#confessions of a homicide detective

[reminiscentsoftomorrow]

Whenever I try to draw or picture Yandere-kun/Ayato/Yanagi, I always see him picking up on his mother's cheerful facade and mimicking it.

Basically, we got a teen Hiroki Dan waltzing through Akademi.

[foreverknightalways]

Nick says, Stop beating yourself up, Lisa. It's not your fault that those guys are killers, and you are here because you are doing the right thing. Lisa says, Nick, I stole those comics. That's why I was running and bumped into that Marty guy.

[nadvs]

the act of unravelling (part four)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

< prev

You sit in your manager’s office, facing the bay window that overlooks the vast golf course. Your fingers are interlaced in an effort to hide the way your hands are trembling.

When Detective Brading asked for the space as you meekly followed him into the office, your boss shot you an unsettled glance, then agreed and left the room.

It throws you into a chilling realization. Everyone will give you that same condemning look when they find out the truth. You can’t imagine why else a cop unexpectedly came to your workplace and dragged you away – he must know what you’ve done.

The confidence you had last night that you’d get away with this crumbles when the door slams shut, making you flinch. Detective Brading expels a deep sigh. Why doesn’t he just arrest you and get it over with?

“Every second in a missing person’s case is precious,” the detective tells you. He sits on the edge of the desk instead of in the chair behind it, staring down at you. If he’s trying to scare you, it’s working.

Missing. At least that means they haven’t found Porter’s body.

“I hate to disrupt you like this at work.” His words mismatch his tone. “But I think you can help us.”

“How?” you ask.

“You said you were with Rafe for a couple hours the night Porter went missing,” he says. “Do you know where he went after he dropped you off?”

“Home,” you answer quickly.

“And you’re sure about that?”

“I’m…” You can’t be too defensive. It’ll raise red flags. “Pretty sure.”

The detective sighs again, as if you’re disappointing him with every word you say.

You glance at the framed photos of your boss and his family on the wall. He lives such a comfortable, normal life. You lost your chance at normalcy the second you told Rafe to pull the trigger.

“I’m sure it’s hard to hear this about a friend of yours, but we think he played a role in Porter’s disappearance,” he says. “And we need to ask you to talk to him about that night.”

“Me?”

“Yes. We’d have you wearing a wire.”

“What?” you say, floored. “Why me? We haven’t been hanging out that long. I don’t think he’d trust me enough to tell me anything.”

You hope you didn’t just discredit yourself or Rafe. But if they try to get one of Rafe’s other friends to trick him into a confession, you know for a fact that he wouldn't admit a thing. But you? You’re the only person he’d openly talk to about what really happened.

Your body is tight with anxiety. Maybe that’s why they’re asking you to do it. They think you know something and Rafe slipping up in a conversation with you is their meticulous way of proving it.

“I shouldn’t share this, but his other friends don’t believe that he’s entirely innocent,” Brading says. “You’re the only one we spoke to who does. And I think Rafe knows that you’re in his corner. I can tell you’re a good kid. Do the right thing and help us find Porter.”

You don’t buy it. You can’t ignore the instinct telling you that Brading is suspicious of you, too. He’s manipulating you. And for once, it feels good to be underestimated.

If you refuse to help, it could work against you. But if you agree, and you find a way to warn Rafe that you’re being listened to, that’d help your case. And his.

“I’d have eyes on you the entire time,” the detective explains. “He’s out on the golf course now. He came alone. Act like it’s just another day at work. Strike up conversation. See if he can open up about what he did after he dropped you off that night.”

“You want me to do this now?” you stutter.

“Like I said, every second is precious,” he says. “I know you’re caught off guard, but he’ll be, too. It’ll work to our advantage. I’d be in your ear, telling you what to say. You can handle this.”

This is a trick. It has to be. He cornered you because he suspects you, and now, he’s trying to outsmart you.

You mentally run through the possibilities. You can’t contact Rafe to warn him. But you could type a note out on your phone and find a way to flash it to him inconspicuously.

You’ll figure it out. And if you can’t, you’ll back out and say you couldn’t handle the pressure.

“Okay,” you agree. “I can do it.”

“Good.”

“I just need a second. Can I go to the restroom?”

“Yes. I have to ask you to leave your phone. We can’t take any risks.”

He assumes you’ll give Rafe a head’s up. Now you’re sure you’re a suspect, too. You try to look understanding as you hand him your phone.

·········

You’re seconds away from a panic attack as you pace around the private restroom, trying to figure out how the hell you can tip Rafe off. Maybe you should just back out.

