Spencer’s voice pitched, around five octaves higher than his usual cadence.

“She’s gonna find out sooner or later, kid.” Morgan winked at the younger man, causing Spencer to turn beet red again.

You shook your head with a soft laugh, averting your eyes away from Derek and towards the bottom step.

“Uh, thanks for the heads up. Goodnight.” You started up the stairs, hearing Spencer following behind you.

You met him at the door to your room and stood aside so he could unlock it. Like the gentleman he was, he held it open for you to enter first.

It was you who first noticed the initial problem. When Spencer sidled up next to you a moment later he saw it too.

One bed. There was only one freaking bed.

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” He was quick to speak, dumping his go-bag on the dresser.

“You’ll put your back out.” You rolled your eyes.

“I’m not Rossi.” He scoffed, indignantly. “I’ll be fine.”

“Spencer, your knee still hasn’t properly healed. I cannot in good conscience let you sleep on the floor.”

“I’m fine,” he waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve been walking without my cane for months.”

“With a limp.” You clucked. “If it makes you uncomfortable to share a bed, let me sleep on the floor, please?”

“It is statistically improbable that I will let you sleep on the floor, Y/N.” He folded his arms across his chest in defiance.

“Fine,” you shrugged. “It’s one night, Spence. We can share a bed can’t we?”

For the third time in ten minutes, Spencer’s cheeks burned bright red with his embarrassment.

“I, uh, you see…” he swallowed. “Morgan wasn’t lying about the cuddling thing. We had to share a bed once on a case and apparently I cuddled up to him in my sleep.”

A smile tugged at your lips and you felt a little guilty given how mortified he looked. But honestly you thought it was incredibly adorable and plenty endearing.

Spencer was known for having an aversion to touch, always citing how many germs could be passed in a single handshake and how it was actually safer to kiss. So the thought of him hugging anyone made you smile, even if it was when he was asleep.

“I just so happen to not totally hate that idea.” You tried to encourage him, not wanting him to be embarrassed.

“Y-you don’t?” He stuttered with a frown.

“It’s cute.” You smiled.

“I think the word you’re looking for is pathetic.” He sighed. “Who knows it might have just been a one off anyway. If you’re lucky, I’ll leave you alone.”

Lucky? Some luck that would be.

You hid your expression from him, the one that desperately loved the idea of him snuggling up to you in his sleep. You pushed it down, simply offering him a nod.

You just might be disappointed if he didn’t cuddle you.

***

The two of you took turns in the bathroom, brushing your teeth and changing into your respective pyjamas. Usually you slept nude, or at the very least just in your panties, but thankfully you kept a pair of shorts and a tank top in your go-bag in case you ever found yourself in this position.

You were already in bed scrolling on your phone when Spencer stepped out of the bathroom. He wore a set of dark green flannel pyjama pants and a matching long sleeved top, buttoned right up to his neck. You smiled in amusement at him as he padded across the room.

“Why does it not surprise me one little bit that Doctor Spencer Reid even sleeps in a button down?” You giggled a little as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I get cold easily.” He shrugged, his back now to you. “And we are in Alaska.”

You didn’t reply, simply watched him as he slid his legs under the sheets, his mismatched socks still adorned on his feet, and laid his long, messy hair on the pillow. He kept his back to you and he reached out and switched off the lamp.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He whispered, tucking one hand beneath his pillow.

“Goodnight, Spence.” You smiled to yourself as you closed your eyes.

***

It was still dark out when you stirred in your sleep, eyes fluttering slightly as you pulled the duvet further up to your chin. You would have fallen straight back to sleep if it hadn’t been for the sensation of something heavily draped over your ribcage.

You were on your back, the ceiling staring back at you when you opened your eyes. It was then you realised there was something hard between your head and the pillow.

You looked to your side and blinked against the darkness, trying to adjust your vision. A messy head of hair was next to you on your pillow, so close you could feel the soft breath coming from parted lips tickling your face.

It was then you pieced together that the thing that was under your head and across your torso were one in the same: Spencer’s arms. One was tucked beneath you, holding you close to him while the other cautiously rested over you, just below your breasts.

His right leg was bent at the knee, slung over your bare thighs. His whole body was pressed up against your side and it was then you registered that something hard was digging into your left hip…

Oh, your eyes widened. Oh.

You looked back at the ceiling, body going rigid in Spencer’s arms. It certainly did not take someone with a genius level IQ to figure out what it was.

You tried to ignore it, willed yourself to go back to sleep and put it behind you. Maybe you were still asleep, perhaps this was just a really vivid dream. In the morning you would pretend it never happened, not wanting to embarrass the poor man.

But then the situation somehow grew even more awkward, if that were possible. Spencer nuzzled closer to you in his sleep, his face buried against your neck. His breathing started to grow frantic and his hold on you tightened.

And then he moaned.

Your stomach tightened at the delicious sound, equally trying to commit it to memory and forget it at the same time. But then it happened again, the sound deeper this time. There was no denying it was a moan of pleasure.

The third time he made the sound it was followed by the whimpered utterance of the word fuck.

And when his hips started to gesticulate, grinding his hardness against your hip, you had to do something.

“Spence?” You hissed, wriggling in his arms. “Spencer, wake up!”

His eyes shot open suddenly and he huffed out a breath. His eyes were hooded with his sleep, his plump lips parted in confusion.

For a few moments he just laid there, not registering his position or the bulge in his pyjama pants. He simply stared blankly at you.

“What happened?” He groaned sleepily. “Another body?”

“No….no. Not work.” You swallowed. “I uh, I don’t really know how to say this so I’m just gonna say it…I think you were having a sex dream.”

His eyes got really wide, really fast. As your words registered with him he also realised he was holding you, snuggled tightly against you. And at the same moment he also realised the part of his anatomy that had woken up long before his brain had.

And it was pressing right against your side.

He scrambled away from you suddenly, drawing all of his limbs close to his torso and burying his face into the pillow.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against the cushion. “Fuck, I am so unbelievably sorry. I’m going to…”

He trailed off and quickly rolled to the edge of the bed but you were faster and you managed to grab his arm before he made it out.

“Spence, it’s fine. These things happen. Let’s just go back to sleep and forget it ever happened.” You gently guided him back to the mattress and he flopped onto his back.

“This is somehow more humiliating than when I cuddled Morgan. At least then I didn’t have a, uh…yeah.” He shook his head, not willing to finish that sentence.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Spencer. You were dreaming, and apparently it was a very good dream.” You couldn’t help but laugh, trying to cast light on the situation and make him feel less uncomfortable.

It had the opposite effect.

“I really don’t see how this is funny. I’m lonely ok? I’m so painfully lonely that the only kind of physical contact I can get with a woman is in my sleep.” He blurted out, his brain not quite awake enough to stop the words coming out of his mouth.

The room fell silent. Spencer stared at the ceiling, you stared at the side of Spencer’s face.

It wasn’t exactly a surprise to hear. Spencer never talked about dating or anything of the sort and although Morgan had speculated he just kept his exploits quiet, you were never so sure.

Spencer was awkward and shy and had a hard time talking to anyone he didn’t know unless it was in statistics and facts.

So it didn’t surprise you to find this out, but it did surprise you that Spencer was offering that information out to you.

“I, uh…” you croaked.

“It’s ok, you don’t have to say anything. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry that I had a sex dream about you but in my defence I can’t control my-”

“Hold up,” you cut him off, leaning up on your elbow so you could look at him properly. “Did you say you were dreaming about me?”

His cheeks turned impossibly redder and he buried his face further into the pillow.

“I assumed you knew that part. I thought you said…'' he wracked his brain.

No, you didn’t tell him he’d said your name. He’d added that part, assumed that you knew who he’d been dreaming about. Fuck.

“You were dreaming about me.” You croaked, staring at what little of his face wasn’t covered by the pillow.

“Y-yes.” He whispered. “As if the situation wasn’t already awkward enough. I can just go and sleep in the bathtub or something. The lobby even.”

“Spence,” you gave his hair a gentle tug, trying to get him to look at you.

Reluctantly he lifted his head and his eyes were wide and guilt ridden, his bottom lip cushioned between his teeth.

“Yes?”

“Do you…have you…” you couldn’t seem to finish that trail of thought.

“Yes.” He clearly knew what you were trying to say. “It has happened before. More times than I care to admit right at this present moment.”

“Oh.” You swallowed thickly.

“So bathtub or lobby? How bad is this situation exactly? Does the bathroom put enough space between us or do I seriously need to leave the room entirely?”

“My preference would be that you don’t go anywhere.” You confessed, causing Spencer to frown. “I mean, unless it’s closer to me.”

“I…I’m not sure I understand.”

“Sure you do.” You smiled, shuffling closer to him when he wouldn’t move. “The real thing will be so much better than even your wildest dreams, Spence.”

An air of confidence washing over you, you finally got the chance to do something you’d been imagining for years and pressed your lips against his.

He whimpered at the contact, momentarily dumbfounded by what was happening. But he soon managed to snap himself out of it and quickly took hold of your face and parted your lips with his tongue.

As he deepened the kiss he rolled himself on top of you, already straining at the front of his flannel pants again. This time he was happy to roll his hips against you, really allowing you to feel him.

You gasped into his mouth and he swallowed the sound down into his lungs. He held your face with care but the kiss was all frantic tongues and the clashing of teeth.

It was years worth of pent up sexual tension for which neither of you had ever realised the other felt too, all spilling forth against the others lips.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of his pyjama shirt, he moaned into the kiss when your hands glided over his back, across his shoulder blades and back down his spine.

His own hands wandered at the same time his tongue hungrily explored every crevice of your mouth. His touch was featherlight down your biceps and forearms before falling towards your torso and following your lead, under the hem of your shirt.

His finger brushed delicately over the sides of your ribs, up and down and up and down the skin, his fingertips making a mental note of how every dip and curve felt beneath them.

His teeth grazed against your bottom lip before nibbling on it lightly and then pulling away. He sat back and looked down at you, your hands dislodging from under his shirt.

His pupils were blown out wide and his lips were puffy and red. His chest heaved his haggard breaths while he fought for air.

You smiled up at him, reaching for the top button of his pyjama shirt. He let your deft fingers do their work, popping each button in turn and moving lower and lower down his abdomen.

When the final button was undone he shucked the material off his shoulders and tossed it aside. His long curls hung around his face, framing him perfectly and you didn’t think anyone had ever looked as delicious as he did right now.

His own hands brushed under your tank top again, palm flush against your stomach for a moment or two before he hooked his fingers in the fabric and started drawing it upwards.

He let out a feral moan as he peeled the top away to reveal your bare breasts beneath. You helped him get it over your head and it soon joined Spencer’s shirt on the floor.

He was open mouth staring at you, not even trying to hide it. You rolled your eyes with a soft chuckle, reaching for him and pulling him close.

“What’s the matter, Doc?” You spoke as you kissed him again. “Never seen a pair of tits before?”

“None that magnificent, that's for certain.” He mumbled in reply.

“Flattery will get you everywhere Doctor Reid.” Your hands moved to cup his clothed ass.

“Fuck,” he hummed, rolling his hips against you. “Keep calling me Doctor Reid and it’ll be over before it begins.”

You laughed at the insinuation, wrapping your arms around him and expertly managing to flip you both over so his back was to the mattress and you were straddling his hips.

His hair splayed out against the pillow and from this angle you were able to get a good look at what the good doctor was hiding in his pants.

You involuntarily hissed at the sight and his eyes never left your chest. His hands were pawing at your hips, cloying at the fabric of your shorts.

You raised your eyes to his face and waited for him to meet your gaze. When he did you made a show of grinding down against his lap, his mouth falling open as a moan erupted from his lungs.

The friction caused by his pants rubbing against him was nice in a way but he would much rather a different kind of friction.

He reached for your neck, pulling you closer so your bare chests crashed together and he kissed you deeply.

You continued to grind against him, feeling his hard member between your legs and wishing for fewer clothes to be in the way.

But before you could think about helping him undress further, Spencer’s hungry fingers were trailing up your thigh and grazing beneath the leg of your shorts.

His hand wove higher, he could feel the heat emanating from your core. His fingertips lightly brushed against your pubic bone and you whined into his mouth.

“Is that what you want?” He spoke against your lips, his other hand gripping the back of your neck tightly.

“P-please…” you whimpered, nibbling on his lip and trying to move yourself closer to his waiting fingers.

Spencer chuckled almost darkly, brushing his fingers over the same spot.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this?” He whispered as your lips latched against his neck, sucking deep marks in his flesh.

“About as long as I have. Please Spencer, please for the love of god!”

The way you moaned so desperately for him made his head spin, no one had ever reacted like this for him.

He inched his fingers nearer to where you wanted them, but as he was about to give you everything you’d been waiting for, an ear piercing scream reverberated in the room.

You fell back as Spencer sat up, ears pricked and waiting in silence that now shrouded the room. Seconds passed that felt like hours until you both heard it again.

“Help! Somebody please help!”

“Is that…?” Spencer’s chest heaved in panic.

“Penelope!”

The two of you were suddenly out of bed and on your feet, scampering around to dress as quickly as possible. You threw a pair of jeans over your shorts, foregoing your tank top and tossing on a sweater instead before your coat.

Spencer grabbed his pyjama shirt and fought with the buttons whilst stuffing his feet inside his converse. He grabbed his jacket and scarf on his way to the door, before quickly doubling back and picking up his revolver.

You got your firearm as well, toeing on your boots as they two of you quickly dashed from the room. In the corridor you saw Morgan ahead of you, running towards the stairs.

“You heard it too?” You asked as you ran to catch him.

“You bet your ass I did.” Morgan hurried down the stairs with you in hot pursuit. “Pretty boy, wake the others. Y/N and I will check it out.”

Spencer nodded though no one was looking at him. He fell back, his hand holding the gun dropping to his side as he made his way back to the other rooms.

His head was still spinning, dizzy with the lust from previous moments ago. Maybe this was a sign to him not to cross that line with his friend. The line was blurred, sure, but not yet so much as it couldn’t be rectified.

All he could hope was that he hadn’t destroyed your friendship to the point of no return.

You followed Morgan hurriedly towards the front door of the inn, guns pointed in front of you. You could still feel an electric current pulsing through your veins from Spencer’s touch, your lips still tingled from his kiss.

You pushed it aside as a blast of frigid air hit you when Morgan opened the door and the two of you descended the front steps.

“Help! Someone help!” Cried Penelope off in the distance.

Morgan’s head whipped around almost three hundred and sixty degrees, eyes taking in the dark landscape to find what he was looking for.

“Over there!” He barked, nodding his head towards two silhouettes in the trees.

He quickened his pace, so did you.

You found Garcia on her knees on the ground over the dead body of a man. She had tears streaming down her cheeks, her mouth hung open.

“I…and he…and then…”

“It’s ok baby girl,” Morgan crouched down next to her, stuffing his gun in the back of his jeans and helping her to her feet.

You tucked your own gun away, leaning over the body and placing your index and middle finger to the side of his neck.

No pulse. You didn’t think it needed to be spoken out loud.

Garcia was sobbing, head buried against Morgan’s strong chest while he held her. The sound of crunching leaves alerted you to your company and you spun around to see the rest of the team running your way.

Hotch and Rossi still wore their usual daytime attire but JJ and Emily wore sweats under large coats. Spencer looked an absolute picture in his pyjamas, coat and scarf hanging limply from his neck.

He briefly made eye contact with you, but you broke it swiftly, glancing over at your boss who looked even more annoyed than usual.

“Get her inside.” Hotch spoke to Morgan. “Someone call the sheriff.”

Emily pulled her cell phone out and stepped away to make the call.

“He knew we were staying here. This was a big risk.” Rossi huffed, glancing at the faces around him and lingering a little longer on Spencer. “Kid, why do you look so flustered?”

Spencer’s eyes widened and you saw him swallow thickly. You looked away, focused on the body on the floor.

“I…” he squeaked, rolling his lip between his teeth. “I’m fine.”

And if anyone noticed his voice was several octaves higher than usual, they kindly didn’t say anything.

***

Over an hour later you all trudged back inside from the cold. The coroner had taken the body away and you would continue your investigation in the morning.

Penelope was fraught, never having seen a dead body in real life let alone having to witness someone die. Morgan tried to keep her calm but even he couldn’t bring her back from this spiral.

When she stormed upstairs you all watched her go. Morgan looked over at you, his eyes asking you questions before his words did.

“Can you…?”

“Yeah.” You nodded.

You moved past the others towards the stairs, you hadn’t so much as looked at Spencer in the last hour. He tried to make eye contact with you as you walked by but you kept your gaze forward.

Once you were up the stairs, Morgan sidled up to Spencer who was still watching you walk away.

“You gonna tell me why you’ve been looking like a lost puppy for the last hour?” He cocked an eyebrow at the younger man.

“What? I’m not! I’m…tired. I was sleeping when I heard Garcia.” Spencer averted his gaze.

“I hope that isn’t true.” Morgan scoffed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Spencer frowned looking back at him.

“It means,” JJ stepped forward, an amused smile on her lips. “We’ve all spent the last five years trying to get you and Y/N to see what the rest of us can see.”

“And what’s that?” He turned to JJ.

“Oh please.” Emily chuckled. “You think we don’t notice the tension between the two of you? Morgan’s been single handedly trying to get the two of you to bone for years.”

Spencer’s cheeks instantly turned red and he felt his chest tighten with his embarrassment.

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turned his back on them and headed for the stairs.

“Go get her lover boy.” Morgan called after him and they all fell about laughing while Spencer shrunk away.

He was at least glad you hadn’t been privy to that. But he didn’t relish the idea of seeing you right now, that would surely be one awkward encounter.

***

You found Penelope pacing the length of her and Derek’s room, muttering under her breath frantically.

You cautiously entered, not wanting to startle her.

“I watched him die.” She spoke when she saw you. “I watched him take his last breath, Y/N.”

“I know.” You nodded slowly, coming close to your friend and placing your hands on her shoulders. “I can’t imagine how scary that was for you.”

“I just…” she whined a little. “When I was shot, all I could think was that if I die the last face I’m ever going to see is the man who killed me. I didn’t want that for him.”

“You’re too good for this world, Penny.” You squeezed her shoulders.

“I don’t know how I’m ever going to sleep again.” She pulled free of your hold and started pacing again. “Tell me something, anything. Something to distract me.”

“Uh…” you scratched the back of your head. “You did everything you could to help him?”

“No, not that. Not about this.” She quickened her pace, arms flailing about as she walked.

“Uh…I’m pretty sure after tonight you can get Morgan to spoon you. All you need to do is tell him how scared you were.” You tried again.

“As delicious as that sounds, I don’t think Kevin would be too pleased about that.” She was a blur of colour, like a rainbow flying through the sky. “Please Y/N, I need to think of something other than this horrible night.”

Goddamnit.

You had the exact thing she was looking for, the perfect piece of information to take her mind off of this.

Goddamnit, here goes nothing.

“I almost slept with Spencer tonight.” You blurted out before you could change your mind.

As expected she immediately stopped pacing, halting in her tracks and glaring wide eyed at you. Her mouth hung open like she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the right words.

You rolled your lip between your teeth, awkwardly waiting for her to say something. Slowly she stepped closer to you, eyebrows raising towards her hairline.

“You…and boy wonder?”

“Yes.”

“It’s about time!” She slapped your bicep and you growled at the impact. “Wait…did you say almost?”

“Yeah, we didn’t quite get that far.” You rubbed your arm from her assault.

“Why not?” She sounded incredulous.

“Because…the screaming? The cries for help?” You huffed.

“I…I ruined your first time with Reid?” She gasped. “No, no that won’t do. You are going to march back to your room and resume all previous activities. Right now.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen.” You shook your head.

“Why?”

“It was a dumb idea, Pen. We’re friends, we work together.” You sighed deeply.

“Friends who are utterly infatuated with one another and have been for the past five years.” She clucked.

“Guess my poker face isn’t as good as I thought it was.”

“It is not. You make heart eyes at him every time he walks into a room. And he’s just as bad!” Garcia sounded exasperated. “Go to him. Finish what you started. For the love of all things pink and sparkly.”

“Penny, I love you but it’s not gonna happen.” You shrugged. “I’m not ruining one of my closest friendships for one night of passion.”

“Ok…I do not like thinking of boy genius and the word passion in the same sentence.” She pulled a face. “That’s like thinking of my brother…gross.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the way her body shuddered at the thought. You were pleased at least you had managed to get her to calm down.

“You gonna be ok if I go?” You smiled at her.

“Morgan will probably be up soon, I’m sure he can protect me.” She smiled back. “Just let him down gently ok? Reid is fragile.”

You rolled your eyes, backing away to the door.

“Goodnight, Penelope.” You blew her a kiss as you opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

Across the hall your own door loomed. Your chest tightened as you pushed forward, hoping Spencer may already be asleep so as to avoid an awkward conversation.

But you knew he wouldn’t be and that was confirmed when you entered your room and found him sitting on the edge of the bed as if waiting for you.

He looked up from where he’d been staring at his lap when he heard the door close. He pushed himself to his feet, his jaw set tightly.

“I don’t want to ruin our friendship.” He blurted out suddenly.

“Me either.” You agreed, stepping closer to him as you got out of your jacket.

You unsheathed your firearm and laid it on the dresser next to Spencer’s.

“But uh…” he frowned, fighting an internal battle with his own thoughts. “Friendships are overrated right? I have plenty of friends…”

“Way too many friends.” You smiled and nodded as he reached for you, large hands cupping your face.

“I don’t want to be your friend.” He whispered and then proceeded to crash your lips together.

You immediately parted your lips and his tongue slid inside of your mouth while he pulled you back to the bed. You both fell to the mattress, you on top of him while never breaking the kiss.

He didn’t want to waste a second, didn’t want to risk being pulled away from you again and so his hands quickly found the hem of your sweater and helped you out of it.

You got his buttons undone and he guided you with a hand on your back, down to the mattress. He slipped the garment off of his shoulders and rolled himself on top of you, kissing you again.

His hands wandered down your torso to the button of your jeans. His lips trailed to your neck and brushed along your collarbones.

They moved lower, down to your right breast where he placed kisses on the swell of it before moving on and taking your hard nipple in his mouth.

You moaned and bucked your hips to meet his erection in his pyjama pants. He popped the button on your jeans and you helped him shimmy them down your legs.

When his lips moved to your neglected breast, you reached out and blindly groped him through his pants. He grinded against your hand, moaning around your nipple.

His large hand glided back across the plains of your stomach before inching lower. His fingertips brushed over the waistband of your panties before disappearing beneath the fabric.

His index finger located your clit and pressed firmly against it, another moan erupting from your chest. He pulled back from your nipple and looked down at you with a sinful smirk.

He started rubbing deft circles between your legs, his nimble finger a thing of magic. Wanting to return the favour, your own hand slipped inside of his pants and you grasped the base of his cock in your hand.

He moaned deeply, his finger working more frantically as you started to stroke him. He met your gaze, his lips parted and soft moans escaping between them.

“F-fuck.” He stuttered, moving his finger from your clit and running it through your folds, collecting your arousal on his digit.

His middle finger joined his index and pressed against your entrance. You increased your movement on his shaft as he pushed them slowly inside of you.

“Jesus Christ.” You muttered as you clenched around him. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Why the fuck have we never done this before?” He whined, pushing his fingers as deeply inside of you as he possibly could.

You whimpered, bucking your hips against him as he moved in and out of you hurriedly and your strokes of his member were becoming frantic.

His head was already leaking with pre-cum and you swiped your thumb through it causing an animalistic growl to leave Spencer’s mouth.

It was too much and not enough all at once. You needed more, you needed everything.

His fingers slammed into you roughly, the sounds of your slickness filling the room. You twisted your fist as it moved up and down his cock and he was snapping his hips back and forth, practically fucking your hand.

“Fuck…I don’t suppose you have a condom?” You panted, desperate to feel more of him.

“Uh, embarrassingly yes I do.” He nodded, his cheeks flushing a little.

“Why is that embarrassing?” You slowed your pace and Spencer slowly removed his fingers from inside of you.

“It seems…presumptuous? It wasn’t like…I didn’t think…it’s not like that I swear. It’s, uh, a long story.” He stood up, locating his wallet on the dresser and unsheathing the small golden foil packet from inside.

“I believe you, Doc.” You smiled at him as you shimmed out of your panties.

Spencer’s mouth fell open at the sight of you laid bare for him. His hands started to tremble as he moved them to the waistband of his flannel pants.

He wouldn’t look at you as he pulled them over his hips, down his legs and kicked them off of his feet.

When he did look back at you, you were staring right at his crotch.

Your chest heaved with frantic breaths and you were rolling your lip between your teeth.

“Good god, Reid.” You smirked. “I need you like yesterday.”

He shuddered at the desperation in your voice and shakily ripped the condom wrapper over. He moved closer to the bed again, holding the base of his shaft in one hand and rolling the rubber over his tip with the other.

You spread your legs for him, welcoming him between them and wrapping them around his waist. He leant on his hands either side of your head, the veins in his arms pulsing as he held his weight above you.

He eyed your face, an almost delicate smile on his lips and you weren’t sure what it meant.

“What is it?” You asked him, reaching up to tuck his long hair behind his ears.

“You’re sure about this?” He asked softly.

“Very. Aren’t you?”

“I’ve wanted this for so long.” He breathed. “But I really don’t want things to change between us.”

“Spence,” you brushed your knuckles across his cheek. “Things have already changed between us. But not in a bad way.”

Linking your hands at the base of his neck you drew him close for a kiss. He moaned into your lips and you felt him finally pressing between your legs.

He held his shaft again and guided him where he needed to be, his blunt head penetrating you, stretching you to accommodate him.

He slowly sank into you, a long and shaky breath leaving his lungs. Inch by inch he ebbed deeper, your walls fluttering against him as your body made room for him.

When he bottomed out he stilled, glancing between your bodies at where he was now sheathed inside of you. The look on his face was pure bliss, as though nothing in the world had ever felt this good to him.

He lowered himself onto his forearms as he drew his hips backwards painfully slowly. But then he surprised you by roughly thrusting back into you.

After that there was no holding him back, like a man possessed he started fucking you hard and fast into the mattress.

He pounded against your cervix with each thrust, kissing you with a newfound ferocity. The room was encompassed by the sound of skin slapping against skin and your moans which were being swallowed by the other's mouth.

He already knew he wouldn’t last long, but that was ok. He didn’t plan on this being the only time he fucked you tonight.

It was completely unexpected, out of the blue for the mild mannered doctor to be such a stallion. But it was electrifying, dizzying, the way in which he pounded into you like his life depended on it yet kissed with such gentle passion.

Resting all of his weight on one arm, his other hand manoeuvred between your sweat slicked bodies and his finger pressed deftly against your clit again.

He started rubbing intricate circles on your bud, hips still snapping back and forth, stretching your walls around his length.

He had a few beads of sweat trickling down his forehead which was scrunched up much like his nose was.

His chest was flushed beet red and his left arm which was holding him up shook with the exertion.

Your legs tightened around his waist, walls clenching around his cock. A combination of his rough thrusts and ministrations on your clit we’re bringing you rapidly spiralling towards your orgasm.

You assumed by the look in his face that he was close too and by the way in which he started to lose his rhythm a little, his thrusts becoming a little frantic.

You drew him in for another kiss. It was slightly messy, teeth clashing together and tongues fighting their way into the other's mouth.

He moaned deeply against your lips, his finger now rubbing against you rampantly.

“I’m s-so close.” He mumbled. “Can’t…don’t think I can…”

“Me too.” You agreed as you felt the tightening in the pit of your stomach. “Don’t stop. So close, don’t stop!”

And he didn’t.

The pressure was building and between his cock burying deep inside of you and his finger never letting up on your clit, you teetered on the brink.

And then as if a volcano erupted, you reached your peak, moaning into Spencer’s mouth as your body convulsed beneath him.

He felt you clenching around him as you came, causing a pressure to shoot through his member. He thrust deep one last time and whimpered as he felt the come shooting from his head in ropes, filling the condom.

His hips continued to buck lazily as if he simply couldn’t get enough of this feeling. His hand fell from its spot between your legs and he collapsed on top of you, panting and sweat slicked.

You could feel his heavy breaths as his chest moved against yours, could feel his heart erratically beating at his rib cage.

He nuzzled his face into your neck, his breath fanning across your skin. His hips were still rolling, grinding against you not ready to stop despite how worn out he was.

You stroked his cheek and moved your head so you could kiss him sleepily. He mumbled something incoherent against your lips.

Eventually his movements stilled briefly before he cautiously pulled out of you. He rolled onto his back and peeled the condom from his softening member, tying a knot in the end and tossing it lazily in the general direction of the trash can.

He shuffled a little, his arm finding his way beneath your head how you’d found it when you woke up in the night.

You curled into him, resting your head on his chest and listening to the still slightly erratic beating of his heart.

“I never like being friends anyway.” He mumbled, making you giggle.

“Me either.” You slung your arm around his waist. “Whatever this is, it’s so much better.”

He placed a kiss of agreement in your hair and snuggled closer to you as his eyes fluttered closed.

He decided, as he drifted off to sleep, being a secret sleep cuddler maybe wasn’t so bad after all.

***

Down the hall, Morgan flopped on the armchair in his and Penelope’s room, eyeing the blonde as she stared at her laptop screen.

“What a night huh?” He ran his hand over his head.

“Yah huh.” She nodded, bouncing a little in the bed as she did so.

“You seem oddly chipper. Y/N manage to take your mind off of things?” He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Something like that.” A small smirk played at the corner of her mouth.

Derek sat up straight, scrutinising her curiously.

“Spill.”

“What?” Her eyes snapped away from the screen and over at Morgan. The guilt was written all over her face.

“You think I don’t know when you’re hiding something, baby girl? Spill.” He sat forward, leaning his elbows on his thighs.

Penelope huffed out a breath, chewing on her bottom lip.

“Promise not to tell anyone?”

“I promise.” He frowned.

“I think…I think Y/N and Spencer might be…you know.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Morgan’s eyes widened as he stared at her.

“No way.”

“Yes way. Apparently they almost and then, you know, everything happened. But I’m hoping that they picked up where they left off.” She was grinning from ear to ear and it must have been contagious because a smile broke out on Morgan’s face too.

“My man.” He smiled brightly, a glint of something in his eyes.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I too know when you’re hiding something Derek. Now you spill.” Garcia eyed him up, Morgan’s smile only grew.

“I’m just happy is all,” he beamed in amusement. “And I’m really glad I made up that story about him cuddling up to me in his sleep now.”

“You did what?” Garcia gasped, wide eyed.

“It started as a prank, just to wind him up a bit, embarrass him. And I thought if I brought it up tonight it would put ideas in his subconscious. Guess it worked.” Derek looked exceedingly pleased with himself.

“Derek Morgan, you are evil! Pure evil.” Penelope cackled, shaking her head at her chocolate thunder and his mischievous ways.

“I was just giving him a nudge in the right direction, he needs all the help he can get.” He grinned happily, pushing himself up and sighing wistfully.

“True, I love Reid and Y/N but they are so oblivious sometimes.” Garcia shut her laptop screen and laid back against the pillows.

Her eyes closed and as such she didn’t see the playful look spread to his eyes as his smile somehow grew, encompassing his entire face.

“And with any luck,” Morgan shuffled to the bed made up on the floor. “Pretty boy still had that condom I gave him.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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I have an odd request… perhaps a captain price fic where the reader is much younger and edgy- likeee covered in tats and stuff,, and price isn’t rly used to that but finds it hot as hell… idk maybe they work together ?? Smut ensues …

IDK I have tatts and wonder what he’d think of that 👹👹

Just an idea 💡❤️😫

Fire it Up (John Price x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.8 k

Tags/warnings: Smut 🔞 mutual pining, flirting, swearing, older man/younger woman dynamic, forbidden love, smoking & drinking, voice kink, a tiny brat taming kink squeezed itself in here too. Reader has tattoos and works as a coder at the base. Rough ~10yrs age gap described, reader is of age I hope to god it goes without saying (Price is canonically 37) Also: no use of 'daddy' in this fic

A/N: I'm so glad for this request anon and I hope you like what I made! Also people please be gentle, this is my first Price fic 🥹 God I wish I could attach the fat scent of cigar here to give you the full experience.

You don't know what caught your attention first.

The cigar, perhaps. Or the beard? Might be his hips, the ass that tells you this man can fuck a woman for hours.

Or maybe it's the fact that he's too old for you.

No, not too old…

Just older than you. A decade, perhaps, if you were being gentle with him and lenient with yourself.

He certainly isn't old enough to be your father, but he wasn't the type of man your eyes usually drifted on either.

He looks like someone who's supposed to be fishing in Alaska, sucking that fat cigar while taking in the view of mountains while trying to catch wild fish in some wide, free stream.

He's supposed to come home to a remote cabin: to his little wife who pours him a scotch after he has shown her what he caught today. Make sweet love to her while stars shoot and speckle the indigo night.

He looks like someone who makes love to women.

You, on the other hand, want to ride with him to the sunset on the back of a Harley, clutch his jacket as he drives you to some bizarre highway motel. You want to watch him drink that scotch from your navel.

You'd do all kinds of crazy shit with him, keep his head between your legs with both hands, grind all over that mustache, and see how wet it gets. You want him to pound you with those narrow hips, take you from behind while you look back with parted, swollen lips and relish the sight of what must be a grown man's hardened body, covered with hair and scars and–

"The bug's still there."

You return to reality, look at the code on your screen, and then at your colleague, a 20-something bloke who looks at you with the lethargic stare that only belongs to techies. You've just been caught daydreaming your eyes off in the middle of a lazy afternoon. Coffee doesn't do shit after 2 PM…

"Yeah I know. I'm working on it," you say. But when the dude leaves, you decide it's time for a creative break. You tell yourself it's only because the code jumps on the screen, not because you hope to catch a certain someone smoking outside.

The leather jacket is a little too much these days, but you throw it on out of pure habit. You realize the weight of your mistake when you go outside from the ventilated building and notice the sweltering heat. Spring has finally turned into summer.

Coffee doesn’t do shit, but it’s time for another kind of wakey-wakey. And butterflies are a funny term for something that mainly feels like it’s eating your insides out of pure excitement.

Because he's here too.

Jonathan Price, although no one calls him Jonathan. Few call him John, either.

Mostly, he goes by the title Captain.

He's stressed; you can tell. But his eyes soften immediately when they fall on you, a brief look to the side, just to know who else comes out to have a breath of fresh air or a smoke. He looks like he's been expecting you, but that might only be a silly girl's daydream. You two share a vice, and you've never been more grateful for your bad habit before this place and him.

And you wouldn't call it necessarily a bad habit. It's simply stress relief if you do it once or twice every few weeks. It's not like you smoke two packs a day. It's not like you even smoke one cig per day.

Although ever since you started this odd little job in this odd little place, you've smoked one or two nearly every day… And it's not because of the stress.

It's because of Price.

John. You’d like to see his reaction to you moaning that word in his ear…

"How long have you been here?"

His eyes are still on you, mouth covered by a hand as he makes love to his cigar. And that bedroom voice always gets you. It's better than the upcoming slow drag of nicotine. You're not here for tobacco at all.

"Two weeks." You reach for your excuse and try to prevent your hands from trembling as you light the cig. Usually, you're not this shy with people. Not with men, anyway. But with him, your wits and words disappear.

You blow the smoke through the air with a quick, lively wisp where he lets it roll out his tongue in a heavy cloud. He's still watching you as if to weigh what kind of woman you are exactly.

"How about you?" You continue the small talk with nervous ease.

He chuckles; the little smile even shows a flash of teeth as he steals a look at the clouds, calculating years with those surprisingly lively eyebrows curled up toward the sky.

"Ages."

He's not that old. Perhaps well over his thirties, might be knocking his forties. The statement is merely an underline of his stress today. You can only wonder what kind of pressure the captain of Task Force 141 is under when you get sleepless nights from a stupid source code. There are a few wrinkles around his eyes, but they only tell you that this man smiles a lot. He might be the only one in this compound who smiles a lot.

"Have you ever tried a cigar?"

There's a glint in his eyes as he offers the thick roll of tobacco to you. It's suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to even keep your thoughts together.

"No," you shake your head as if your answer wasn't enough to tell him he's the first person ever to offer you such a thing. Then you realize the word does not precisely deliver your eagerness to try that stout cigar.

"Would love to," you hurry to add with a soft smile. "Can I have a taste?"

He walks to you slowly, and your eyes drop to those hips, which sway like he's purposely trying to seduce you.

Fu–ck…

Then your eyes sink even lower, between his legs, to his fucking junk, and it's too fucking late–

Jesus–get your shit together…

You force your eyes back to his and see the little glimmer in them gain a surprised spark – you're totally caught red-handed on checking him out.

Fuck. How can you be so stu–

"Gently then, kid."

You swallow your heart and thoughts down and take the offered cigar; of course, your first thought is how thick and heavy it is. And somehow, you decide right then and there that you will no longer be the nervous, hot-cheeked woman on the corner.

It's time to make him flustered.

So you take a hollow-cheeked, slow suck on the fat cigar. A chaste, savory taste, more like, but there's nothing chaste in the way you raise your eyes to his, putting every ounce of soft seduction in that stare.

He draws breath slowly – his face is full of expression for an allegedly cold-hearted elite soldier. You don't know how often women flirt with this hunk of a man, but he sure looks taken aback by your sudden play. Probably thinks you're too young for him – and you curse the second time you put that jacket on. You want to see his reaction to your sleeves.

"Mm. It's thicker than I thought," you weigh the cigar between your fingertips and let the smoke roll out your mouth. The man switches his weight from one foot to another, speechless, and you suppress a big beam of a smile.

"The taste," you emphasize as if innocent, as if you didn't see that shocked little shift. "Round, and… god, it's almost sweet."

You smile as you give it back, and he chuffs an approving laugh through his nose – those eyes are bear-warm playful now, his mouth curves into an easy smile.

"Nice," you look him up and down as if you're talking about the man and not the cigar.

"Beats those little sticks."

His voice drops down a few notes; it's almost a husky growl. You barely make out the words he's saying. The tension in the air could form little balls of lightning around you, the flirt is over the roof, and there's even no roof because you're outside – and you take your jacket off, slowly, to make it clear it's summer and not spring.

His eyes fall on the ink immediately, and he blinks a few times, draws some more breath – you tweet your thanks accompanied by another smile and go back inside.

You know he's checking your ass in those black jeans as you walk away.

….....

It doesn't end there.

You see him again and again and again, and at some point you realize he has to walk almost 100 meters from the other end of the base to get to the little corner where the two of you smoke.

He's intrigued but decent. Holds a distance, never says anything that could be taken in the wrong way – or even in the right way. But he's fucking you with his eyes.

No… making love to you.

And it drives you crazy.

You don't want that. You don't need that. To be that little wife in the cabin. Pouring him a drink, climbing in his lap, ghosting a finger down the stubble on his chin, see how wide and proud it makes him smile to hold you like you're his and his alone...

God. When did it come to this?

You suck on his fat cigar every now and then. Look him in the eyes while you do it. Once, it makes his tongue dart out, it wets his bottom lip, and then he does that thing with his mouth... the thing where he kind of purses his lips and it makes the mustache dip, and you realize, you learn it's a sign that he's restless, he's flustered.

You make the big, burly captain of Task Force 141 flustered.

And he doesn't smell like the people inside smell. Of stale coder sweat and Joy Division and soft drinks and mommy's home-cooked meals. He smells of rich forest and fine bourbon and half-burnt gasoline. Maybe Saxon on vinyl. Definitely beats those little sticks that are your nerdy co-workers at the hacker department, as you call it.

He may have a flask somewhere; perhaps he takes a sip or two every now and then, whether at work or not. And you don't blame him. Even with those laugh lines and that brown bear benevolence, you can tell he's seen things.

You wonder what he's like out there in the field. Brutal? Or just efficient?

He never asks about your tattoos, but he eyes them often. There's a certain admiring esteem in his stare. He's checking you out, scratches his chin, and rips his eyes off when they start to drift down. He forces his eyes to stay above your neckline no matter the cost. You mourn that you got rid of the septum a few years ago: you're pretty sure he would've liked that, too. After all, it's a piercing that screams 'warrior' the most. Break after break, you return to your desk, aroused and giddy and surrounded by the rich, masculine aroma of his cigar.

One night, he drives by when you're walking home after what was supposed to be one or two pints.

The car is a big, black pick-up, and when it slows down and starts to inch by your side, your first reaction is a silent curse of why the fuck don't you carry some pepper spray in your pocket.

"Hey, you ok?"

Your head rises from the asphalt the second you recognize that smooth, pleasant voice of a man you had compared every guy to at the pub that evening. The whole man is brimming with burnt sienna, he's hard alcohol with no ice…

You stop and turn, a little wobbly from the pint turned to two or three. Or four.

"Yeah. Had a little girl's night out."

The car rumbles softly, not two meters away, and the sound reminds you of his voice. A soft purr that can turn into a growl, even a roar if he wants to.

He looks like he's going fishing, even without the boonie hat. The dark hair is cut short, so you won't have anything to tug if he ever ends up between your legs. But you don't really mourn that fact, because he looks so damn good.

He looks you up and down, and you notice the briefest blob of his Adam's apple before he gives you another offer.

"Want me to give you a ride?"

Would love a ride.

Would fucking love to ride you.

"Sure. That's kind of you."

Your eyes must be sparkling like the fucking stars.

"No problem at all," he leans his elbow on the open window and waits while you round the car and get in. You try to tone down your drunken state, but your moves are a little too brash for a calm and collected coder lady this man has usually caught leaning against the wall of the workplace you two share.

"Did you have fun?"

He sounds like a dad picking up his girl from a school disco, and you purse your lips in slight distaste and amusement.

"Yeah. You know how it is when someone asks you for a pint."

He gives a short laugh and starts to drive. "That never ends well."

You smile and turn to look at him.

"Mm… This one kinda did."

You enjoy the brief look out the window, the sight of someone so formidable and robust and experienced trying to find his way out by feigning something caught his attention in the black, empty distance of a quiet city.

"Glad I could be of service," he brushes off your flirt like it's nothing more than a speckle of dust on his coat.

The rest of the ride is silent, too silent. He turns the music off in case it "bothers you," and it turns into an awkward, overly polite fight about whether to keep it on or not.

It's a minor shock to notice he was listening to some classical. Not 80's rock, not country, not even BBC. He was just soothing his nerves.

You can't put your finger on what makes you feel so sheepish around this man – usually, you put men on a leash with a few dry jokes and a hearty laugh or two. Now, your flirting is shy and does nothing: there's a wall built up, and from behind that wall, only a few stolen looks…

The pick-up is humming, the engine is running at idle next to your place far too soon, and it's time you get off the car – but you have vehemently decided you will knock down that fucking wall even if you have to drag him to your bed.

"You wanna come up and have a nightcap?"

Another look out the window as he raises his hand over his mouth, fiddles with his mustache, and avoids the rising heat between you two.

"Thanks, kid. But you need to sleep."

Your heart is pumping, and you feel like a harasser as you place your hand on his thigh.

He doesn't move, but you can hear the audible swallow this time. He doesn't move a single finger even when you slide your palm down that leg, then drag it over to the inner thigh, and start to drift back up slowly, slowly, to give him the time and space to stop you before you reach….

….the visible bulge between those legs, the absolutely gorgeous, ample bump pulling at those pants, something so delicious that you must fight tooth and nail not to race your hand up there and give it a fond grope.

His hand falls over yours just before you reach it.

"Kid. Let's leave it here and call it a night."

His voice is strained and tight, and he's still looking out the window. You don't move your hand away because he doesn't move it away. His warmth stays there, keeping you against him, and you feel like shit for thinking it's not a no… That it's a yes when he seems to hold your hand as a prisoner, wanting to feel your dainty little palm against him.

Your fingers curl slightly, a hopeful gesture to imagine how it would feel to curl and claw at his hips and that ass while he's fucking you.

"Listen. You're a nice girl. A very nice–"

You give a heavy, demonstrative sigh and finally draw your hand away.

"Come on Cap… You're seriously going to give me the "you're a nice girl" talk?"

Finally, he turns. His nostrils quiver as he tries to keep his breaths calm. Your lips part like it's a whole caress he just gave you – and his gaze drops to your mouth instantly. You start to see where the problem is.

You're too young.

You're forbidden.

"I offered you a nightcap," you tilt your head slightly. "You can come up or you can go home."

You wet your lips, give the bottom lip a tiny little bite, and offer him the last, inviting, soft smile. It must hold an equal amount of sorrow because you can't drown the bitter feeling of rejection, no matter how many drinks you've had that night. No matter how much he seems to want you, it doesn't change the fact that he's apparently decided to stay strong and keep his hands off the cookie jar.

You turn and get out of the car, lean on the door for the final fucking time...

"Didn't know I'd only get to suck your cigar... You're all smoke and no fire, Price."

The door flies closed with a louder slam than you originally meant.

Now that was a little bit passive-aggressive, you have to admit. But you're drunk, and he's being a pain in the ass, calling you a kid, looking at you like that, having a fucking hard-on and giving you nothing.

…But it does the trick.

You smile like an idiot when you walk to your place and hear the purr of the engine stop. Another car door opens, then closes, wide footsteps follow you…

A nightcap it is, then.

He looks even bigger when inside a place with walls and a roof. He stands inside your apartment tall and wide as if he's waiting to call attention. Those large hands are over his crotch, concealing the swell of erection you already saw in the car.

You know the tank top you wear reveals even more skin covered in tats as you throw your jacket away and go get him that drink. The glasses glide on your table, slide nearly to the floor, and the bottle of Jim Beam meets the counter with a devastating clank. You look at the excuse to get him into your place and sigh.

"You know what… Fuck this."

Offering cheap bourbon to someone like him seems a bit ridiculous. So you offer him something he might actually like. Something he actually came here for.

You walk to him and throw your hands around him – he stiffens from the middle but looks down at you with a heated glimmer in those eyes. You could've sworn they were charred brown, the same color as his cigar, but up close you see they're actually molten iron. Mercurial.

"You sure about this?" He asks softly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He unclasps those hands from over his groin, and the warmest weight falls to rest on your waist, even steals a caress to your hip. You want to hurl yourself at him, press yourself against his crotch and grind until you bleed from just that tiny touch he finally gives you.

"You've had one too many, love."

Love…

Shit.

The warmth spreads from his eyes, from that hand, from the word that rolls out of his mouth like a beautiful puff of smoke. It unfurls inside your heart, swells inside your throat, plummets to your groin, and you switch the weight to your other leg to feel how that hand gains more weight as it gets pressed more firmly against you.

"Doesn't change the fact that I want you."

Your voice is nothing short of a purr. When have you ever purred like that to a man? You sound like a housecat, tame and adoring, waiting for a gourmet meal.

"You really want an old man?"

He still has that reserve in his eyes, decent and distant, but underneath, you sense a terrible heat, like the glow of a cigar lit in darkness, an adamant smolder that never dies out.

"You're not that old."

Your purr turns into a deprived meow. You dangle from his neck, and the smoke, the fire that surrounds him, blends into the gentle scent of a man, the musk of a mature beast. You know he's hairy under those clothes; he fucking has to be. The vision of how his cock must look, surrounded by untame, coarse fur, has tormented you night after night.

And now he's finally here. In your apartment.

You skate your hands over his chest while slowly dropping into a squat, then languidly kneeling in front of his crotch.

He doesn't stop you, not even when you open his belt and the zipper and crawl your fingers down the waistband of his underwear. You have to stifle a delighted gasp upon seeing how his cock springs free and stands proud in front of you in all its glory. And fuck yes he's hairy – the hairiest man you've ever had.

Cigars feel like tiny little sticks when you wrap one hand around him and lick the weeping slit like it's your favorite ice cream. The groan that follows is a husky eruption above you and gets stuck in his throat as you take him in your mouth.

"Fucking hell, kid…"

He's thick, broad, and the musk fills your nostrils, but what he just said makes you pull back and whisper on the bulbous tip–

"Don't call me a kid," you breathe on his cock, swirl your tongue around him, and his thighs bunch. "Old man."

You finally manage to push some buttons.

The back of his hand brushes your cheek, then slides over to your throat. He's gentle but firm as he forces a thumb under your chin, curls fingers around your neck as if you're a cat who's about to be force-fed some medicine that's only good for her.

"Is that how you wanna play it?"

His thumb brushes down the ridge of your throat. Tentative, promising.

"Perhaps," your lips quiver with anticipation as you smile; your voice is a pitched vibrato before it drops, just to give him a reason to put you in your place... "Old gum–"

The hand pulls up, the grip tightens just enough to guide you back to your feet and up to meet his face.

"Didn't know you asked me here to tame a brat."

Fuck…

You almost moan.

The hand doesn't choke you; it makes love to you. Claims you as his.

"Really…?" You sigh. Flash him a filthy, guiltless smile.

The fire surges forth and nearly buckles your knees. His eyes flash in rhythm with your grin, like a sudden flicker of a campfire in the middle of a dark, parched forest.

"This what you want? Hmm?"

The rumble reminds you of the engine of a Harley roaring to life. His throat is burned from the fire of his cigars, the hand on your throat is used to squeezing dead metal and pulling pins from frigid grenades. But even they can't stand a chance against his woodland fire and sycamore smoke. He could bring a cold, inanimate rock back to life with all that fire.

"Yes. I want it. John."

His name on your tongue is a cat's meow. It has the exact effect you hoped for.

"Let's get the brat tamed, then."

"Hah," you finally moan. "Promises, prom–"

The fingers around your throat pull you to his mouth with a python strength. His lips spread yours with soft devouring as he coats you in fire. The coarse beard smells of sweet tobacco – nothing like a pungent cigarette. It's like an old memory: safe and sturdy and strong. Male.

You moan in his mouth – god, what will it be like when he's inside you? – and he capes both arms around you and crushes you against him. Broad shoulders envelop you like a shroud of thick smoke, the cock gets trapped between you like a hot spear, and you mewl like a slut.

Your pussy clenches, just from his warm mouth, the rich velvet of his lips. He takes everything with that kiss, and you're weak in his arms as he bends and molds you against him just the way he wants, opens your mouth with his own and breathes you, samples you like those puffs of smoke he sucks from his cigar.

Your brain short-circuits, you barely notice how your top slides up as his hands go under it. It's dragged up, up, over your breasts and then over your head as he detaches just enough to rip that piece of clothing away.

You look at him like he's Christmas, then reach for your bra while he opens his pants more to get them down. Your jeans are accursedly tight, and he's breathless, too: the whole room is dark and filled with heavy breathing and rustle of clothes as you claw your socks off, slide your strings down and away, watch him get out of his shirt and throw it on the floor too, all propriety gone.

And then…

Jesusfuck–

He picks you up, lifts you from the ground like you're nothing but a leaf, and strides with you in his lap until your back meets a wall.

The barrel-like chest presses the air out of your lungs while your back travels up – you don't know if his arms or chest do the lifting, but you're being positioned for his cock to enter. Your hands try to grasp something solid before it's too late – his back and neck – your legs wrap around him, feet hooking over his ass as the thick of his tip pokes your soaked folds, and after a few seconds of probing, slides in.

"F–uck…" you gasp, sounding so needy that it could be a voiceline from a bad porno movie. His lips find the place between your ear and neck immediately.

"Be good for me now," he gruffs, dark and round like the sweetest bourbon, although you know he's the finest single malt in the world. "Be good…"

"Ah–John…"

I'll be good…

Just for you, I'll be so, so good.

He pants heavy on your neck, grunts as he starts to fuck you against that wall. You knew he might be intense, but apparently, you had no idea. The man is needy as fuck, and has concealed it up until this point.

You could cry, scream from joy from the thickness that spreads you, fills you with every fat glide of a thrust. The sex borders on rough but is so incredibly tender too, so needy it makes your heart collapse, compress into a taut knot in your chest. It's the softest rocking, the gentlest fucking as he retreats, then ruts into you again and again with sharp, rusty moans. You're in a slow but steady rodeo with this man, your breasts pressed against a solid chest covered with hair, and it tickles, even if his pecs threaten to crush your ribcage.

"You're one hell of a girl," he gruffs in your ear, beard grazing up and down your neck. "Taking me so– Fucking hell, look at you…"

His eyes are embers as they sweep over you: your abundant ink, the helpless, adoring look in your eyes, the little mouth that opens with a gasp, the trickle of sweat that forms between your breasts and meets the hair on his chest.

He doesn't have to look down to see how greedy your cunt is for him. He can feel it.

"This is what you wanted the whole time? Huh?"

He's all smoke. All fire.

"Yes…"

"Wanted me to take you against a fucking wall? Eh?"

"Yes…just, just take me," you moan and purr some more, giving him everything he wants. "Fuh–fuck me good…"

"Ahh shit..."

You know you're a drug to certain decent men. But to him, you're a forbidden fruit in all its aspects.

A calm, collected captain who enjoys wide respect, eyeing an edgy, younger woman from the tech department? That's not how this was supposed to go. Thirsting for someone who did what they wanted, looked just the way they wanted, walked this earth like a dark fairy – that's not his usual go, surely. He was supposed to settle down with a proper lady. If he were to settle down at all.

"I've dreamed of this," you whisper in his ear, lips moving just enough to deliver your secret to him.

"Yeah..? Me too," he gives your throat more love with a velvet growl. "Know I shouldn't, but–"

"Shh. Don't–don't…" You grip him tighter, taste the spruce and salt as you breathe his neck. "It's good. It's all good."

He rumbles in approval. Your skin is raw from his beard; even the coarse hair dusting his thighs feels too rough on your skin. And your skin is used to being needled, shot full of ink right inside the dermis. But this… This is branding.

You're silk in his rough embrace, and plundered with no remorse. You sigh and moan, hug him... And then he dares to stop, panting and throbbing inside you.

"Darlin'. Where's the bed?"

The soft question makes you panic. If you go to bed and let him push inside you while you're lying on your back, if you brave a look into those eyes while he takes you, you'll develop more than just a horrid lust for this man. If he collapses on top of you, spent and spoiled while you're at your most vulnerable, you'll tie a string from your heart to his, and you can't, you just can't allow that to happen.

Because he's untamed too. He's not a man who settles down, he's not up for domestication; he's a wandering fire.

"No–no bed," you pant on his muscles, the shoulder that keeps you safely pinned on the wall. "John…? Please."

He's breathing wild too, disguises his surprise well.

"Alright."

He sounds disappointed, and it's not because he doesn't have the strength to maul you against that wall. The rejection stings him too. It makes you want to offer a truce, a little something. When he rocks you again, you graze your fingers up the back of his neck, knowing he will feel ripples across his scalp from your caress.

"We can smoke a cigar after," you propose, not knowing why your voice still comes out as an airy whisper. "Together. I'll pour you that drink…"

His chest swells with a deep breath, he huffs fire on the hollow trench between your collarbones.

"Fuck, woman…"

It's dense syrup that surrounds you much like those shoulders and arms, that coarse hair, that bold male want.

"And after that I want you to…" You catch your breath and sound like a mouse with your next shy question. "Would you go down on me, John?"

It's like you're under a bear attack, but he stills; his head tilts a little to the side and meets your temple.

"You wouldn't tease a man like this," he says. A soft warning, brimstone coated in velour, but the core of it is despair. So much need, so much forbidden, distant want…

"Right? No more teasing."

He's still thinking that you're teasing him… That it's some kind of a joke that you want him.

"I'm serious... I want your mouth on me. I need your–"

"I'll put my mouth on you as soon as we're done here, love."

You have to bite your lips, suck them between your teeth to prevent another deprived moan from escaping.

"Want you to fuck me all night," you continue to whisper on his neck. You should shut the fuck up because it doesn't take a bed to tie that string from your heart to his. After all, they're right there, beating against each other through bone and skin and chest.

"Yeah? That's what you want?"

"Want you to… F-fuck me slow and good from behind and–"

You sniff. Whimper.

You should be ashamed: mewling for more when he's already buried inside you. What kind of a brat are you, wrapping your thighs around that narrow waist like you never want him to pull out?

And you're not crying.

It's just that the cock inside you is throbbing against your walls as if he's making a home there, his hands dig into your ass cheeks like you're his already, the breath upon your sweat and skin feels far too affectionate. When exactly did a raw wall-fuck turn into such an affectionate, gentle taste of love?

And it's not enough. You want to climb on top of him every morning, ride him slowly and watch him unravel as the sun climbs the sky and coats that fur in gold.

"Could you do that? Please… John, please," you whimper and whine, beg like you're tame already.

"I'll fuck you all night if that's what you want. Fill this pretty, tight cunt up every way you like."

It's coarse smoke. It caresses you until your legs start to shake. He adjusts his grip, drags the pull-outs like he drags those pulls from his tobacco. Keeps you nicely in place for him to drive back in–

"I'll fuck you 'till you cry, love. Yeah?"

He punctuates that promise with another good, fat thrust. You moan all tame now – a rippling stream, laughing and crying in his molten hold.

His cock fills you while your thighs quiver and tremble in his hands. Your pussy throbs; it sucks him already, the orgasm is seconds away, and your fingertips search for support but only slip over sweaty, hard muscle.

John. John.

"Fuh-…"

He spreads you a little. Those arms are pure iron as they mold you for him to plow. You know he can feel the waves, the way your cunt grips him with longer, deeper pulls as you start to sound downright pathetic.

"Just like that, just like… hah…"

"M-hm. Yeah," he bends the vowels, daubs them with smoke. "That's it. You're doing good. Doing so well my love."

He huffs between the thrusts that have turned into slow, intense love-making. He's making love to you – god, why does he have to be like this…

"Cum for me. Nice and pretty, yeah? Come on."

He encourages you with words, but you can't hear them anymore.

Heat coils in the pit of your core just before you burst with a heady scream.

The spasm is so sudden you almost hit your head on the wall. He's at your throat the minute it's exposed, and your scream turns into a weak wail when his tongue grazes your skin. It's blazing, and dips into the hollow between your collarbones like it's a shot glass full of scotch. Next thing you feel is fire, even some teeth on your neck.

And you thought Price might, just might be intense…

Your head drops as the blunt of the orgasm leaves you. Your feet unclasp, and next up would be some soft waves, but the man continues to fuck your shattered cunt and marshmallow soul with a good, intense pace. The words that pour out of your mouth are those of a brainless person.

"Ah–hah, God–"

"Where's that cheek now, mm..? Pretty little thing."

"John–h…"

The thrusts rub you against that wall like he wants to staple you there.

"So nice and good for me now, ain't ya? Cummin' on command…" An amused chuff right on your poor, chafed skin… "Begging for my mouth and cock."

You travel up and down in a limp heap, trying to hold on to him with weak limbs as he drives into you with a tight series of half-thrusts. Your legs hang loosely on the side, but he has no trouble carrying the full weight of you.

"Slow–slowly, Cap…"

"Ahh fuck–"

He swears on your ink, right on the trotting pulse on your neck. Through the vapor of man sweat and rich smoke and a whiff of cedar trees bending in the wind, you feel him tense and thicken.

"The fucking things you do to me…" he pants with a low growl, hushed but intense. Your pussy answers with a good, demanding pull.

"Fuck… fuck–!"

You're a limp doll between him and the wall when he comes. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, literally. His chest being the rock, an entire boulder that whips the oxygen from your lungs as he drives deep, his balls giving a few taut pulls against your ass as he empties himself into you with a satisfied, dry moan. A dark, ripe blossom, shooting straight to your core while you're sealed tight around him.

The world goes still after that; the only thing that moves is your breath and his, a refreshing hot breeze coursing through the stale air. The darkness of the room isn't half as snug as the safety of his arms.

Your fingers find his neck, the short-cut hair and the skin pounding with a rush of blood. He lets you go reluctantly, bends a little to set your feet back to the solid ground. He doesn't pull out, keeps huffing all over you even when you're returned back to the earth.

And you never want to come back. Your cunt still throbs around him and cries a tiny, thick stream down your thigh. His upper body still pins you against that wall, his breaths still mist your skin, caress the red burns of his beard.

He feels so good. Too good…

When he pulls out, he does so with intense care. He gives you some space to catch your breath, and you finally notice he has fucked your legs into splinters.

"I'm…" You break the hush of heavy breathing with a soft laugh. More viscous load pushes out of you with it. "I don't think I can stand."

"Yeah? Tried to take you to bed," he muses softly, sounding annoyingly content with his achievements.

"Gotta admit it was a good idea."

"As was the nightcap," he rasps, voice drenched in soft smoke.

"We'll get there eventually."

"I have no doubt about that."

You give him a soft, warm chuckle as you cast your eyes between the crest of his pecs. Rough, tight muscle meets your soft breasts with heaving breaths, and teases your nipples to taut little points. The wet hair on his chest looks good paired with your inked, smooth skin… You two look so goddamn fine together.

"I hope I didn't make you deaf with that scream."

He stands at his full height, but tilts his head down and slightly to the side as if you were a new, interesting species he's just found on his travels.

"Wouldn't complain, love," he says. More wet syrup, just for you. He weighs you with his stare, curious and appeased, and you feel shy. For fuck's sake, you still feel shy even though this man was inside you just a moment ago.

"The bed. Now be a good girl and tell me where it is."

"Down the…hallway."

A delicate little whisper, again.

It's laughable, how the veteran of Task Force 141 turns you into something so dainty and meek. Captain John Price takes you against a wall like you're nothing but a doll, makes you purr and beg, reassembles you into a weak-willed woman who gets carried to bed.

This is not how it was supposed to go...

He lifts you back in his lap while you continue to hold onto him like he's your prince Charming. A laugh spills on your lips when he tries to lay you gently on the bed and you manage to pull him down with you. You end up tumbling there in a sweaty, messy heap.

"Knew you were trouble," he's smiling too as he settles beside you. You curl and wrap yourself around him, your bodies mold and curve together like they're made for each other.

He's so solid, so warm, the kind of man you'd love to fall asleep on every night. No more cold sides of the pillow, no more tossing and turning and trying to get the code out of your head. Just… this chest, those ember eyes burning in the night. Some soft breathing, a roaring engine standing still, waiting for you, just for you…

"I hope this wasn't a one time only occasion," you test the waters.

"No." He shifts a little, disentangles from you slightly. "Unless you–"

"No."

You bend in his arms like a young willow, cut his doubts off with a kiss. It's passionate, and so sloppy it threatens to make the same sounds as your cunt and his cock a while ago.

The hand on your hip tows you closer, then steals its way down your leg. You hike your thigh up, perfectly willing. You're a sticky mess, but so is he: his rock-hard thigh meets your still soaked pussy like these two have always belonged together. And this man's full fire has escaped you until now. There are so many hidden, wild things in him too.

He would look so good on a Harley… He would look good on a motel bed after riding for days and days with you attached to him like an eloped dark bride. The nights would be smeared with hot sex and cinder and smoke, a dash of scotch on top, he could drink it from your lips. You would serve it to him from your mouth, round the taste a bit so that it wouldn't burn so much…

"Have you ever been to Alaska?"

The liquor is leaving you, but you don't feel any more sober. The lava in your veins has only been replaced by another kind of fire.

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

"What'ya mean," he murmurs on your tongue, and you know he's hard again just from the thick lust coating his voice. "What kind of question is that?"

"I was just thinking."

"What were you thinkin', kid..?"

"Don't… call me that," you laugh. In truth, you're growing quite fond of it. It reminds you of old movies. "Here's looking at you, kid" and all that.

His laugh is a charred roll in his chest. To him, you're a brat – an unruly kitten – no matter what you say.

"Kid. Why Alaska?"

He's curious. Borderline hooked. You steal a peek into those vulcan eyes.

"You'd look good in Alaska. Old man."

"Really," he rumbles a soft purr against your heart.

Another soft kiss follows. Affectionate… He plays time, but he's also a probing, scanning. You bloom in his embrace, unfurl on his lips like he just wrenched you wide. He could haul you to the cabin right now and you would only cook him dinner.

It's too late, even if you try to shift after such a kiss. Escape to press your cheek against that place between his pecs, the spot where the hair is darkest and thickest. You want to lick that valley where his heart meets his musk. That scent must be born from a good, stout heart.

"Would you take me with you…? If you ever decide to go."

It's a fragile question. A baring of the heart. It holds so much more than an inquiry about whether he would whisk you away on a secret leave. It's strings, pulling from your heart to his, taking root.

"Sure. But you're quite a handful, love."

"Is that so…?"

You crawl over him as gracefully as you can. He allows you to straddle him, and of course he does. You're no threat; you're only a one woman show. The only thing he's probably missing right now is a glass of scotch and a thick roll of tobacco.

He takes in the view with hunger: not satiated by that pent-up fuck, just like you're not...

But then his hands come to rest on your thighs to check if they're still shaking. The touch bleeds possessiveness: it's a thoroughly absent-minded, instinctual attempt to reach for you. It tells you you're exactly where you belong.

"You seem like the kind of woman who's not for the faint of heart," he says like you didn't just mewl in his arms like the tamest fucking housecat.

And perhaps that's what intrigues him. Contrasts. And even more than that, the odd place where black fuses into white, the gray area where everything is possible. The split-second moment when the skin accepts the ink and traps it in.

Everyone always says you get buried with your tattoos. That you should think twice before staining your skin with such permanent hookups.

But the thing is, you get addicted to it. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff before a bungee jump. You know you'll never be the same person after you jump, and you know you can't leave that cliff without jumping. It's a stalemate until you clear your mind of doubt and just plunge.

And you don't want to leave this earth without getting stained and sweaty, without dipping your soul into the full experience. You're supposed to get a little dirty. This is Earth, after all.

Your fingers disappear somewhere in his slick fur. Sunrise is hours away, but his eyes spark aflame. They're always, always smoldering like the butt of his cigar. He's a man who causes wildfires at the end of the world – he's a reckoning, a flicker in the dark forest, roaring into a bonfire as soon as the wind passes through the trees.

And you've always loved fire. Wild, and free. The only thing that competes with such freedom is a wide, wild stream.

"But you can handle me. Right?" Your fingers curl softly around the hair surrounding his navel. "Tame me and everything?"

It's an offering that causes even fire to tilt its head in curiosity. In the end, you're not sure who tamed who.

"Someone has to," he grabs your hips with rich promise.

You'll pour him that drink. Light him a cigar after his mouth is full of your taste, see how well it pairs with fire and smoke. You'll toast to the Harley, the crazy motel…

And Alaska.

#john price x you #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain price x you #price x reader #captain price smut #captain price x reader #john price smut #john price #mw2 smut #captain john price #john price fanfic #cod fanfic

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cypreus-and-willow · 4 months ago

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Red (2016)

Made this one years ago for a canon compliant (at the time) AU. Where Scott Summers (Cyclops) unlocks his powers as they're falling from the sky after jumping from their burning plane. I drew this in 2016 but the AU has been rolling around my head since 2009 lol. I mean... I tried to keep it canon compliant but canon keeps changing its mind.

This was supposed to be for a comic that features all (three at the time) Summers brothers. It starts off as Alex centric where he keeps getting these dreams of Scott, himself and Gabriel (now with Adam) as young kids living together in an orphanage. He thinks it's just part of the grieving process (Cyclops was still *no longer in circulation* at the time). Until he gets called to asses a mutant 'threat' which leads him to an abandoned orphanage somewhere in Alaska where it turns out there are mini versions of Summers boys running around with all of their original powers. And there's no way in hell he's turning these kids over to the Avengers

Oh man it was gonna explore the Phoenix force like a teen fanfic. And Norse Loki lore like that one kid he saved from that giant, and that kid was gonna be the Summers ancestor. And Odin cursed the kid and that's why the Sunmers bloodline is screwed up.

And the original Phoenix force was gonna be Lokis fire troll daughters that ascended and escaped marvel!ragnarok. And they've lived for centuries looking for their mom - but this version of Loki had red hair and green eyes and that's why the Phoenix force is always getting attached to red heads

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destieltropecollection · 6 months ago

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Destiel Trope Collection 2024 | Day 31: Cabin Fic

Crystal Clear | @envydean Rating: Explicit Word Count: 1,981 Main Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Modern AU, Anniversary, Blowjobs, lakeside cabin vacation, Dean's not a fan of lake water Summary: Dean and Cas are at the lakeside cabin for a long weekend. It's their 15th anniversary and Cas finds a cunning way to get him to swim in the lake.

Touching Perfection | @anyreiart Rating: Explicit Word Count: 4,439 Main Tags/Warnings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Canon Universe, Smut, Friends to Lovers Vacation, Feel-good, human!Cas Summary: Dean is finally ready to make a move on Cas. So he takes him on a vacation.

Cabin In The Woods | @anyreiart Rating: Explicit Word Count: 6,894 Main Tags/Warnings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Canon Universe, Bottom Castiel, Top Dean Winchester, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Somnophilia, BDSM Undertones Summary: Dean takes Cas on a vacation. Confessions happen.

Cabin Fever | @eyesofatragedy67 & @punk-is-notdead Rating: Explicit Word Count: 14,519 Main Tags/Warnings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel, Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, Jody Mills, Jo Harvelle, Ellen Harvelle, Enemies to Lovers, There Was Only One Bed, Miscommunication is the Real Villain, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Humor, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Time Having Sex, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Gay Sex, Anal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex, Spit As Lube, Dirty Talk, Castiel Loves Bees, Dean Loves Dr. Sexy Summary: Following a booking mixup for a remote hideaway, two strangers agree to share. Nothing quite goes according to plan, and it looks like a misunderstanding will kill any chance of a friendship, but does "fate" have other plans?

The Impetuous Engagement | @thefandomsinhalor Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 27,207 Main Tags/Warnings: Modern Setting AU, Snowed In, Sharing a Bed, Engaged Castiel, No Cheating Summary: It’s early December and Castiel Novak, quite unlike him, is on a plane to Fairbanks, Alaska, at the other end of his world, after the man he met online, Michael Milton, proposed to him. Michael is sensitive, gallant, and romantic, and after months of daily, intense correspondence, Castiel believes he’s the only one who he ever truly connected with. On his way there, however, due to a series of bad luck and Mother Nature, Castiel somehow finds himself stuck in a small village, in the middle of nowhere, cut off from the rest of the world and with no way of reaching Michael. Indefinitely. To make matters worse, Dean Winchester, Castiel’s fellow passenger��who asks way too many invasive questions, doesn’t have an ounce of subtlety, and isn’t as charming as he thinks he is—seems to be the only option for Castiel to find shelter in the meantime. And Dean, being acquainted with the fiancé in question, and aware that he is not to be trusted, is very eager to help Castiel with housing, and perhaps something more as well…

The Places We Hide | @therighteousmanlovesanangel Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 39,827 Main Tags/Warnings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Crowley, Lee Webb/Dean Winchester, Past Character Death, Gunshot Wounds, Show level violence, Divorce, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Grief/Mourning, Slow Burn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Light Angst, Human Castiel, (Supernatural)hunting au, Hermit Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Imagine there's no Heaven(ly influence), John died in this AU instead of Mary, Wendigo, Undine OFC, Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2022 (Supernatural) Summary: Castiel is going through it. He’s been dumped by his husband and demoted at work. A walk in the woods to clear his head makes it all horrifically worse. Luckily, he is saved by a bearded stranger. Through his recovery Castiel searches for the man in the woods. When he finds Dean, an unlikely friendship grows. As Cas comes to terms with the way his life is changing, Dean opens up a whole new world to him.

A Midwinter's Dream | @li-izumi Rating: Mature Word Count: 53,245 Main Tags/Warnings: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergence, Season/Series 09, Season/Series 10, Canon-Typical Violence, Post-Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Minor Rowena MacLeod/Sam Winchester, Dreams and Nightmares, Christmas, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary: Christmas is fast approaching, but Dean doesn’t feel like celebrating--he’s too busy hunting for that sort of thing. Though he promises to get Cas back in time for the epic Christmas party Sam’s been planning, Dean has no intention of staying himself. That may be another promise Dean can’t keep when the hunt goes wrong, trapping Dean and Cas far from civilization. Worse, Dean is plagued by unrelenting nightmares of his time with the Mark of Cain and is gripped by a lingering anger that he can’t seem to escape. Back at the Bunker, Sam and the others are working a little Christmas magic they hope will show Dean the light in the dark—and prove to him that the holiday spirit isn’t something he needs to hunt.

Alpha Seeking Omega | @samanddean76 Rating: Mature Word Count: 66,666 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Castiel, Alpha Jimmy Novak, Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha Lucifer, Canon-Typical Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Past Abuse (but not really as the treatment is part of the societal structure), Past Malnourishment, Mystery To Be Solved, Mating, Knotting, True Mates, Slow Burn, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Revenge, Or Justice, Castiel and Jimmy Novak are Twins, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Mpreg, Eventual Happy Ending, Cabin Fic Summary: Omega Dean has lived a harsh life prior to being selected to be a demonstration model at a party unveiling the latest product that Morningstar Enterprises is set to produce. Alphas Castiel and Jimmy Novak are guests of honor at the event, but when they lay eyes on the Omega that is clearly at the center of something that was not a part of the party, the twins leap into action. Unfortunately, they are separated. Now Jimmy must keep Dean safe until Castiel can be rescued. But the more that Jimmy learns about this very well-trained Omega, the more he questions what was really going on that night. The problem is will he be able to figure out the puzzle and still rescue his brother?

#destiel trope collection #destiel trope collection 2024 #destiel #fanfic #supernatural #cabin fic

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nathanbatemanfucker · 4 months ago

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Sycamore Part 1: Along the Deep

summary: Frankie had said that your home was the perfect place to lay low; a small cottage nestled between the Alaskan sea and forest.

pairing: Santiago Garcia x fem!reader (Eclipse)

wc: 2,415

warnings: not sfw/minors dni/18+, strangers to lovers, eventual smut, mentions of canon typical violence, mental health issues (ptsd), addiction mention, food mention, internal angst, pining

an: its good to be back! hoping this series will propel me forward and get me writing more consistently. can't wait to hear yalls thoughts, and as always thank you for reading <3

sycamore masterlist

Santi’s running, headed to a place he’d never dreamed of setting foot in: Alaska. It isn’t an unfamiliar feeling–running is his forte– but this time around he truly feels like a failure. This time, he’s running because it's life or death and with the loss of Tom, Santi finds himself yearning to live. He had to make this grief burrowing in his chest worth something, and he was grateful to do it in the face of a stranger.

Frankie had assured him that you’re calm and collected. But, Santi didn’t know who you were– had never heard of you before this moment. He felt it was fair to have his doubts.

“Who is she?” Santi had asked once they had touched back down in Florida.

“Childhood friend. She served and seen as much as we have. I’known her longer than I’ve known you,” Frankie had explained.

Any of those doubts that lingered in Santi’s mind crumbled and were lost to the wind as he continued driving down the windy Alaskan roads. He’s surrounded by rows upon rows of trees. Frankie had said that your home was the perfect place to lay low; a small cottage nestled between the Alaskan sea and forest. Sunlight is endless this time of year and the salty coastal breeze bathes everything it touches.

He knows he’s in the right place once his tires hit gravel. The driveway stretches on a couple miles and he feels his heart rate increasing, palms slick against the leather steering wheel. This isn’t a test, this isn’t something he has to get right. All he has to do is mind his own business, keep his head down– something he does with the people that care so deeply for him day in and day out.

The house comes into view, sand and sea as its backdrop. You are not what Pope expects– neither is the house. You’re sat on the porch swing waiting for him, a book in one hand, a mug in the other. The word that comes to mind isn't one he uses often, but you are distinctly lovely. You look so relaxed, in a pair of cutoff overalls, hair up and framing your face. The house is white and rustic, and the porch wraps around it entirely.

Pope exits the car, treating you to an awkward wave. He doesn’t understand why his knees feel weak, but it could be your intense gaze. You wave back at him with an easy smile. You look welcoming, like a woman waiting for your husband to return home. But he has to remember, he doesn’t have a home anymore, that he hardly knows you even though he already likes everything he knows about you. He’s nothing but a man who bounces from place to place, contract to contract, there isn’t room for him here.

“Need some help?” You call out to him as he heads towards the trunk.

“I’m alright,” He says, not unkindly.

You stay put on the swing, sliding a bookmark between pages to save your spot before you wrap your hands tightly around your mug of tea. He’s more handsome than he was in the pictures, but there’s something in his step, in the way his shoulders slouch that tells you whatever he’s just experienced has changed him.

Frankie wouldn’t tell you much besides that they’d had a big job in South America that had gone awry. They’d lost a friend– a brother, Tom who’d you seen pictures of before. You hadn’t pressed for details knowing that the more you knew the more at risk all of you would be.

But, from the lost look in Santiago’s eyes as he trudges up to the porch, you know it had to be heavy. A loss deeper than he’d ever known.

He holds out a hand to you, words rushing out of his mouth in an unfamiliarly clumsy way, “Santiago. Santi. Or Pope, I don’t know.”

“Santiago. You can call me Eclipse.” You say, taking his hand and shaking it firmly despite the current that seems to follow between the two of you. You brush it off, standing and gesturing towards the house, “Let me show you your room.”

He continues to be surprised by you. The inside of the house is simple, all cream and light wood and house plants with small pops of color. The couch is large and fluffy with a colorful patch quilt on it, taking up most of the living room space. There’s lots of black and white art, even a set of twinkly lights in the kitchen.

You lead him into what seems to be a never-ending hallway, showing him the bathroom he’ll use, where closets are, your room. He notices that you neglect to tell him what’s in the room beside the one he’ll be staying in and the curiosity that’s been bubbling inside him overflows.

“What’s this room?” Santi asks, his voice strangely polite. He doesn’t want to offend you. The only thing he really wants right now is to know more about you. He points to the closed door between the large bathroom and his room for the next two months.

He notices your body stiffening, and for the first time since the two of you have met you look guarded. Secretive. Your eyes are wary as you answer him, “My art studio.”

Santi’s fascinated, you’re even more mysterious now. He’s thrown by how taken he is with you, how his knees feel weak and not from all of the bullshit he’s but him through. This pull he feels is different than usual, complex and genuine. He wants to unravel you, but unlike his usual habits of leaving when it’s all said and done, he would put you back together. He’d be drowning in his fear if he wasn’t so hungry for the knowledge of you.

“The art’s yours?”

Your face warms, but you shrug, brushing off his…wonder. That’s what you identify; he’s marveled by you. “Living up here, I had nothing better to do.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but you quickly cut him off, not wanting to discuss your art in depth– it isn’t yet what you want to be. Something has always been off, always been missing.

“Are you hungry?” You ask quickly.

“Starving, actually,” He says sheepishly, his mouth pulling up into a soft smile.

So handsome and so broken, you allow yourself to think for just a moment.

“Get settled, I’ll heat up some food for us.”

“Thank you, Eclipse.”

“Of course,” You say easily, like this choice of you inviting him into your home took no thought, no effort. Like you’ve known each other for multiple lifetimes.

As he watches you walk down the hall, he finds himself wishing that to be true.

With plenty of stew in the freezer, you preheat the oven to bake some potatoes. While the stew heats, you prep the potatoes, chopping them into small cubes and coating them with an herb mix. It’ll only take them 20 minutes in the oven, enough time to throw together a fresh salad with vegetables from the garden and warm some rolls.

You hear him shuffling down the hall about 15 minutes later, and when he appears he’s changed into a white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

You allow yourself a single glance at him as you stir the stew, quickly forcing your eyes away from him, “Drink? I’ve got water, soda, coffee, tea. Matcha.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking a little disappointed, “No beer?”

“I’m sober. 3 years.”

Santi has to force his expression to stay neutral. You’re sober like Fish. He wonders what your vice is, how you made it to this point. It was hard with Frankie, a fight every step of the way but one he’s dedicated to helping win.

“I have ginger beer,” You offer when he stays quiet.

“I’ll take it.”

He can see it clear as day, how good for Frankie you’ve probably been and will continue to be. Frankie may not know it, but you’ve been taking care of him in your own way for a while now. He’s described you to Pope as a younger sister, familia through and through despite losing each other for a while. Santi wonders just for a moment how you’d treat a lover, his eyes roaming your body. The thoughts are whisked away by the crack of a can, and you slide it over to him.

“Thanks,” He croaks, his cheeks warm from his thoughts.

If you notice you don't mention it, quipping back with another soft, “Of course.”

A comfortable silence settles between the two of you, and he takes a seat at the sturdy wooden table. He tries and fails not to watch you move around the kitchen. You’re incredibly graceful, floating around the room as if you’re on a cloud. You get the salad on the table along with some plates in perfect timing; the oven dings just as you turn towards it.

You’re a machine, just like him. Just like Frankie, and Benny and Will. Like Tom was. And yet it seems like it hasn’t plagued you the way it has all of them as you plate up dinner and sit across from him. This little life you’ve built, even if he ‘s just gotten a glance of it seems peaceful. He wonders if he could be whole in a place like this or if that’s just wishful thinking he’ll never verbalize.

“What made you move out here?” He asks softly after several minutes of silence marked by the sound of forks on plates.

“Solitude suits me,” You say simply.

Santi knows that’s not true. With how easily you welcomed a stranger here, the second nature of you fixing him a meal. He doesn’t push, its not his place.

“I guess I’m ruining that for you then.”

“Francisco trusts you. So I trust you.”

Trust, not solitude. You need safety and instead of finding it in people around you, you find it in yourself. Santi sees you a little clearer now– sees that this isn’t a sanctuary, it’s a fortress surrounded by water and sand and sycamores to keep everyone out.

“That’s why you don’t live in town?”

“I can’t– the guns,” You explain gruffly. “I need to know where they are and when they’ll fire or it gets– bad.

Oh.

He gets it. He hasn’t experienced it himself, his body’s still in this flight mode, but he can imagine what happens when it’s been turned off and then triggered. He’s heard the stories, though he files them away in a box in his head, never to be touched again. Or so he thought, until he met you.

In a strange way, you remind him of himself–even with all the work you’ve done he sees you as guarded, though less closed off than he is. Just like him you crave organization, and belonging, though it seems like your versions are much more poetic than his. More than ever, Santi feels like the scraps of belonging he had with his men is out of reach with Tom gone. Everything’s jumbled and off balance, and now they’re left to figure this out again. Like it wasn’t hard enough the first fucking time. But here…it feels like he could start to. Like he could do it properly.

The sun is finally starting to set when you finish dinner, and Santi insists that you stay put and let him clean up. When he gets all the food scraps in a pile you head out to put them in the composter and give the plants one last little sprinkle, though the coastal spray was probably enough. As always you find yourself staring into the abyss of the ocean, eyes captivated by the crash and fall of blue hues.

He watches you through the kitchen window, slowing down his methodical movements so that he can spend more time simply looking. There’s no purpose, no quota he must fill in being here with you unless he truly wants it. And right now the only thing he wants to do is look, and look and look at how beautiful you are.

With the dishes done he follows after you, standing awkwardly on the porch. Santi looks down at his feet, as if the answer to the question in his head rests upon them. But as if you’ve heard his silent steps, you look back at him expectantly and his eyes rise to meet yours. Your mouth raises just a fraction of an inch, he wouldn’t even count it as a smirk, but it pulls the question out of him, “Do you mind if I join you?”

You just beckon him on and his feet move without thought, listening to your siren call. You sink further into the sand as he nears you, burying your feet and resting your head on your knees. et. He kicks his shoes off before joining you, keeping his legs straight as he leans back into his palms. The sand is cool and scratchy against his calloused hands. You stay like that as the minutes go by, the sun sinking further and further into the sky.

It looks half submerged in the ocean, its golden hues reflecting off the dark water, when you finally speak again, “I’m gonna head in but you should stay a while. It’s an experience, watching the sun leave the moon alone.”

He hums noncommittally as you rise to your feet dusting the sand off your body. “Thank you for letting me come here. Especially without Fish.”

“Fish,” You repeat, laughing softly. You hardly even glance at him when you say, “You never have to thank me. Goodnight, Santi.”

Winded, Santi can only nod and you both avoid eye contact as you pass him, the moment already feeling charged enough. He likes it though, being on edge about something other than a mission or objective. Your jury’s still out, but she can’t deny what you’re feeling already.

“Goodnight,” He calls after you once his voice returns.

When you make it to the door you turn to look at him; there’s a pull, an invisible string wound between the two of you. Slowly, you commit this scene to memory so that you can start painting it. You’ve found a muse in him and how long has it been since you’ve painted in color?

He stays there to watch the sun leave the moon, thinking of you the entire time.

> Part 2: Juna's Bloodshed

taglist: @sylviantree, @whatthefish, @marc-spectorr, @mccn-bcys, @toracainz, @xbellaxcarolinax, @reallyrallyauthor, @missdictatorme, @lesbianhotch, @campingwiththecharmings, @veritable-trash, @ivystoryweaver, @iolaussharpe-24, @aria725, @hana-hanako, @kingtwhiddleston, @for-a-longlongtime

#santi garcia #santi garcia x reader #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x fem!reader #santiago garcia x f!reader #santi garcia x f!reader #santi garcia x fem!reader #santiago garcia fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #not sfw #sycamore #arson writes

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 2 months ago

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Exit Wounds: Final Part

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.8k

Summary: You're taken to Alaska where someone is killing people who are trying to leave the small town of Franklin. Penelope gets caught in the crossfire but comes out stronger.

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Season Five Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them.

Just like you predicted, there was another murder the next morning. This time, Joshua's mother was found dead at her house. Joshua has been in custody this whole time so he doesn't know he's also lost his mom. It's going to break his heart once he knows. You know he's a good kid. You look at Carol's body which has her intestines splayed out everywhere around her. This was angry. The same yellow energy surrounds her, further solidifying your theory that your unsub is a minor. You touch her forehead with a gloved hand and see the unsub gutting her maliciously.

"The neighbors saw the door open and called it in," Sheriff Rhodes sighs.

"He went from ambushing people in public to home invasion. That's a pretty big change in MO."

"This one is personal and angry. Look, her intestines are splayed out everywhere. The blood on her face is smeared, not splattered. He played with the body. He mutilated her."

"If this guy is killing people leaving town, why didn't he attack Kat Allen?" the sheriff asks.

"Because we had her in protective custody. He couldn't get to her, so he moved on to another target," Hotch says.

You look behind you and up at him with worried eyes.

"Believe me now? Joshua couldn't have done this. Our unsub is a minor."

"Fine. We'll do it your way," he nods.

"Carol was scheduled to be at the tavern tonight. How did the unsub know she was here?"

"He was stalking her. He chose Carol for a different reason. Why? What's changed?"

You, Rossi, and Spencer go back to the station where Joshua is. He stands up from inside the holding cell and Deputy Flack lets him out.

"Did you guys finally realize I'm innocent?"

"Joshua, please have a seat," she says.

"More questions?" He does as he's told. "Are you serious? I'm telling you, I didn't do this."

"We know that, son."

He finally recognizes the shift in energy.

"What's going on?"

"Josh, the killer struck again last night," Deputy Flack says, trying to keep her tears in.

"Oh, God. Who did he get?" He looks around and notices you're only talking to him. "Why are you guys only telling me this? Where's my mom?" None of you say a word and he connects the dots on his own. "No. No. No. No, no, no, no. No, no, no, that's impossible. She was just here. I--I just talked to her!"

"I'm sorry Joshua, she's gone."

"No, you're lying to me," he cries.

"I wish we were."

"I need to see her."

"Not right now. You don't want to think of her that way. Joshua, we know you need time to mourn, but the fact of the matter is, the man who did this is still out there, and we think that you can help us find him."

"You had me locked up while she was--I could have helped her!"

"If you had gone to her, there's a good chance you'd both be dead. Now, we need your help."

"Why me?" he sniffles.

"The murders began when you returned to town. Up until now, he's only targeted people who were trying to leave but for some reason, with your mother, it was personal. The pressure's on. The FBI is here. In that situation, a serial killer who wants to finish what he started, goes after the true target of his cause."

"Personal?"

"Can you think of anyone who had a grudge against her? Anyone at all?" He shakes his head. "How about anyone with a grudge against you?"

"No, no. Everybody loved her," he cries.

"The man that we're looking for has severe abandonment issues. Can you think of a time when you or your mother left somebody, maybe like a bad breakup or a fight that ended a friendship?" Recognition comes across his face. He knows who it is. He tries to pass it off by coughing and covering his face but you see it. The shift in his energy also tells you. "Did your mother ever take anyone in at the inn who had family problems, maybe someone who had been kicked out or lost someone unexpectedly?"

Joshua shakes his head and crosses his arms.

"No. No, there was nothing like that. Listen, can I go see my mom now?"

"Josh. You need to let these people help you," the deputy says.

"No, I need--I need to see my mom."

"We'll have someone take you," Rossi says."

"It's okay. I know the way."

Josh immediately leaves the station.

"He knows who did this," you say. "Not only was there a shift in his energy but his body language as well. He's lying to us. He knows who the unsub is."

You, Rossi, and Spencer head back to the tavern where the rest of the team is at.

"I got one of my deputies tailing Joshua. If he does something stupid, we're gonna know," the sheriff says.

"There's got to be a connection we're missing. Garcia, anything?"

"Their lives have been torn apart, figuratively and literally, and I can't find anything."

"Try again."

"I'm hacking into his college database as we speak. Maybe there's something about his life in Seattle I may have missed."

"So, why Carol? Why the mutilation? Why the overkill?" Hotch asks.

"Mutilation? You said you found the remains of mutilated animals in the woods from a rabid bear?"

"That's right," Deputy Flack answers Rossi.

"Did you take pictures of them?"

"Of course. We documented everything for identification."

"We'll need to see those pictures right away."

With the way the other victims were mutilated, it's determined that an animal didn't do it. A human did. An animal wouldn't have left so much meat behind. It's Homicidal Triad 101. The unsub lacks sophistication and immaturity in his kills because he is immature himself. He started with animals because that's what he was taught to do. Once he got bored of animals, he moved on to more challenging prey--humans. Everyone comes to the conclusion that the unsub is indeed a minor--a teenage boy.

The unsub isn't a former student but a current one. Hotch brought this back to the teacher they talked to earlier to see if someone stood out from the rest. The only teenagers she has in class are both females and you know a girl didn't do this. Penelope dug deeper into Josh's life and in his college application, he talked about how being an older brother impacted his life. He doesn't have any siblings yet he talked about how hard it was to leave him behind when he moved to Anchorage.

With this information, Hotch asked the teacher if there was a student that Joshua had taken under his wing before he moved away, someone who she might have suspected was being abused.

There was. Owen Porter. He's not a student anymore because he's homeschooled. He and Joshua were attached at the hip when they were younger. The Sheriff had been called out to Owen's house multiple times for domestic disturbances. Owen and his mom were always covering for his dad.

"Talk about abandonment issues. Owen was left victim to the abusive hand of his father," you sigh. "Joshua's return probably derailed Owen's mental stability."

"Add to that the accidental shooting of Jon. He snapped. He got off on that first killing. He had to do it again, so he targeted people trying to leave town. In his mind, when people leave, he gets hurt. He resented Carol for taking Joshua away so he killed her to make sure he never left again."

"Where would he go now?" Rossi asks.

"We're surrounded by waterways and mountains. He could be anywhere."

Spencer and Hotch leave town to go to Owen's house. Of course, he's not there. The officer who was tailing Joshua called back to let you know he lost Joshua. Josh knows Owen. He knows he killed those people and his mom. He's going to hunt him, and you don't think he'll be alone. You and the team head out into the woods in search of someone. You're not a hunter. Joshua is. He knows how to hunt Owen better than you can hunt Josh. You're not even in the woods for two minutes before you hear a shot ring out.

"Did they just shoot him?"

"They wouldn't be shooting if they weren't close," Deputy Flack says.

"Let's go."

Derek's satellite phone rings and he answers Hotch's call.

"Hold on, guys," Derek says to you. "Yeah, Hotch, what's up? ... Okay, I got it." He hangs up. "There's a new plan. He's heading for the harbor."

You immediately go over there with your gun out to see Joshua's hunting party in a standoff with Owen who is already in a small boat and Hotch's half of the team. Owen has a gun at Hotch's team. Hotch's team has a gun on him. Joshua's team has a gun on Owen.

"Owen put the gun down. Who do you want to take your chances with, us or them?" Owen looks behind him to see Joshua's team ."Drop the weapons and back away!"

"Can't do that agents. The boy is coming with us," Keith says.

"It's not happening!"

"Back down, Keith. We're in control now," the sheriff says.

"What are you gonna do, Steve? He's sixteen. Send him back to Juvey so he's out in two years? He killed Brenda!"

"He killed my mom!"

"He needs help and he will be held accountable for his crimes."

"Accountable? Five people are dead! Why'd you do it, Owen? Why did you kill her?" Joshua says emotionally.

"You left me behind!"

"You killed my mom!!"

"She sent you away! You left and you didn't come back. Eight years and I never heard from you again."

"Please, just let us take him in," Spencer says.

"Sorry. I can't. I know what you're saying is right but I can't do it. You're outnumbered and outgunned. Who do you think has the higher ground here?"

You run down the pier and aim your gun at Joshua's back.

"I'm pretty sure we do."

Josh's team turns and sees your half of the team standing there. They're outnumbered. Everyone on Josh's team drops their guns knowing it's the safest thing to do but Joshua doesn't.

"What are you doing? We can still take him!" Josh yells.

"It's over, Josh."

"He killed my mom!"

"I know, and I'm sorry," Keith sighs and steps back with his hands up.

Josh raises his gun to shoot Owen but you're quicker than he is. You shoot Josh's arm before he can get a shot out and he falls into Keith's arm with shock written over his face.

"You shot him?"

"He'll live," you shrug.

Owen is arrested and taken away. He will pay for his crimes but he needs to get help, first. Help that he won't find in this small town. You're glad to be back in the jet and away from small towns. You lived next to one and you didn't like one bit. They are such a tight-knit community that they have their own laws there, it seems. You're glad to be going home now.

"Y/N." Hotch walks over to you while you're making a cup of coffee in the small kitchen. "I want to make something clear. You're never rooming with Spencer again."

"What?" you gasp.

"I don't want to hear it."

He walks away as if he didn't just say that. You close your gaping mouth and blush. Eh, it was worth it.

"Nothing is so strong as gentleness, and nothing is so gentle as real strength." - Ralph W. Sockman

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiuc #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds angst #criminal minds series rewrite #criminal minds season 5

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midmaximoo · 3 months ago

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I'm currently in rendering hell right now as I'm finishing up some wttt Vermont doodles, and so in the mean time Ima take a break and share some of my head canons for Vermont - so here we gooo!

Vermont has a very obvious farmer's tan. No matter how much sunscreen he puts on, poor VT gets assaulted by the sun no matter what.

Vermont, Maine, Colorado, and Alaska go camping together every year. These states specifically bc of the average wilderness experience most people in said places end up having. Alaska tolerates these guys the most out of the lower 48, and VT is also sort of reclusive and quiet so Alaska and Vermont are buds.

VT skis and Colorado snowboards, they both like to hit the mountains & trails every year together

Vermont has tattoos! He's got maple leaves, a hermit thrush (VT's state bird), just a lot of nature related ink.

Vermont doesn't own a car, he has a motorcycle.

His aesthetic is along the lines of cryptidcore, goblincore, overall a very green sort of grunge.

He can speak French (due to him bordering Quebec, and VT was populated by a lot of French soldiers/immigrants during 1600-1900s.)

Louisiana and Vermont would probably be quite good friends. I can imagine Loui saying something in his lovely Louisiana French dialect, and Vermont being one of the few states that understands him and can respond in kind.

Honestly I feel like most Mideast/Southeast states would get along pretty well with VT even if he is pretty antisocial at times. He has a similar folksy vibe that fits well. (historically, VT was built by "lower class" immigrants working hard blue collar jobs. Lot's of the same Scottish and Irish influence as most Northeast states. Eventually, they trickled down south through places like Appalachia as time went on.)

Vermont is a townie at heart, not having very big cities and a smaller population, he definitely is a vocal workers rights activist and loudly opposes classism and loves himself a union strike if needed.

Vermont and New Hampshire may have started out hating each other, having a sort of rivalry. After time went on, and maybe due to living in the Statehouse right next door, or maybe even years prior, these two states really didn't have that much contempt for each other as one might seem. They mainly "hate" each other as a bit now, finding it funny. They are probably married for tax purposes (VT loves NH lack of sales tax lol).

Vermont is the Statehouse's resident veterinarian, being very good with pretty much any animal under the sun native to his state or not.

He also has a green thumb and loves gardening.

VT has a pet Raccoon named Champ (after the famous lake monster)

Vermont is a vegetarian, despite being a state with a lot of hunters. He'd do it for survival, but only as a last resort. To counter that, I'd say he is good with a bow and arrow (a reference to bow season).

This fella can play a lot of instruments. He especially likes the banjo bc why not?

Okay that's MORE than enough for now, and this was mainly for me to just yell into the void and keep for reference. I just want more wttt VT content bc he could be such a fun character! Sorry I tricked you into reading my Vermont propaganda

#welcome to the table #welcome to the statehouse #wttt vermont #vermont propaganda #my headcanons #so many words omg

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musemuseum · 1 year ago

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Alaska Jones

Alaska has been giving music lessons to the neighbourhood kids for three years, often giving free lessons to families who can't afford it. She knows what it's like to not be able to afford music lessons, and she doesn't want to see children with an interest in music losing out.

She gives lessons out of her bachelor apartment that sits above a music store. She wants to one day own her own music store, but it's proving a little more difficult than she anticipated.

#alaska; head canons

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dailymothanon · 6 months ago

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I’ve simply been too lazy to draw currently so no art yet 🐶 anyways. I just feel like I haven’t had any headcanon inquiry posts in awhile 🤔 so, I’ve seen plenty of states have hcs about their state flowers… nicknames… animals, flags, etc etc, so does anyone have any headcanons about (any or all) states and their gems (or minerals) 🤔?

I certainly liked to draw Alaska’s jades in my last post and I love the facts connecting jades and Alaska. Do I have any head canons regarding him and jade tho? Not really, for D&D forbolg him sure but just classic ol’ Alaska, not yet 😌 I do love the green tho, it’s like having the northern lights as a gem and it accents well with like gold or silver (figured gold would be more appropriate for Alaska tho since the gold rushes n all that). On a less related note I kinda wanna add more moose aspects to Alaska 🤔 like, it’s alaska’s iconic state animal! But bears are more used for him, which is still cool I love bears and fat bear week n all, but moose are also cool 😌 little calf moose babies are so leg… they’re like 90% leg

#wttt #welcome to the table #welcome to the statehouse #ben brainard #wttt headcanons #wttsh #wttsh fanart #wttt alaska #wttsh headcanons #wttt hcs

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 11 months ago

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What if, somehow, Bella and Edward had zero classes together and never got close to each other until graduation day? At which point Edward smells her for the first time?

Why Edward likes Bella so much.

Also the caveat that Forks is small enough that this would never happen. Especially when Edward and Bella are pointedly in honors classes. That was the whole thing, Edward couldn't change his schedule to avoid Bella in Biology. It's slightly miraculous he somehow only shared Biology with her.

Well.

Bella's in trouble.

The thing about canon is that Edward initially found Bella to be extremely overrated. The school goes nuts over her and he looks over and sees a girl that, sure, she's pretty, but Rosalie as a human was 1000 times hotter and she's sure to be boring and gross like all the other ones. He vaguely approves of how she responded to Jessica when she filled her in about the Cullens and lunch in general but he was extremely not interested.

We'll be generous and assume Bella's not murdered/dies in a parking lot/all the other times Bella would have died without Edward's intervention.

This then continues for a year and a half. We'll assume Bella's still the hot commodity for the prom (which she then flees to Seattle to avoid). Bella has more or less the same relationship with Angela and Jessica. It doesn't get as strained in New Moon with Jessica, but Bella also doesn't initiate anything either, and Bella doesn't get close to Jacob having no reason to seek him out in New Moon and going "ew too young" when meeting him in general (as she did in Twilight and parts of New Moon). (Most the wolves also don't shift as James and company roll through town and leave again as they would have had Bella not been at the baseball game).

What we're getting at is a girl who's pined over the mysterious hot Cullens from a distance but has been far too shy and mortified to ever do anything about it (which is good because Edward would eat her). As in canon, Bella tries to subtly grill everyone she can, but the most she's getting is the flirting with Jacob in which he reveals that "yeeeeeeeah we're really superstitious and it's kind of embarrassing". Bella probably doesn't believe it in this world and wishes she had a way to organically get close to the Cullens when she shares classes with none of them and has to stare at them sadly from across the lunchroom.

Luckily for her, because she doesn't speak about it out loud, Edward pays relatively little interest. I imagine he's wary of why this girl keeps asking about the family, but Alice hasn't seen anything, and her lack of thoughts is probably his gift acting up (what he assumed in canon) or else there's something wrong with her head (what he also assumed in canon).

All that aside, we get to graduation, he smells the smell, and we'll say he pinpoints it to Bella Swan (he may or may not be able to do this if he's in a crowd in which case... well... things won't be good).

And we'll say that Alice for some reason is so distracted watching Jasper again that she misses all of this.

If it's Bella, and he knows he's likely to never see her again, we get one of two things. The first is that he goes through with the Biology plan, he either murders the entire graduating class, all their family, and friends so as to eat Bella Swan or else he holds himself off until he can lure Bella out on her own at which point she never comes home from graduation.

Otherwise, he manages to succeed in controlling himself, runs off to Alaska, and thank god the family's going to "college" now and Edward is not going to the same school. Except. Now. It bothers him.

What we get is Twilight the college edition in which Edward "SURPRISE" transfers to the school Bella's going to, in her exact department, making sure he's in the course offerings with her, so he can meet her again and prove to himself that he has totally great control and she's not the boss of him and make sure he didn't reveal he was a vampire.

It's basically the same as canon except Bella's only slightly older and not sure how to take the fact that Edward ignored her for a year and a half and now he's suddenly at her college.

(In which Edward will either eat Bella or turn her. There's no third door.)

#twilight #twilight meta #twilight headcanon #twilight renaissance #edward cullen #anti edward cullen #bella swan #meta #headcanon #opinion

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theatrekidenergy · 1 year ago

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I don’t think I’ve never made a post about it before but I’m a huge fan of Ben Brainard, he’s a great comedian and I especially enjoy his state series (wttt), especially Texas and Austin’s dynamic so here’s a couple things I personally head canon:

- Texas has an innate fear that he will one day wake up blue blue hair and piercings because the hat fell off in the middle of the night and Austin did Austin things

- California: *viscously trying to grab cowboy hat away from Austin* DON’T BRING HIM BACK- PLEASE- PLEASEEE-

- Texas has like an agreement except for himself- Like Austin gets Thursdays and Tuesdays and Texas gets the rest of the week yk

- Texas: “Look I hate to say it but sometimes, SOMETIMES, your food is.. okay.” - Austin: *beaming* “Really? 🥹”

- Alaska and Austin are polar opposites (quite literally) which frequently results in very interesting conversations, however Alaska definitely favors Austin over Texas purely because Austin isn’t as much of a jerk

#arrow howls ☕️🐾🐺🎧#Austin wttt #Wttt #Wttt Austin #Wttt Texas #Texas wttt #California wttt #Wttt California #wttt headcanons #Austin Texas wttt

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gingersforeverbox · 4 months ago

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Coffee and revelations

A/n: I'm not gonna lie y'all, this piece was hard for me and offered a new challenge, but I finally got it done! I honestly don't know if I will keep doing platonic requests, so please consider this my first and possibly my last. Anyways, thank you for the patience, and I hope y'all enjoy. Word count: 2.1k

warnings: panic attacks, formerly toxic home-life, canon-typical swearing and technology, and Nathan ofc

How you got the position of being the assistant of a multibillionaire ‘tech messiah’ (Nathan’s words, not yours) is routinely up to debate, but the best and most plausible answer is that you are the only one in a long list of assistants that was actually able to put up with said messiah for more than a month or two.

Your first weeks out in the middle of nowhere deep in the forests of Alaska were… rough to say the least. It was a constant barrage of papers and virtual conferences, emails and phone calls, and of course a boss that didn’t necessarily hover over your shoulder so much as he simply reminded you of his eternal presence using the over-coms and cameras. Thankfully there was only one or two in your room that you quickly dismantled using a handy-dandy pocket knife that was spare from the helicopter on the two and a half hour ride to the drop off point. Why Nathan insisted on being so dangerously isolated from people, you’ve yet to fully uncover. You had your theories of course, most likely something to do with the brains of the man, along with a splash of gifted kid problems that you’d recognized in others your age before you moved out to be surrounded by nature, Nathan, and the machines he cooks up in his labs.

Over time, you began seeing Nathan for who he was: a troubled man who is too smart for his own good. Yet the urge to call this man ‘Dad’ infects you everyday, whether it's when you’re asking for your next assignment or explaining your stance on why Star Trek was so important to the influence of modern technology. He was just oddly comforting to be around when he was being decent and not a total asshat. Some people may insist that they aren’t cut out for parenting, and that may be true for some, but Nathan comes by it almost naturally. Even if he may still consider girls to be odd creatures, he still respects the fact that you’re just some teen who happened to get stuck with him while furthering your career.

Deep down, Nathan knows that he has a soft spot for his young assistant. He can tell in moments of pride for you and your work, or when you actually beat him in an argument, or even when you silently leave him a glass of water and a pain killer at his desk for his hangover the morning after his drinking episodes. He knows he’s not the best boss or role model, but he appreciates your time and presence more than he cares to admit.

With the buzz of the over-coms, Nathan’s tired voice comes alive in your windowless room.

“Y/n. Coffee. Stat,” he demands bluntly.

You grumble as you slide off the bed, something about being capable of holding meetings in other countries on behalf of the sarcastic grump of a man only to be interrupted by a snarky ‘What was that?’ to float through the room.

“On my way,” you sigh just loud enough for the microphone(s) to pick up.

Kyoko is silent as usual when you pass her in the hallway, on the way to the kitchen for the coffee that was already filling from the prepped machine.

She always puts you on edge. You logically know that she is just an extremely fancy AI that Nathan had made at some point in his isolation, but she just seemed so damn real. She looked just like a normal- albeit very beautiful- woman, perfect down to the real hairs on her head that Nathan had claimed to place individually while building her. Due to that being one of the first things that Nathan had ever said to you when you came to the facility, you could never quite tell if he was being serious or not, but you wouldn’t put it past him to be so meticulous with “his things”.

Whilst distracted by the slender form of the AI as you round the corner of the kitchen counter, your depth perception fails you, and causes you to stub your toe and trip around the corner.

With a tumble, your body falls in slow motion. A short gasp leaves your throat as you watch the mug of coffee shatter into pieces and chunks, coffee splattering across the tiles of the facility.

Despite being alright from the fall, something snaps in the back of your mind. It’s like a dam of worries and fear over the response of your gruff boss, cracks- pouring out, along with the tears that sting your eyes.

You’re unaware of how long you lay on the floor of the kitchen, alone… until you aren’t.

“Hey, woah woah woah, kid, you okay?” Nathan questions as he stoops down to gather your arms and inspect them for glass. Your eyes are glassy with tears as your limp arms are turned and prodded by Nathan's surprisingly warm hands.

“I’m so sorry, I was just trying to get your coffee, I promise I-” your words fell out of your mouth despite your throat tightening, desperately trying to choke down your tears. The cries soon turned into short and shallow breaths, panic seeping into your bones as the stress of Nathan being upset with you began to bare down on your shoulders.

“Hey, stop breathing like that kid, you’re hyperventilating.” Nathan slowly moves his hands to your shoulders, trying to ground you to reality and prevent you from spiraling. Nathan’s solid hands gently squeeze in a slow pulsing rhythm before he slides his hands back down your arms and softly folds them over your chest like a mummy in a sarcophagus.

“Can you start patting your chest with your hands one at a time for me, kid?” Nathan mirrors you with a neutral expression then demonstrates exactly what he wants you to do with a small nod of encouragement. As you watch the man gently pat his chest with his hands folded upright, you slowly begin to get in sync with his demonstration, your breath slowly becoming more regulated. Your mind, however, still felt like it was reeling. The feeling of your heart rate calming down was only a small comfort whilst overanalyzing the situation- particularly Nathan’s response.

‘Why is he staring like that? Does he always look like that or is something different? He thinks I’m a disappointment, why can’t I just do what he wants? It’s just like home all over again, I’m so tired. I just want him to approve, that’s all I-’

“Hey,” he interrupts gently. “Stop thinking for a minute, everything is going to be fine. It was an accident, it’s just a cup.” Nathan continues to show the soft patting motion he is guiding you through, although a twinge of worry flares in his dark eyes. Noticing that the self soothing isn’t helping as much as anticipated, he opts for a different approach.

As you sit silently, chaos reigning above all else in your mind, you feel soft arms wrap around your shoulders; Nathan quietly pulls you into his chest whilst making a rocking motion a few paces away from the glass filled area.

“Are you physically hurt, Y/n?”

A small shake of your head is felt against his chest where your head is resting softly, a soothing hand petting the back of your head. With a small sigh of relief, Nathan softly pulls you away for a moment to check your face for any deception, pleased to find none.

“As long as you’re not hurt, that’s what matters, okay?” He states with his typical stone expression as he waits for confirmation that you understand him.

Tears well up in your eyes once more as you quietly nod up to the man who then pulls you back into his warm embrace without a word.

“Thank you, dad.”

Shocked at your sudden revelation of your image of him, he feels a new emotion wiggling under his chest. It felt warm and tingly inside, a feeling that Nathan quickly identifies as pride, along with something new: paternal affection. He always knew that he wouldn’t have children any time soon (unless it’s one of the nights where he is drunk and thinking about the possibility that he has a child somewhere in the world due to his relations with various women), yet in that moment the truth becomes glaringly obvious.

He got a kid the first time you stepped foot in the facility.The first time you impressed him with your efficiency in your work. The first time you went to him for help with an assignment, when he had snapped at you for needing help in the first place, which led to him drinking himself to sleep in his office that night. The next morning he may have finished your work for you, leaving it on your desk once the hangover subsided, but he never acknowledged it.

Only now is he realizing how badly he fucked up.

While Nathan’s revelation hits him like a ton of bricks, causing him to feel another uncommon emotion for him- remorse. Guilt.

“I-” he hesitates, as if mentally psyching himself up for the next words to fall from his lips, “I’m sorry, kid,” he mutters. “I’m sorry I was so hard on you, I know I fucked up,” he bluntly admits.

At his blunt yet sincere tone, you pause in his arms, tilting your head to look up to the thickly bearded man.

“You’re really not mad at me?” you ask hesitantly, unsure of his response.

“No, kiddo. It was just a cup, and you could never make me genuinely mad,” he reassures with a soft shake of his head as he continues to hold you close, slowly swaying both of you in a comforting manner.

With a gentle nod of acceptance on your behalf, a comfortable silence fills the air surrounding the kitchen of the facility.

“Y’know,” the man speaks up in a slightly more gentle tone than he usually takes with you, “I think you’re doing a good job. You put up with me and my bullshit, you’re a smart cookie, and you even like Star Trek,” he lists with a small yet fond smile.

“You couldn’t get better in my eyes if you tried, kid. I’m not gonna hurt you, and I will do everything I can to make sure nothing else will for that matter. I was more worried about you being hurt than the stupid cup of coffee, goofball,” he grins in a fatherly tone.

In return, an involuntary smile breaks across your face as you both continue to sit on the kitchen floor. The worries surrounding the man you feel so attached to seem to fall away slowly at his reassurance and warm embrace. Sure, it may take some time to get used to Nathan’s new and more caring nature, but it’s a good change- a great one.

Another comfortable silence fills the air around the both of you as you wordlessly express your affections with a tighter hug.

With a clink of ceramic, you both look up from your embrace to see Kyoko gathering the shards of the mug with a dustpan and a cloth- always a dutiful machine. The man beside you scoffs softly in amusement before looking back to you. “Well, I’d say that’s enough barista duty for you. Kyoko seems capable. Besides, I want you to come take a look at some code with me downstairs,” he shrugs softly. “If you feel up for it, of course,” he adds in a rare moment of kindness.

You pause for a moment, playfully humming and looking up to the high ceilings of the facility before looking up to his dark brown eyes.

“Can you teach me some stuff about coding?” you ask with a warm smile gracing your features.

“Duh, that’s the point, dude,” Nathan chuckles fondly as he gently encourages you to stand from the floor of the kitchen with a soft sigh. He offers you a hand to keep you steady as you stand to your full height before walking over to a cupboard and filling a glass of water for you.

“Drink this first, though,” he orders in a blunt manner, “You cried a bunch and you need to hydrate,” he explains thoughtfully.

With a nod of acceptance, you take the glass and begin to sip on it as the man guides you past Kyoko- who has finished cleaning up the mess- towards the elevator with a gentle hand on your upper back to guide you, caringly. As you reach the elevators and make your way down to the lab, you both talk about anything and everything that comes to mind, both of you seeming to enjoy the feelings of closeness that has brought you together as a guardian figure and as someone worth looking out for.

The rest of the day is filled with playful jokes, lighthearted banter, and smiles (even from Nathan); a beautiful change to a growing bond of care for one another.

#nathan bateman #nathan bateman x reader #my stuff #platonic!nathan bateman

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enkelimagnus · 7 months ago

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Don't Feed It (It Will Come Back)

Read on AO3

True Detective Season 1, Rust/Marty, Rated E

Summary: Follow-up to Something Stuck In Your Teeth

They've fucked. They've gone back to normal, or whatever poses as normal for these two. Except Rust's not one man you own and Marty's not gotten that memo. So when Rust sleeps with a friend of Maggie's, Marty gets possessive. And Rust doesn't like this at all.

Warnings: The usual warnings that come with Canon True Detective, Period-Typical Homophobia, Anal Sex, Slurs, Bad Crash Stuff, French-bashing (self-inflicted)

Full text below the cut

His thumb caresses the grip of his gun where it rests against his belt, runs his fingerprint all over the hard, cold polymer casing and he wonders when they’ll catch him out.

Quesada knows he’s not listening to a word he’s saying but he’s not snapping at him to get his head out of his ass and pay attention. His tolerance for Rust’s never-ending anti-authority attitude lowers every day they get closer to the weekend and today’s friday.

He’s letting Marty be the spokesman for the both of them, lets him deal with the politics of men like Quesada who only care as long as their superiors do, as long as it will shorten their afternoons lazing around a golf green pretending to play that limpdick excuse for a sport.

Quesada must have been a good cop once upon a time, or at least that’s what Marty’s desperate to believe. Rust only knows he must not have been that good, else he’d know the sort of creature sitting across from him now, and he would know he belongs somewhere the sun don’t ever shine. The least he would do was get that state-issued gun away from him and force him to fend for himself in the firearm department.

When they walk out of there, Rust is still a free man and Marty’s hand rests onto his shoulder, onto that very spot on his trapezius where, under the shirt, half covered by his undershirt is the crescent moon scar of Marty’s own teeth. He’s gotten the habit of it, of letting his hand fall onto that mark from time to time, a claim or a warning or a threat, or perhaps all three at once. He knows it’s there still, he saw it in the locker room, saw how it was scarring, a bit red still underneath the brown of the scab.

Others have seen it too, men he can’t help but see at work when they grab showers or take a leak by the lockers or grab something from the jacket of their civilian garb. A woman’s seen it too, a blonde little thing with a genuinely fantastic ass Maggie had introduced him to over sweet tea and some help with the plumbing of the house. One thing with being raised by a mad man in a cabin in the middle of Alaska, you learn how to take care of a home, and if Marty felt emasculated by it, Rust couldn’t care less. If he had decided to help out his woman, she wouldn’t be calling him up to help with her fucking pipes.

She calls him sometimes, in the evenings or on days he and Marty both have off and Rust can’t help but wonder if Marty knows that his wife is calling for no real reason but to talk, like he’s one of the girls from her book club. It’s nice though, he likes her like a little sister. She can see through enough of his shit to give a fuck but not enough to run away screaming, and Marty might be annoyed by it at the end of the day, but he’s the one who opened the door first, the one who let his wife feed Rust like a wild animal at their doorway, plying him with coffee and letting him think he could trust them. You don’t feed a stray unless you want it to come back.

That day though, it had only been a trap to get him in his wifebeater and a flannel over at the house while Suzie was there as well for entirely unrelated reason. He’d taken her on a date the next day, mostly because Maggie had been staring at him with eyes promising divine retribution if he didn’t make a move. She had a nice smile but Rust wasn’t a fan of blondes, and the entire evening, he’d kept seeing Dora Lange superimposed over her like a 1910s film’s archaic special effects. They’d still fucked though, at his place on his mattress in the living room and she hadn’t said anything about that. She’d asked about the bite mark. He’d kissed her to shut her up and it had worked. He had been thinking of Marty anyway.

The days after that perfect storm are empty of threats and insults; they’ve pierced the abscess and let the pus out and it’s going to need some time to build back up. They know it’ll build back up. The sort of festering wound they have doesn’t ever heal fully.

Rust’s got a lot of those. Most days he feels like a torn open carcass laying in a patch of sunlight, just awaiting to be shredded further in the claws of some great carrion bird. Vultures are essential to the health of an ecosystem, he knows as much, but he can feel the talons digging into his flesh, three points of pain on his left side, right where the bullets found their way.

The first one he’d seen, a great big thing, half majestic and half ungainly, was on a field trip his pop had not been able to pull him out of. The wildlife center had a wing – more like a spare room, but they’d been trying to get money out of the state to keep their operation flowing and “wing” had sounded like they deserved the aid more – for the sort of animals that were not supposed to be as far up north as the likes of Ennis.

They’d only managed to get at the vulture because it had, in its despair to feed and keep itself warm from the otherworldly cold of north Alaska, attempted to steal away some of their critters out of their goddamn dens.

The vulture had stared into his eyes then, and Crash had once told this story to Ginger, just filed off the specifics and replaced it with another man’s details, and added that the bird must have known what he’d become. Crash had felt like a big carrion bird, but that was before he’d met Louisiana CID Homicide detective Rustin Cohle. Nah, that fucker, the one whose skin he now wears, whose suits he puts on every morning, whose apartment he lives in, that fucker’s the vulture.

So they go back to work, he goes back to making his living off of dead bodies, and they don’t talk about what happened off Highway 10. They settle down into the routine of biting words and eye rolls, into the monotony of the cases that come across their desks. They fail to capture Rust’s attention for too long.

He knows that what happened with Dora Lange shouldn’t be replicated. He knows the obsession, the nights spent drinking coffee like water, staying awake through the sheer force of his will, staying on his feet going through files in the archives, he knows those are not healthy. He also knows that was the most alive he’d felt in a really, really long time.

Even before he opened that big red box, even before he got into that absolutely grandiose cocaine in the evidence locker, the thrill of the chase had lit him up from the inside and it had been what he’d been aching for since he’d joined Homicide. And he’s aching for it now, needs it like you need to scratch an itch, and that stolen stop in the heat of summer, damp and tense and electric in every way had scratched it and for a short, blessed moment, he’d been breathing free.

He’s always been obsessive, always stared at every tree for a bit too long, always spent nights laying in the middle of the woods staring at the stars and trying to remember what he’d learned from the physics and astronomy intro books he’d absolutely not accidentally forgotten to give back to the school library before spring break. He looked at the space between the stars and wondered if a black hole would ever come to swallow him whole. He’d stared at the constellations and felt ancient and so very new at the same time, a sight held by so many eyes and understood fully by none at all.

He remembers losing the night every year for two months, and how it felt like losing shelter, losing safety. How losing the day felt like he’d dug himself too deep into the earth to run from the world and he’d gotten stuck in a maze of caverns, every stalagmite the shadow of a person he knew, uncanny and unhinged. He remembers men like Riley Marshall whose words became more and more slurred with every minute of sunlight lost to the night, until he spent those two months barely understandable, only to spring back up with the sun, as if alcoholism was seasonal.

Louisiana is incredibly steady in comparison, comfortably warm even in the dead of winter, with that golden sun bearing down onto the bayou and the insects buzzing around your ears, steadfast companions.

So Rust finds other ways to feed the prowling beast in his mind. He reads and throws himself into work and spends his weekends sitting in his convent cell of a house with his head a smear of robitussin or a haze of quaaludes that still smell like the cheap perfume of the women he bought them from. There’s nothing like being high off your fucking rocker and hallucinating dead people staring at you with empty eye sockets and blood bubbling out of their mouths, staining the carpet from where they stand awkwardly in the corner, nothing like feeling the weight of a dead child in your arms and the stench of cocaine sweats on your skin, while you’re neck deep in Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

Death is a given of life, but it’s been feeling like death is a moth to whatever bayou bonfire Rust seems to be made of. He’s always known the smell of it, the color of it, the weight of it pulling at his feet like gravity, keeping him on the ground, keeping him in the world. He cannot remember knowing anyone who didn’t have a personal, intimate relationship with death. Claire had been an anomaly for four years, until she hadn’t.

There are a few places where Crash and Rust intersected, places that made it easier to blend himself and disappear into another man’s skin. They recommend it when you go undercover, to find a cover that has a few things in common, so that lying will be easier. Death had been the main one. Rust had shot a deer down by the time he’d gone into middle school and Crash had grown up listening to the rattling of rifles in the dark in a damp corner of a Texas ghetto.

Both of them had taken naturally to holding guns, both taken to killing like a duck to water, and the murkier the pond, the better. Dead moms and absentee dads and authority issues and the substantial skill of being able to recognize stronger than you, of being able to follow the rules of the strongest. More than all of that, all the seams shared between those two costumes, what had allowed him to disappear inside of the chitinous armor of that particular monster had been death. Without death, he wouldn’t have been quite as willing to shoot himself full of unspoken substances and spend four years in a haze of chemicals. It’s what made it so easy to throw away a sanity that hadn’t been precious to him in months.

He’s given up on recovering that. He’s given up on getting clean too. That ship sailed a really long time ago. He can do sober, though, most of the time, because the downers help and the work busies his mind enough that he’s not completely trying to drown himself in an ocean of liquor.

He locked the Jameson back into the red box with Crash’s jacket and his boots, and the personal dose of coke he’d grabbed out of that bag for himself, with the rifles and the fake IDs and the markers of Crash. He doubts he can ever go back now, cause Ginger was with him and now he’s locked up, but… it’s in there. It’s in a closet in his house, a skeleton of electricity and leather and whiskey. It stinks up that corner so he never goes there. He locked the door with a padlock so it would be hard to get into. His neighborhood is quiet, no record of home invasion, but there are closer demons than the nameless thieves in the night.

When he’s laying on his mattress with Suzie by his side, quiet now that they’ve fucked a second time, and he’s staring at the ceiling and the light fixture is bloodshot and blinking at him – The eye was in the tomb and was watching Cain. – he can feel Crash in the closet, banging at the door to get out, he can smell the stench of him, of gunpowder and bad trips and murder.

Marty wore that jacket with the full patch on the back and he must have known what it meant, he’d been in the force for too long not to know, even if bike clubs like the Iron Crusaders didn’t often make it up to him. Their murders were clear and motivated, rarely investigated the way they should, used as fodder to thicken the files that would take down men like Miles.

He accepted it, though. He didn’t speak on it, didn’t judge it. Marty Hart, the great cowboy of Louisiana Homicide, let that wretched creature run free and didn’t come down on it afterwards. He let Rust put the box back in the closet and he still touched him like he wasn’t afraid of him, still fucked him like he wasn’t in danger. He liked being handled like he wasn’t a bomb waiting to go off. Or perhaps he liked that Marty didn’t care in that moment, that he might go off and kill the both of them at once, splattering red over the beige tiles in grotesque perversions of the shapes of their bodies. His mind supplied the image readily enough.

Marty lets go of him, lets that hand fall from the back of his neck as they reach their desks. Rust’s is clean and tidy, not a single sheet of paper out of place, not a hint of an open case, because there isn’t any. They’ve just finished one, the trail has ended with cuffs dug into a man’s skin and the wide, terrified eyes of cattle before execution. A commonplace crime, a commonplace horror, once again nothing sophisticated. Rust didn’t believe that homicide would be particularly rife with the sort of crimes you read in sensationally-titled books, but he’d thought there would be… more. He can get more intellectually stimulating shit from those dish rags they call gossip magazines, brightly colored like birds trying to attract mates, when he goes to buy his cigarettes at the shop next door to the station.

Marty threw him a comment about getting him one of those 3000-piece puzzles, threw it like a ball at football practice, and Rust let it fall down to the side and watched Marty’s eyes roll and his face show that look of ‘what else should I expect’ that he’s come to favor around Rust.

There’s a piece of wood and a knot of twine left over from those devil traps resting in the upper right corner of his desk, next to a neat stack of some procedure manuals he’s supposed to pass onto the next newbie to come in. There’s been one already, three weeks ago, but when Rust had made it in that morning, the kid’d been halfway down his first coffee, surrounded on all sides by Geraci’s little band of bootlickers and Rust hadn't even bothered with introductions.

He can see him now, on his way out of the door with the brazen pep in his fucking step that comes with being fresh out the academy. He used to be that way too, before Paul and Ruddy had kicked some sense into him.

Rust sits down and reaches for the pack of camels, and Marty reaches for his forgotten cup of coffee. It’s most likely cold by now but Marty has the uncanny ability to swallow down coffee no matter how long it has been sitting or how burnt it has become and Rust might just respect that quality in him more than any other. That’s a feat of herculanean strength if he’s ever seen one.

They’ve got a rare empty workload, after months of back to back, open-simultaneously murders of jealous rage and covetous greed and insatiable lust, their own backwater Dante’s Inferno.

The afternoon’s almost over. If they were any other men, they would walk out now, enjoy the early night with a beer and a conversation, but Rust doesn’t do beer and company, or early calls, and he’s managed to silently shame Marty into giving some of those habits up as well. They’re now staring at each other wondering who will make the first move and ask for additional work.

There’s politics to this sort of act. You can’t just shame your fellow officers by asking if they got anything they should be working on, no, you gotta beg for it, gotta add mumbles about not wanting to get home to the wife. That line only Marty can carry. He’s been back in Maggie’s good graces for two months now.

Rust can beg. He can do it pretty too, can go with his hand outstretched like they’re giving him charity, like he’d owe them for it. Those are favors they’ll cash in when they need confessions and they see him idling in the station. They realized some time ago he’s good at those. He just enjoys the puzzles, and he enjoys watching human beings stripped down to their bare essential needs. He imagines he’d be entirely the same, pinned there and dissected, a rare butterfly in an entomologist's lab.

Suffice to say, he’d rather Marty do it. At least he doesn’t have to flay himself open for it.

So they stare at each other and have this silent conversation, until they’ve reached an impasse and Rust just decides to wait it out. His eyes fall on the wood and the twine. They feel grotesque in this setting so devoid of anything natural, like broken off fingers of some greater entity, stolen in the night.

They were called devil traps and Rust has been tangled up in them since he first saw them in that field on January 3rd. Did the one who made them know what it would mean to him? A child’s belief that evil could be warded off, left sarcastically to guard the corpse of a woman, of someone’s own child grown up to become disillusioned by the reality of life?

Sophia wasn’t blonde, she had dark hair like her mother, a crow’s nest on the days they rushed out of the door late to drop her off at daycare. Still she’d haunted him that day, haunted the scenes of those crimes, all until Ledoux’s… bunker. He’d been too strung out for too long to remember her, until they’d had to move those bodies. It had been her hands pushing Marty out of the way to get the little girl. It had been her weight in Rust’s arms on the way out.

Marty stands up with a long-suffering, exaggerated sigh, a smoke signal to all that he’s lost whatever silent battle he was fighting against his peculiar partner. That’s another way Marty can ask for work without shaming the others, by pretending Rust is pushing him to do unreasonable things. All Rust wants is for them to do their job, so he doesn’t have to go home early.

Rust stares at the back of Marty, the strong lines of shoulders and back, the way he stands with his feet apart, planted there like great oak trees to give himself balance. His hair is a little messy in the back, where he’s run his hand through it a number of times while they were talking to Quesada. He has one of his hands buried in one of his pockets, the other reaching forward, probably in the middle of asking for a file and it’s one hell of a picture, this all-American aged quarterback, begging for something under his breath.

He’s never liked seeing that kicked-puppy look on Marty, the one he had when looking at Lisa at the Longhorn, when he wasn’t seething with rage. It feels obscene on a man like Marty, trying to make himself look innocent and victimized, trying to look small so someone will pity him. Rust finds it deeply unattractive, more so than the jealousy and the anger and the possessiveness, and all those biting, growling, snarling emotions that make a man into a beast, that make a man something to be scared of.

Rust reaches up to grasp over the bitemark. He hides it with a roll of his right shoulder, like he’s working out a kink.

They end up getting saddled with half the station’s paperwork, or something that feels like it at least, and Rust would care more that Marty is glaring daggers at him if he wasn’t cursing himself the whole time. He should have just accepted defeat and let Marty go home, while he went and hid in the archives somewhere in a cobwebbed corner until it felt safe to come out. It never felt safe to come out, but someone did eventually kick him out if he couldn’t justify his presence.

“Maggie’s gonna kill me.”

“Just tell her you had to work late,” Rust mutters through his cigarette. Marty’s got one too, stolen from his pack as usual. It’s half burnt and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with it sometimes, it just hangs from his fingers uselessly. He could use a pen just as well and not waste the smokes.

“That ain’t gonna work. Used it too many times for her to believe me now.”

“Man who cried work,” Rust shrugs. He doesn’t pity him.

He tunes back into the file in his hands, reading through the confession scrawled with a pencil that needs sharpening like a drunk needs whiskey, handwriting like chicken scratches on a yellow block of paper.

“That does make me think…” Marty starts and trails off.

The confession, where he can read it, is from a man killing his wife, nothing new under the fucking sun and typing it up into a proper format is going to be hell. He guesses that’s what he deserves for asking for extra work.

Marty still hasn’t spoken again so Rust sighs and looks up from the slice of human stupidity and cupidity smeared in goose poop colors in front of him.

The man looks at him in a way that makes Rust believe he’s had whatever he’s going to say on his mind for much longer than that ‘that makes me think’ lets on. He’s staring him down in a way, with those blue eyes like at the first sky of spring.

Rust raises an eyebrow. They’re almost alone in the department now, everyone’s gone and left the kind of on time that feels early now that they’ve unloaded their paperwork on them. Whatever Marty wants to talk to him about now, pretending to be casual about it, as casual as a bullet to the gut can be, it’s something he doesn’t mind talking about here. But he does mind talking about it in the presence of the other detectives.

“Maggie’s been asking me if you had a good time with Suzie.”

Rust frowns. He’s been expecting Marty to talk about something all day. It’s been hanging around, curdling the air, moving around them and tangled in their legs. But he was not expecting Suzie.

“I…. Sure. She was a nice girl.”

He doesn’t do this sort of conversation. Especially with Marty, who doesn’t usually mind boasting about his conquests around the others. Rust would think it’s because of what happened off Highway 10, if he had been more talkative before.

“Hmm mmm.” Marty hums under his breath. “I told her we don’t talk like that, you and I. We don’t have that sort of a rapport.”

“Right.” Maggie would rather not know what kind of rapport Marty and him entertain.

Rust turns away, towards the typewriter, and he starts to type out that shitstain of a confession. It would make him angry if he wasn’t so used to it now. Men hurt women everyday, those are not news stories.

“So… Suzie?”

Rust looks back and Marty’s not moved, with that cigarette in his finger burning off almost unattended. That makes him roll his eyes more than the question, more than anything else. He should buy his own fucking smokes if he’s gonna waste them.

“Friend of Maggie’s. She called me up to fix a pipe problem ten days ago.” He watches Marty tense across their desks. “Her pipes were fine, of course. 'Twas some great elaborate scheme to get me in my civvies at your place while her friend was there.”

Marty’s still eyeing him suspiciously, like he can’t quite believe he wasn’t trying to make a move on his wife. It’s fucking ridiculous, this peacocking of his, this fucking… pissing on the fence to mark it as his. Rust has no intentions whatsoever towards Maggie Hart.

“So I show up. And Maggie’s busy but she says I should come in, and that the toolbox or whatever is in the kitchen. So I walk into the kitchen and sitting there with a glass of sweet tea half full, is this… Suzie.”

There’s nothing he dislikes more than this stupid sort of show and tell men do. But Marty’s got a look to him and he can’t tell exactly where it is going. He has no desire to get into a fight tonight.

“Blonde,” he provides. “Nice girl.” He stops for a moment. “Good ass.”

He can see a look of recognition in Marty’s eyes at that. Fucker. Of course that’s what makes it click.

“Susan Cornell,” Marty explains. “From church.”

Rust chuckles and shakes his head. He thinks of the crucifix nailed into the wall above his bed, above where Suzie and him fucked, twice. When he was looking at blinking eyes in ceiling fixtures, she must have been looking at her lord and savior.

“Well. We didn’t do that much talking, all things considered.”

“So. I guess you like yourself a blonde.”

It’s thrown at him for him to catch, and he can tell Marty’s mad underneath it all. He can’t really figure out why. Suzie was nice and they spent an enjoyable night and he drove her home in the morning because Claire force-fed him manners before their daughter was born. He can’t see where it could have gone wrong.

So he just shrugs and finishes his cigarette. “I actually don’t. Most of the time.”

Marty finally releases that cigarette from the throes of agony. He brings it to his lips and sucks in whatever pitiful amount remains, one deep drag that hollows his cheeks and makes him look angrier than before. Rust leans back against his chair and crosses his arms. Something’s coming, gathering over Marty like a cloud, wreathing his head in lightning and curses. It sparkles minty hot in between them and burns into Rust’s gums.

“Well,” Marty finally starts after a moment. “Color me surprised. Thought you didn’t like women all that much.”

This one Rust expected. After Highway 10, after that half-earnest conversation where they’d danced around the topic like angels on the head of a pin, he’d gathered Marty thought the insults and slurs were at least backed by lived experience. That was a truly black and white view of human sexuality that Rust had always encountered particularly in those smoke-filled, misery-reeking liminal spaces they called police departments and community churches.

He licks his lips. There’s a meal to be made of the discomfort Marty Hart will soon be squirming with.

“You do realize I was married,” Rust starts, slow and lazy like he’s not even trying to explain himself. “For three years. With a daughter.” The simplicity of that equation is plain to see. Even Bobby’s math skills could withstand that examination.

“Right. You wouldn’t be the first person to get married despite being unsuited to it.”

This one blooms unexpectedly in Rust’s skull bringing back with it the taste of overfilled forgotten garbage bins and Claire’s voice, too calm and too emotionless telling him she was leaving. The aftertaste is corrosive, burns like acid into the soft, empty crevice underneath his tongue and Ginger’s voice is in his ear, his hand is in his hair, muttering that he’s not normal, he’s not made for normal life, for kids and wives and 9 to 5s, and Crash in him agrees wholeheartedly and shifts ever so closer, hunting for clammy skin under leather.

“I may not be very suited for it these days,” he admits. There’s no use in arguing with the truth of that. “But it isn’t for lack of liking women, Marty. Not that that’s any of your business.”

A phone rings, shrill and demanding attention and one of the secretaries rushes to get to it from the break room, a new one Rust hasn’t managed to catch the name of, something like Annamarie or Annie or Jackie, with ‘a’s and ‘ie’s like twinkling lights over a ferris wheel.

Marty waits until she’s gone to reply. He feels orange again, tense and rough like barbed wire, waiting for him to explode is like walking through the pretend minefields his father set up around the cabin in late spring.

“Well, I’d reckon it is.”

Rust laughs at that, one sharp bark of laughter like a creaking door. From the look on Marty’s face, disbelief and anger at once, he wasn’t expecting that.

“Why? Wanna be my boyfriend?”

The face Marty makes at that word tells him all he needs to know. There’s disgust there, shame and fear so bright, ice cold as the sea up there, sharp as the wind in the dead of winter. Marty makes him think too often of Alaska.

“Thought so.”

He doesn’t love the concept either: boyfriend feels like too sweet chocolate cakes and baby pink shirts and old ladies looking at them with a mix of fascination and pity, like leopard patterns and strawberry lube and calling each other pet names that made people want to commit hate crimes.

That, the reminder of what people could think of him if they knew, how Geraci would have his balls cut and framed for all to see, that seems to quiet Marty down enough they can finish work.

By the time Rust makes it home that night, his saliva tastes like the yellow confession paper and he walks past Crash’s closet begging himself to give in and open the box and find the pocket sized Jameson intact in there. He doesn’t.

There’s no bravery, no glory to the act of refusing himself alcohol. He just does, because he knows a single sip becomes a bottle in the blink of an eye, a taste becomes a torrent he cannot fight against. If he gives in, he might as well be on the Titanic in 1912, might as well sink and drown in ice cold memories of death blurred away by cheap whiskey.

His house is damp with fall heat, with Louisiana mosquitoes and sweat and he finds himself falling into the beat up sofa chair he found himself a few days prior, tipped over on the side of the road by an empty house like a forgotten toy. It’s not too dirty, not clean either, but he couldn’t find bed bugs, just the beat-down of life. So he loaded it in the back of his pick up and brought it home.

Time passes like coffee in a slow drip. He kicks off his shoes and socks and takes off his shirt and tie, throws what’s in need of a wash in the lonesome basket in the laundry room and walks back, barefoot on the carpet into the main room. He was halfway through Camus’s The Stranger when he fell asleep last night and it sits face down, splayed open like a dead bird by the right side of the bed. He doesn’t mind the French when he can read them instead of having to hear them talk.

He picks the book up carefully and throws a glance at the page he’d been on. Four bullets shot into a dead body. Barely enough emotion to fill one of the espresso cups of those French cafés where you drank at the bar in the morning, throwing back a shot of coffee and a cigarette in the same smooth motion. The portrait of a man so detached from the world that nothing, neither the death of his mother nor a murder committed by his own hand, seemed to shake him too hard. Rust hadn’t fallen asleep because of the book. It had been the pills.

There is nothing to do here, no case to work, no mystery to uncover, nothing to sink his teeth into. He can’t go out fishing for it either, not if he doesn’t want to end up a fish hooked at the end of a line, mouth opening on nothing, drinking down alcohol instead of water but still trying to fucking breathe. There’s one thing left that’s not drinking. He’s gonna have to go on a run.

If the inside of his house is a damp armpit in the fall heat, the back of it, the little garden patch with the shed that leads back onto a thin strip of water running down the back of the lot like a piss streak on the end of a sidewalk in the morning, is a Southerner’s deranged rendition of those Alaskan saunas.

Rust starts jogging down there and feels immediately ridiculous, a puppet whose strings have been cut, left to flail around purposelessly. He knows that this is useful, that this keeps him fast and strong and allows him to handle himself better in the field, that it’s only because he kept up the fucking training that he made it out of that powderkeg with Ginger alive. The price of it is this, the sweat and the repeated motions that feel more awkward than anything else, that make him ache for a cigarette, that make him curse the day his father and mother fucked.

The worst part is of course that he’s doing it to himself.

It takes about fifteen minutes for his brain to start shutting up for the most part, no longer rattling on about punishments and self-flagellation but rather showing him perfect images of the terrible things that haunt his dreams, whenever he has them. Broken bodies on concrete and the crown of antlers he’s never, ever going to forget. Those devil traps that didn’t catch anything but Rust in their triangular cages.

Those he thinks about most. He has half a mind to make one himself and tie it up somewhere, not too far from the crucifix, so that he has something else to meditate about. God and the Devil, allowing your crucifixion and allowing children to believe you can be stopped, two sides of the same fucked up coin the Christian church has tossed over and over, landing in every corner of the known world like a never-ending sickness.

He can’t say that to Marty. He can’t say that to anyone. He does not actually want to die, though it would be one hell of a way to kill himself. If he can’t do it himself, might as well delegate.

It takes him an additional forty-five minutes to realize the sun has set and he should go back. He’s coughing and sweaty and hungry like a wolf in winter when he comes back to the nunnery cell he calls home, but there’s a heaviness to his limbs that promises a semblance of rest for the night. It’s not going to come for free, no, there will be a price, some vision of some kind – nightmare-ish, dead kids or dead women or dead somethings, or worse, a good one, of happiness and smiles and the sand of the beach they used to go to by Corpus Christi those first two summers. It’ll come though. Perhaps even unmedicated.

He opens the back door and walks in, guard all the way down, so of course he gets caught with his pants down like a fucking rookie. He didn’t lock the door when he left. He never does when he goes running, there is nothing worse in the world than the noise of jingling keys in his pocket, it’s loud and metallic and too round on the edges, and it’s not in the right rhythm, always a bit after his feet hit the ground.

So when Rust comes home and sees Marty there, sitting in his chair with his tie askew and his eyes gleaming with something viscous, something ugly, he’s aware it is entirely his fault. If he was less of a priss about fucking keys, a wild animal wouldn’t have found its way in.

“So what? You take her back to this dump? Fuck her on that stupid mattress you got like a fucking college student?”

Whiskey slurs his words and Rust rolls his eyes so hard he thinks he might actually strain something. It’s about Suzie, it’s about Rust fucking a woman and it’s about Marty being a big tough guy and getting jealous like a teenage girl with a crush on an upperclassman that maybe said hi to her twice. He’s met enough teenage girls to know they get as murderous as gangbangers on a good day.

“I thought we had thoroughly established I don’t kiss and tell, Marty.”

It’s half of a threat underneath his heavy breathing and the sweat rolling down his back like the first drops of a rainstorm, heavy and slow and predicting something else.

“It ain’t the same and you know it.”

It’s not. He’s right. Suzie’s a woman and Marty’s a man and in this world, in this job, in Louisiana, it’s very different. No matter the truth of it, that deep down it’s all skin and bones and blood and Suzie’s teeth wouldn’t have hurt him differently than Marty’s did, and his blood wouldn’t have tasted different in either of their mouths. One day, he’ll be done pretending otherwise. Life is easier to live for now if it’s not made into hell by the men that think they know better than him what right is.

The truth is, he hates them as much as they hate him.

“What do you want, Marty?”

He’s hoping that this can be done before the heaviness in his limbs disappears, before the exhaustion falls under the neverending assault of his fucked up brain’s neon lights of thoughts.

Marty growls under his breath as he stands up, an ugly sort of sound, wet with the alcohol and whatever anger he came in carrying and that sustained him sitting there in this chair for god knows how long. It’s not going to be done soon. It’s never going to fucking end.

“You planning on seeing her again?”

He’s stuck on Suzie, a skipping record on a turntable, one spiraling thought, that ugly green-eyed monster with teeth shaped like the scar on Rust’s shoulder. He should have known better than to think Marty would be done after that little interrogation at the station. He never is. He’s a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth with jealousy.

“What I’m planning to do or not, is none of your business.” He’ll repeat it over and over again, but he’s not going to be happy about it.

Rust reaches for the camels on the kitchen counter, slides one out of the packet one-handed and brings it to his lips. Marty is glaring with that rage-filled intensity that makes his jaw lock into a hard, rectangular shape. A shiver runs down Rust’s spine, sharp and sudden like a lick of a lover’s tongue.

“You gonna make her fuck you at one point? Tell her you like it like a queer?”

Rust lights his cigarette and he swears he sees the flash of the flame reflected in the glassiness of Marty’s eyes. Jesus fuck, he’s drunk.

“Are you gonna fucking stop with the childish insults and tell me what you mean or will I have to beat it out of you? I can treat you like a suspect, Marty, but you ain’t gonna like it.”

He didn’t mean to get angry but he can feel it rising, the annoyance coursing through his veins like wildfire. He’s good at keeping his cool, at keeping his control, years of living with the strangest present father in the coldest part of the world, years of being someone else’s bitch to survive to the next day, of swallowing down his own vomit when seeing a man’s face without skin, choking to death and thinking this should be him, this will be him. He’s so fucking good at keeping his emotions buried deep inside that half the time he forgets they’re there. Marty’s somehow, within days of meeting him, managed to find the trigger to release them and he won’t fucking stop playing with it.

Marty snarls now, raising his arms like he’s gearing for a fight because for all that fucking bravado and that attitude and the growling and snarling and acting like a big predator, he won’t talk about his fucking feelings.

“That’s what I fucking thought,” Rust huffs and pulls on his cigarette, hard and long. He feels the smoke fill the empty cavity inside of his body, fill the space there and the space not there, the void where his heart beats hard and strong. It’s gray and red like blood, harsh as chemicals and natural as a forest fire. Marty’s staring at his mouth like he can’t believe it and Rust just sucks longer, until he runs out of oxygen and has to fucking let go.

The smoke released rises like it’s signaling his position to someone, like it’s trying to warn others he’s in here. There’s no one to call. All there is is Marty there, that Rust can see through the screen of smoke he’s just created, big and strong and angry and almost ridiculous with it. He doesn’t know what to fucking do with himself.

“I ain’t planning to see her again. I’m not tryna find a girlfriend, Marty. I just humor your wife ‘cause she doesn’t treat me like a lunatic half the time.”

“Don’t fucking bring her up,” Marty points at him with his big hands, shaking almost from the anger and the tension and Rust shifts. There’s something different here than the game they’ve been playing.

“We fucked, twice, on this mattress, and then she slept over and I drove her home. I’m a good little choir boy, Marty, I got manners.” Tame.

He’s giving into Marty’s questioning because he doesn’t know what it is about anymore. Earlier he thought this was the game. But Marty’s actually mad, actually red with it, with the anger and the jealousy and the shaking need to grab at him and take him and get revenge for him… straying? Oh absolutely the fuck not.

“If anything, if we’re going purely by numbers, she’s got more of a claim on me than you do, and you don’t see her parading around here acting like a kid whose favorite toy got stolen, now, do you?”

There’s a flash of something on Marty’s face, something that Rust can’t recognize. Marty looks, briefly, like he’s been punched in the guts, but without the rage that comes with it, just the soft-tissue hurt of bones and organs getting unnaturally close. It’s gone within a blink.

Sweat is drying on him now, a sticky and humid shell around his skin that makes the slowly gathering night outside feel almost cool. It’s a trick, he knows it. You can never trust sweat, it means too many things at once, it’s a pretty lie the body tells so you don’t believe you’re dying. He licks his lips and his tongue tastes salt. Tears or sweat, it all tastes the same. Another lie.

“You son of a bitch,” Marty spits out. “You fucking emotionless robot fuck,” he hisses at him, pointing a finger like an Old Testament God. “Fuck a woman, doesn’t give a fuck. Fuck a man, doesn’t give a fuck. Fuck me, no wonder your wife left you if you’re that big of a fucking…. Black hole of decency.”

Rust puts down his cigarette, shoves it down into the ashtray in one smooth, hard motion. It’s getting out of hand. Marty’s ranting, and the things he’s saying… Claire’s staring at him in the corner with blood on her hands calling him a psychopath. How can you not care? Did you even love her?

“They should lock you up, you know? Holes in the brain, shouldn’t get to go around with a gun. Shouldn’t get to go around with shit. Can’t act like a normal person for a fucking second, man.”

He means it too, at this moment, Rust can tell. He means it, and he’s fucking right on every fucking count.

“Marty, you should go,” he says with every bit of restraint he can pull out of his own scarred bone bag he calls a body. He might puke. He might bash his head in. There’s red and metal behind his tongue, blooming with every beat of his heart. “Before you say something you might regret.”

“Right, cause none of this fucking touches you. Psychopathic fa–”

Rust’s on him before he can finish the sentence, grabbing his tie and pulling hard. Psycho.

Marty chokes out some aborted noise of surprise and pain and tries to fight back but he’s stupidly drunk and Rust’s sober and hot and filled with so much fucking blood right now. It’s inside of him, bubbling and boiling, getting darker by the second. Next time Marty bites him, it’ll come out black and thick as tar. Marty can’t bite shit right now.

He’s got his face slammed against the counter and his arm twisted behind his back and Rust’s full weight, with the years of training and knowing and skill, bearing down on him, hurting him.

“Let GO of me, Rust!” Marty sputters, but it sounds scared, squeaking in Rust’s mind like a rat caught in a trap and it’s one of the most jubilatory feelings he's felt in a while. He’s not a violent man by nature. He just has an appreciation for violence.

Claire’s voice rings in his head. Psycho. Basket case. Why can’t you cry? Why can’t you be as sad as me? She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get the empty hole where his heart used to be, and how that’s taking in all the water. He has a waterfall inside, nothing can escape.

“Listen to me very carefully now, Marty,” Rust hisses down into his ear, slow and threatening and with every part of him bubbling up with unshakeable anger. How fucking dare he call him that? Walking into his fucking house drunk and out of his mind because Rust dared to fuck someone else? “You’re gonna need to stop this shit.”

Marty bucks against him like a bronco, tries to shove him off but this time Rust isn’t moving. His whole weight is bearing down on him, his arm twisting Marty’s behind him so he can hear the menacing creak of the shoulder like music to his ears, like nails on a chalkboard equally. He can see Marty’s red face pressed into the white of the counter, can feel his body under his, a mass of muscle and fat and nerves and animalistic fear. He has one leg between Marty’s. A plume of smoke still rises from the ashtray.

“Don’t fucking believe for a single second that this?” He grinds his hips into Marty’s ass, slow and dirty and hard and the noise that escapes his partner is a shameful mix of emotions that bloom maroon into his mind and taste like sour candies. “Means you get a say in what the fuck I do with my life. I will let you bitch about my behavior at work but anything regarding the personal sphere is none of your fucking business.”

He wishes he could bite him now, sink his teeth into his neck and tear at the flesh with his own mouth but it would leave a mark. They can’t afford marks that cannot be covered by fabric.

“I know this is your usual little…. Pathetic trumped up drama you do with the girls you fuck,” he continues and he does let his teeth graze the lobe of Marty’s right ear where he’s speaking, a threat and a promise. “I’m not one of your girls, Marty. You don’t own me. What happened off of Highway 10? I let happen cause I wanted a good time, and don’t you ever fucking forget that I let you fuck me.”

It’s the ‘let’ that makes Marty freeze in his tracks. Rust can almost hear his mind going, the gears shifting as he tries to make sense of what has just been said. Was he still deluded in thinking he made Rust do something he wasn’t entirely interested in? Had he still been living in the fantasy that the little exercise in domination was one Rust wasn’t entirely consenting to, that his folding had been coerced?

Rust immediately lets go of him, the ugliness of that feeling burning under his hands. The ugliness and the ridiculousness. He takes a step back and watches Marty squirm his way back to being upright, raise his arms to cover his face, something wild and unbalanced in his eyes.

He can’t help but drag his hands down against his undershirt, feel the sweat getting caught there and the feeling of Marty’s skin, hot and damp and desperate, hopefully letting it smear on the fabric.

Marty stares at him, in utter disbelief. Even in the depths of Crash, Rust didn’t touch him like that. Oh, he wanted to, he wanted to to the point of getting hard at the very thought, but he didn’t. He had better things to do, Ginger to deal with, the memories and the cocaine to eat through.

Laughter bubbles out of Rust’s chest, tar-like, weighed down by cigarettes and the absolute ridicule of this, of them, watching each other like they’re about to pounce, two large predators stuck in one small room, except Rust’s not playing submission anymore and neither of them really knows what to do with that.

So he laughs, laughs without smiling, with the jerks of it shaking his body, shaking his shoulders and the reminder of what Marty did that time, the healed scar that will never fucking go away. His laughter echoes in this white, empty room, bounces against the wall and comes back like a punch into their ears and he can’t stop himself, even as he sees Marty brace himself to be enraged again.

“What’s funny?” Marty spits out but a lot of the bite is gone. He can’t recognize where they stand either. He just stands there, rumpled and a bit less drunk now that adrenaline has burnt through his veins with every rabbit-scared beat of his big beefy Southern heart. He’s getting hard in his pants too and there’s acid red victory in the back of Rust’s molars and in the depths of his guts.

“You think…” Rust chuckles and shakes his head like it’s the best job he’s heard all year. It might be. “I was gonna fold for you?” The idea is sending zaps of hysterical joy through his confused brain and he can swear the smoke of the ashtray is shaped like a great big bird in flight. A vulture maybe, or Jesus Christ, or Superman, or Dora Lange. A Rorschach test, homemade and addict-approved.

“You… you came here. And you thought… What?” He continues, and he can feel his mouth pulling into a smile, or what would have been a smile on anyone but him. On him, it’s a clown’s forced rictus, it’s the pull of lip over fang, it’s ugly and vicious and cold as the tools a dentist shoves into your mouth and to replace everything where it’s supposed to be. It tastes like metal and bleach. “I was gonna be a good bitch and not say shit when you treat me like you got ownership papers?”

Marty’s eyes are saucer-wide. He’s never seen him smile, he realizes. He’s never seen him do more than a vague smirk and an eyebrow raise and that’s for the better because smiling feels wrong. His cheeks hurt with the ache of unused muscle. There is no happiness there.

“Bitch,” he calls out, and Marty gets angry again, because that’s not a word you use on a man like him, no. “I didn’t fold for the fucking bike guys I was sucking off with a gun to the head for years, you think Imma fold for your over-inflated rat ego?”

He hasn’t said it to anyone before: not the shrinks, not the doctors, not his handlers. It’s not in any file, redacted or not, it’s not in the notes the shrinks took in Northshore, or in rehab, it’s nowhere but in his mind. And in Marty’s now.

Regret hits him like a tsunami and he buckles underneath the weight of it, he can see it in Marty’s eyes, the widening, the realization of what it all means, the painful context he’s just imposed onto their relationship and onto what happened off of Highway 10. He wants to recall it immediately, to take it back, but he can’t.

A fly has been trapped since he came in, flying around the room in a frenzy to get out. He wonders, briefly and senselessly, if it knows the swamp of tension it just flew into and is now regretting ever heading in behind him.

There’s too much Crash in him. The vocabulary and the admission, that’s Crash’s addled brain and his need to prove his toughness, it’s the anger at being thought of as weak. Rust’s not much better than him in that department but Crash is a mess of vulnerability sometimes: he was designed that way. That soft underbelly gets a bike guy like Ginger all hot and bothered, they can smell the bitch they can make out of him and that means an in. And once you have an in, you toughen up, learn to hide the soft behind armor, and show you can play as tough as everyone else, but the guy that got you in, like Ginger for Crash, knows the soft is there. It’s power and hierarchies and jungle law.

Marty has no way of knowing all this shit. All he sees is Rust laughing like a maniac and throwing him a truth shaped like one of the bones that he must have imagined this whole time and buried deep with the rest of the queer shit he feels and sees in his dreams. A predator realizing his prey is rabid.

“Jesus Christ, Rust.”

Rust flinches. It’s a whole body thing, a pulse of electricity shot through him. The crucifix on the wall stares at them with unseeing undead eyes. It’s the same sort of ‘jesus christ’ that Marty says in front of a gored up body, in front of a godless crime, where he feels compelled to bring in his higher power of choice as back up. That’s how he’s reacting to Rust telling him he gave head at gunpoint.

It’s an entirely appropriate reaction. Rust wants to wash his mouth of the taste of his pity; burned building and overripe cranberries.

He’s on Marty like wildfire, sudden and unforeseen and he can taste whiskey now, a cheap one too, and beer as well, and cigarettes, terrible ones, not Camels. Marty smokes Camels because he steals them from Rust. The new smell on his clothes and taste in his mouth is disgusting. It’s still better than cranberries.

Marty takes forever to kiss back, as if he doesn’t know what to do now that he’s not the one on the offensive, as if he wasn’t expecting this at all. He probably wasn’t. Two minutes ago, his cheek was hard against the counter and he was trying to get away from the wave of violence coming his way. Three minutes ago, he was shouting slurs at him.

He grabs onto Marty’s head with both hands, a tight grip to keep him there but Marty’s not fighting him right now. He’s still reeling from the shock of it. Which shock? He’s not gonna ask, it’s not worth the taste. So he bites him. Hard, hard enough to bleed and there’s a beauty there, in the taste of iron and death that fills his mouth, a mirror to the beige-tiled memories.

“The fuck!” Marty tries to exclaim, to project the word like a weapon but he’s got Rust’s lips against his and the offense dies there, muffled.

There’s scratchy hair grown in uneven spots around Marty’s mouth, thin lips stained with the whiskey, the blood pearling over the torn skin, Rust half loses his mind over the textures of it all, the zings of electricity the whiskers send up into his brain with every brush. He’s not a great kisser, he’s been told, he uses too much teeth and is either too intense or too soft with it. He kisses like speaking a foreign tongue, mouth clumsy with positions it is not used to taking.

Marty doesn’t get to complain. Like Rust didn’t get to complain about sitting in strange positions for a day or two. You can’t complain about things that don't happen.

When he pulls back, Marty is staring at him with the blood on his lips and the liquor in his eyes and he seems utterly gobsmacked by it all. This is the sort of moment in time where Rust could step back and choose something else. His mind is clear after all, the pills have been out of his system for hours, he’s sober and as clean as he’ll let himself be, he’s just fresh from a run, he’s as close to the picture of fucking health that he can get. He can choose not to thread the needle deeper in.

They’re partners. They’re coworkers. They’re men who cannot afford to be found out. Marty’s drunk and hard and angry, Rust knows exactly what to do with it. All that misplaced, desperate masculinity has a home, and he can fix it, for just a moment, he can take it into himself and eat it up, and use it to fuel his own dumpster fire body. Whatever that ends up doing to Marty, sending him into the sort of tailspin a man like him doesn’t recover from, that’s fine. That will keep him from staring too hard at Rust’s mouth and imagining things.

Rust is an addict. He’s always been, in some way, with an addictive personality and chasms where reserves of feelings should have been built by his parents. He drank early, smoked earlier, got hooked on adrenaline bow hunting caribou, then stealing bikes, then stealing books. He’s an addict. And Marty’s bright like cocaine, green like absinthe, hard and needy and alive and kicking like a bull in his hands right now. He’s gotta feed the habit.

His hands drop from face to belt, start undoing it in frantic motions, but they’re steady. These are Rust’s hands, not Crash’s. This is Marty, this isn’t Ginger. It’s barely night, he’s home. He knows who he is, what today is, he knows who the president is. Clinton, September 15th ‘95, Rustin Spencer Cohle.

Marty’s fingers are on his arm, tracing the edges of the old black bird with some kind of junkie’s fascination. From where Rust is, he can taste the questions on the other man’s tongue. When did you get this? Why? What does it mean? The truth is ugly and Rust will have to do much more than fuck Marty to get him to forget those answers, so he doesn’t leave him time to ask.

He shoves his hand down the front of Marty’s pants and grabs his cock. Marty’s breath stutters and he makes a noise that only makes Rust tighten his grip. He watches pleasure and pain and everclear need bloom over Marty’s features, his head tilting back until he’s stuck against a wall and breathing out with the feelings of it. He can see it like a cloud exhaled from that open mouth. It’s incredibly vulnerable. Is this what the women get to see? Anyone but Maggie?

There’s nothing like watching a man get high from his touch, even as small as this. Soon, with more touching, with more skin touching and sweat dripping, he’ll see the heart of him, chest splayed open, ripe for the taking. He cannot wait.

“What are we doing?” Marty asks, breathless, needy, confused to his very core. Rust pulls out his hand for a second, just to spit on it, and pushes it back into the open fault of his slacks.

“I’m jerking you off,” Rust replies without missing a beat, and he sees Marty’s mouth open, sees the questions pressing there, the feelings he has about it, and decides to shut it down. “Stop talking.”

And though it bothers him, though Rust can see the anger rising into him like a dark cloud of storm over the prairie, he does shut the fuck up. There’s a second where all there is is the uncomfortable noise of almost dry skin rubbing together and a slightly labored breath. They’re so close now, there’s nowhere to look but Marty’s face, or the wall. And he’d stare at Marty for hours if he could, probably, if only it meant Marty wasn’t looking back at him more and more disturbed.

So the wall works. It’s white and from here he can see the texture of the paint. He can feel his eyes darting towards Marty, pulled by some sort of magnetic field to the wet saliva on his open lips, to the half glazed eyes. He watches, from the corner of his eye, the expanding and contracting of the barrel of his chest, ragged and almost forced in between the little groans of pleasure. This is a position Rust’s familiar with, a hand down someone’s pants and the wall as horizon, as anchor. His head isn’t swimming in substances, but he feels a little unsteady all the same, deep down. Like his core ain’t working right anymore, something’s got shaken loose and he’s teetering at the edge of passing out.

He leans closer, lets his weight rest against Marty’s shoulder, let his face tuck into the crook of his neck and mouths there, teeth grazing sweaty red skin, hand moving in lazy, dry motions. He can’t help but take it slow now.

If they were other men, Rust might be on his knees right now, with his mouth full of the hot, heavy cock that Marty’s thrusting into his hand. But that’s not a position he’s willing to take today. Not with Marty. Not when sober. There are limits to how much he’ll debase himself with a man who can’t look him in the eyes when he’s giving him a handjob but doesn’t mind breaking into his house to berate him for fucking a random woman.

For a moment there, it’s almost nice. It’s a little slow, a little sweet, Rust’s mouth is sucking marks in Marty’s skin that might threaten the fragile state of his marriage, but Marty says nothing, just moans, just bucks into his hand with primal, needy focus.

It’s not what he wants. He cannot, under any circumstance, do sweet. And neither can Marty. He might not know it but sweet would shatter the thin veneer of straight masculinity he still coats over every interaction they have, the one so many men before him have used before, Rust shamelessly standing in that particular line up. He’ll admit to himself it would be harder to deal with Marty if he was the one that made him queer. It’s mostly for his own personal convenience that he goes through the roster of insults and taunts his mind readily provides.

He doesn’t have to settle on one of those venomous, taunting spikes, Marty’s hand is on his, uncomfortable, firm, moist, holding his hand that’s holding his dick, nails digging in, hard. He’s maybe just realized this too; that he needs the harshness as the shield for his comfort, and there’s a relief there, Rust finds, in not having the responsibility of Marty’s sense of self rest entirely on his shoulders.

The angle is worse suddenly, pulling at Rust’s shoulder unnaturally, but it’s easier psychologically. The motions of his hand are harsh, stunted, mechanical now, no longer sweet and languorous, no longer about pleasure. It’s power, again. It’s impersonal, like they’re not the men they are anymore, but still holding too hard onto their roles to let themselves do the exact things they’d like to do. Archetypal.

Is it part of that pantomime when Marty shoves him back and Rust lets him, back towards the mattress on the ground and its white sheets, clean and fresh because he didn’t want to sleep in fucked-in sheets? Is it part of the play, the sharp sliver of a whine, an injury all the same, when Rust’s hand slips from Marty’s pants as he lets himself settle horizontally?

He can read the spine of a book on his left, at the corner of his vision, ‘Sex Crimes’ written in obscene bright letters on black background, chemical, loud. It’s a title that screams at you, that demands fascination and horror, that tastes like bile from vomiting on an empty stomach, that feels like that too, eyes bulging, chest heaving, desperate to expel something unnatural and threatening.

Rust looks up at Marty towering over him, at the open pans and the ruffled shirt and the alcohol glaze over it all. He runs his tongue over his teeth, seeks out the sweet sweet taste of the pleasure, of the blood, of the whiskey. Marty stands there long enough for Rust to think of ancient Greeks and circular, traditional violence again, of heroin in his veins and Jameson in his mouth, of relief, of caramel.

Marty hesitates but he can’t stop watching him, eyes like highway beams over him, staring at the sprawl of his form, the bulge in his sweatpants, the parting of his lips. He can’t look away and that terrifies him, that disgusts him, and Rust is about to pounce and pull him down himself when he finally moves.

Whatever choice he made there, behind blue eyes where alcohol decreases and fear rises to take its place, that’s gonna come back to bite Rust in the ass one of these days, but he can’t bring himself to fucking care. Adrenaline, need, hunger thin out his blood and his heart is pumping hard, fast, down into his dick. He hasn’t felt this good in a while. He hasn’t felt this hot in a while either.

In this moment, in this choice posited behind normalcy and sin, he’s a succubi for Marty Hart, and there is a delicious irony to it. Marty Hart and his girlfriends and pieces of ass, standing at the door to Hell staring at a fully clothed but hard as rock carcass of a man.

Marty takes off his clothes like he’s being processed at Avoyelles. Rust kicks off his trainers and the sweat-soaked, uncomfortable warmth of his sweats and there is relief at being naked.

The bed is too narrow for the both of them, two grown men and the width of Marty, a problem Rust didn’t have with Suzie. Marty runs a hand up Rust’s leg, there’s almost a naive confusion to the way he feels him up, catching nails in hair, lean muscle where fat usually is. Rust doesn’t think he’ll ever be soft, age will dry him up, hollow him out, before it ever happens for him.

Rust lets him do it, touch and prod and grab what he wants. He reaches for lube and condoms by the pile of books to his right (next to Truman Capote's In Cold Blood), pops open the cap and slicks his fingers and there’s a look and a sigh of relief from Marty. Rust huffs, rolls his eyes, gets to work.

He’s fast and he’s thorough and doesn’t care for comfort as much as he should. There's a wince of pain, a sharp tang of acidity behind his teeth and he’s not even trying to make it part of the event for him. It has never really been about that. Foreplay is a luxury for women like Susan Cornell from church.

The speed is to accommodate his own racing need, the heartbeat in his veins, the heat in his belly, the aching hardness of his cock, but it’s also to keep Marty from running away before they can both get something out of this, to keep him from achieving clarity of thought and running away like he probably should.

Three fingers in, tight, barely wet enough, electricity zinging up his spine with every shift of his hips, a spasm there but he’s almost done. Marty’s staring at his fingers with barely contained fascination, like he’s never fucked someone up the ass before, like he’s never fucked Rust up the ass before.

Done, finally. Marty reaches for him when he finally finds himself ready, reaching for his hip and starting to pull at him, to get him into whatever position he seems to want him in. There’s another hand reaching for a pillow so Rust guesses he’d rather he be on his front, eyes looking away. Easier, more anonymous, less of a torturous memory, less shameful to put in his spank bank for later.

Rust’s hand wraps around Marty’s wrist and tightens, hard, over the tendons on the sides, forcing him to let go of his grip. Marty’s cursing and calling out Jesus, telling him to let go but he doesn’t, not until he’s shoved him on his back, sprawled there in all his fucking glory.

“What are you-”

Words die in his mouth. Rust sinks down on his cock with a hiss. Too hasty with the prep, but it’s fine, there will be no damage from this, just the blankness washing over his mind in the path of the hurt.

Marty’s eyes are wide. Blue, like a summer sky. Red with lust, intense with pleasure and hunger. Church windows. Bells ringing. Rust can feel him inside, hard and thick and perfect, just fucking perfect. He’s wrenched control away and the truth is Marty’s in heaven right now from it, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, hands fluttering uselessly to the side. He wants to touch him, Rust can tell that much. He doesn’t know how to.

Power.

Rust starts moving. It’s a slow, heavy drag at first, in those first seconds where he gains his footing. His thighs start aching within seconds. He’s not ridden anyone in years, and definitely not on this mattress, in this apartment. His body’s not used to this anymore but muscle memory is a long lived creature, and there is nothing it known how to do better than fucking.

“Ain’t gonna do all the work, Marty,” he warns when his thighs start complaining and somehow; that does it.

Marty’s hands snap to his hips to hold, fingers wrapped around the hard ridge of bone under the skin, hard, tight. It’s like he’s remembered he knows how to fuck someone like this, that he’s done this before. It’s so much better then onwards.

Rust grinds his teeth and doesn’t say a fucking word, just moves, and takes and fucks himself on Marty’s dick and lets the crashing waves of feeling: pleasure, pain, sweat rolling down his back, nails digging in his hips, ache in his thighs, take him away. It’s so fucking easy, it comes naturally, like breathing air, like dancing to music, like running away.

He keeps his moans to himself, keeps his words behind lock and key, stares at the fucking ceiling now. He can’t see it, not really, he’s just chasing it, the pleasure running down the notches his spine, the heat that burns through him, and it’s not as good as heroin, it can never be, but for half a second, he pretends he’s not falling back into a habit.

Marty’s hand sneaks from hip to stomach, to the three points of scar tissue on his chest. There’s a fascination under the groans, under the words he says that Rust is absolutely not listening to. He’s chasing something he’s not finding, desperate for the high of it, wishing they were against a wall, wishing for blood, for hurt, for electricity and leather. He misses Crash for half a second, Crash and the recklessness with which he fucked. Mindless, animal, painful.

And then, and then. Marty’s hand wraps around his dick, tight, sudden, and Rust wasn’t looking where that second hand went, he wasn’t paying attention and he groans, high and surprised and ripped out of his throat with tooth and nail. Marty’s bitten the bullet, must have decided that if he was fucking him, he might as well fucking touch him too, right? He’s staring at his dick in his hand like he’s never seen a penis before and it’s hilarious, and sad at the same time.

Retaliation for taking him off guard. Rust shifts his weight back, leans a bit differently and suddenly the angle is just right and he feels pleasure, white hot and blinding, rushing through his bones, through his veins. He stops there for a second, grinds, slow and hard and dirty, muscles tightening around Marty.

“Rust, goddamn it,” Marty hisses, choking with pleasure, grip around his dick not letting up, which is starting to hurt, which is perfect.

Fuel, fire. Marty says his name like a curse, like something dirty and wrong and wretched. Rust bites his own lip until he tastes blood, hot, red, violent and metallic. A crowbar in the legs, a bullet ripped through his chest, broken bones, cocaine, a kiss from an ugly, dirty mouth, yellowed teeth and animalistic greed.

Marty comes first. He barely has time to warn, barely has time to say a thing, he’s wrecked when Rust looks down at him finally from the haze of blood and pleasure. There’s sweat shining on him, redness everywhere, strain in the muscles of his chest, of his groin. He’s desperate. He needs an orgasm like a junkie needs a fix. Rust recognizes it. And he’s always been generous when it came to bringing people down with him.

Fingers tighten around him, stopping to jerk him off, grabbing at his hip to keep him down, keep him from moving away from long enough to fill the condom. He can feel the force there, feel how Marty wouldn’t stand him to wrench himself away so he doesn’t move, gives him at least that.

The noise Marty makes when Rust starts moving again, squeezing around him to finish getting himself off: wrecked, small, wounded. That’s what makes him come. He wants to laugh with it, but all he does, once the white, blinding light is gone, once the rubber band has snapped, once pleasure has washed through him, cleansing fire, salt in wounds, all he does is smile.

They’re panting. Both of them. Loud, bovine breathing in the silence. Rust lets himself get off that ride, lets himself fall, boneless, exhausted, high for a moment. He stretches himself out on the part of the mattress Marty isn’t occupying, watching from the corner of his eyes the rising and falling of Marty’s chest. His eyes are wide open, staring at the wall, at the crucifix. At Jesus Christ, lord and savior, and witness, sole witness of the blood pearling on Rust’s lips, of the splash of white semen on Marty’s stomach.

The laugh is wrenched from Rust’s chest without him having time to stop it. It’s maniacal, rusted, with those edges of contempt and pity. Pity for whom? Marty, who keeps straying further and further away from propriety, from normalcy, from sanity? Himself, who just fucked his partner, the one and only person who can stand to be in the same room as him for longer than five minutes, to satisfy the burning itch of addiction?

Rust finds cigarettes and a lighter to his right, takes out two. His lip hurts, sharp and bright and tangy when it stretches as he puts one in his mouth. He lights it first, takes one long inhale of it. He holds it out to Marty, with his blood on it, and that’s unhygienic at best, dangerous at worst, and disgusting no matter what, but Marty – father of two, cowboy of Louisiana State – Hart takes it and starts smoking.

He lights the second and keeps it. His body is loose, relaxed for the first time in forever, sated. Pain and pleasure as self actualisation.

He glances over at Marty, at the frown on his brow: deep in thought, hardness in his eyes, cogs turning in the background, so hard Rust can basically hear them. It’s even hotter than the blind pleasure and death of shame he just witnessed.

“He ain’t gonna come to life cause you keep staring at him, you know? Jesus is dead.”

Marty’s eyes dart to him, sharp and furious for a second and familiar. Rust’s teeth ache with it, with the knowledge he has of this look. He’s missed knowing people, he has to admit. He’s missed reading the shifts in body posture, the licking of lips, the popping of veins on foreheads, the darkening or lightening of eyes. Knowing Marty like this, even outside of the biblical nature of what they’ve just done, it’s good.

“Don’t. Don’t bring this up right now.”

It’s a warning, there’s a bite under it, and that’s surprising. Rust knows Marty’s as loose and tired as he is, probably even more with the alcohol he had before, and the anger burning energy. He still wants to fight him though. Doesn’t go soft and gentle on him. Good. Easier this way. Much more comfortable.

Silence falls again, just the sounds of cigarette smoke, the weight of it like swamp water in the room. Sweat cools, his lip stops bleeding. He doesn’t know how long time passes.

“You should go. Maggie’s gonna wonder where you are.”

Marty moves. He shifts over, on his knees, cigarette in his mouth, hand landing on Rust’s throat and gripping. It’s violent and it’s sudden and there’s ash falling down barely an inch from his fucking face and the anger…. Oh the anger. Marty is glaring down at him but he’s not pressing down, he’s not hurting him. It’s a threat. It’s incredible.

“I just fucked you and you’re gonna say her fucking name? You’re a disturbed motherfucker.”

Rust blinks at him, lazy, slow, unimpressed. They’ve just fucked, and he’s just come but this… It’s a treat. Ice cream after dessert. Indulgent. Minty.

“World doesn’t stop turning just cause you came, Marty. Your stolen pleasures never actually belonged to anyone but you, it’s your time you’re using. No one else’s. You still got a wife.”

And oh, he hates it right now, he hates that Rust isn’t afraid and flinching away. That he’s got his hand on his throat and the weight of a former quarterback and current cop thrown over him, ready to crush, and he’s not fighting back. He keeps hoping Rust will forget he’s been threatened by scarier men before. He keeps hoping he’ll be the tougher one this time.

“Get off of me, Marty,” Rust continues, calm. That Crash tire fire from earlier is gone, quieted down by an orgasm and a release. He’s taken control back and so the leather and the baseball bat and the barbed wire has been put away for a second. Get off of me, Marty, or I will break your arm getting you off myself.

Marty doesn’t lean back. He leans forward. He kisses him.

Rust has to admit, this one was unexpected. This one doesn’t make sense in the framework he’s been working with, where Marty hates himself and is too much of a coward to touch a man in any way that isn’t violent. This one takes half of his breath away, coupled with the hand on his throat that finally does press in just a bit, it steals one terrible sound of yearning and pleasure from Rust.

And the second that sound resounds around them, he’s pushing back. Puts his cigarette into the ashtray he could reach with his eyes gouged out, and grabs Marty’s hair. Blonde, and soft and sweaty from sex. He pulls hard, ugly, and Marty hisses in pain and bites his lip before he’s wrenched away.

Blood, and pain again. Rust pulls him away from him, tearing him off, and only lets go when he’s back on his knees too, no longer slow and lazy and warm.

“Bitch,” Marty spits out, but it’s foreign to his mouth and he doesn’t mean it, not really.

Rust reaches for the still burning cigarette and shoves it back into his mouth and winces, properly winces. He didn’t fucking miss him with those teeth. It’s gonna be worse this time than the last, he’s gonna have to explain the split.

“I’m not your bitch, Marty,” he replies. “Never gonna be. I ain’t scared of you.”

He watches it ripple over Marty’s face, the knowledge, the realization, curtains of delusion and denial parting. They’re afraid of him, the women he calls bitch, the women he gets jealous over. He uses his badge and his dick like weapons. Unfortunately for him, Rust also has both of those.

Marty stumbles to his feet and Rust watches him put on his clothes again, using Rust’s discarded shirt to clean himself off of the fluids splashed over his stomach. Hiding away all the evidence. It’s not the triumphant relaxation of last time. It’s ugly and mean between them now. Unpleasant, and a little worrying.

Camaraderie might be gone forever now. Marty broke the treaty first, he attacked first, came into Rust’s house guns blazing but he’s never going to see it that way. He never does. He’s always betrayed, forever Abel, never throwing the first stone.

He runs from Rust’s house, from the evidence of it. Rust lays back on his bed, lazy and tired. Deep down, somewhere, he’s hoping the fragile partnership they have hasn’t broken irreparably. It would be a shame.

The eye was in the tomb and watching him.

---------

*"The eye was in the tomb and was watching Cain" is the last line from La Conscience/The Counsciousness by Victor Hugo, one of my favorite poems of all time.

Throughtout the whole poem, Cain attempts to run away from the eye of God that won't stop staring at him after he's killed Abel. He runs to other countries, his children build cities where people cannot enter without forsaking God, but nothing works. So he asks them to build him an underground chamber, a sepulchre where he will be alone. They do. He goes sit down in that dark chamber, they close the door and he stays alone in the dark. And in the darkness of the walls. The eye was in the tomb and was watching Cain.

#true detective #rustmarty #rust cohle #marty hart #true detective season 1

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