Then, it comes to you.

The logbook tucked in your backpocket. The one Rafe teased you about and called your diary just last week. It’s your way out.

You uncap the pen hooked onto the book, open to an empty page, and write: wearing a wire. act innocent.

·········

Rafe lines up his club behind the white ball, his shoulders tight. He can’t shake off what happened last night.

You’re afraid of him. You pulled him in and pressed your lips against his, but then you shoved him away when he tried to hold you. And after you promised you wouldn’t screw him over, you left abruptly and took away the warmth he’s spent his whole life craving.

You’re supposed to have each other’s backs. He owes you and he wants to protect you, but you act like he’s a wild animal you can’t trust won’t bite you. He doesn’t know how to prove that you don’t need to be scared of him.

And it’s not just you expecting the worst of him. The way his own friends have been acting around him, shifty and tense, is pissing him off. He is guilty, but the fact that they have no faith in him digs a hole into his already overwhelming loneliness.

He’s out here on his own because he desperately needs to clear his head. He desperately needs to see you.

You drive the cart over the paved pathway to where Brading told you Rafe is. Your heart is racing, terrified this will go terribly wrong.

“You can still hear me clearly?” Brading says in your ear.

“Yes,” you say quietly. The earpiece he gave you is tiny and unnoticeable. The logbook you placed beside you after you drove off is the only chance you have of warning Rafe.

“Remember, act natural. Bring up Porter when it feels right,” Brading says. “Looks like he spotted you.”

You pull up to Rafe as he places a club in the bag hanging off the back of his cart. You remind yourself over and over that you have to speak about Porter in the present tense.

You can’t believe you’re here. Life twisted and turned and things you never imagined possible are your reality now.

There’s a genuinity in Rafe’s smile when your eyes meet his, the complete opposite of the pompous smirk you’ve seen over the years you’ve known him. If your heart wasn’t already pounding from adrenaline, it would be from the way he’s looking at you.

“Finally,” he says. “I was getting thirsty.”

“Don’t tell me you want a beer this early in the morning,” you sigh tensely, staying seated as you look over your shoulder to the cooler packed in the back. Brading is yards away, parked in a cart and posing as a golfer taking a break. Your breath is shaky.

“I’m kidding,” Rafe says, a little softer. He steps forward, hand on the roof of your cart, leaning closer to you. His eyes search your face. You’ve been aching to see him again. You wonder if he feels the same. “You mad at me or something?”

“Ask him why he’s alone,” the detective instructs you, jerking you out of your small moment of joy.

“I’m always mad at you,” you joke. “How come you’re alone out here? You’re always with your friends.”

“They’ve been pissing me off lately,” he mutters.

“Why?” Brading says. You plead with your eyes that Rafe just look down at your note, but he speaks before you can repeat the detective’s word.

“Why’d you run out last night?” His gaze trails down to your lips, his voice low. “Thought we were having a good time.”

It’s embarrassing to know you’re being listened to. And nerve-wracking that now the detective knows you’re more than just friends. Anyone could tell from Rafe’s suggestive tone that something happened.

You did suddenly leave the closet you’d led him to last night. Kissing him got to be overwhelming. But you can see in his gaze that it wasn’t just an impulsive, passion-filled makeout at a party. It meant something to him. And it’s a relief, because it meant something to you, too.

The chemistry you felt with him was always returned. It was just contained. Watered down. And now, whatever this is could end before it even begins. He could say one thing and get you both into trouble.

You regret agreeing to this. You need to get Rafe’s attention on the open book beside you before it’s too late.

“We were. I had to get back to my friends,” you say. “Why are yours pissing you off?”

“You know,” he says, glancing to the side. “They’re always lookin’ at me like I’m guilty.”

You can hear your pulse. You keep your eyes on Rafe, discreetly tapping on the page. He doesn’t notice. He doesn't follow your silent instructions.

“Are you?” Brading says. You repeat the two words, your throat dry.

Rafe’s brows furrow in confusion. He looks at you again. A tense silence blankets you.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone,” you say. “Not even my diary.”

Your heart lifts in all-consuming relief when Rafe catches your meaning. He looks down at the logbook and realization washes over his face.

You’re safe. The man in your ear isn’t going to discover a thing.

“What, you agree with them?” Rafe asks. His tone is casual, but his Adam’s apple bobs with a nervous swallow. Your eyes are locked knowingly, enveloped in the comfort that he knows to play along now.

“Tell him no,” Brading says.

“No,” you half-laugh. “I’m just saying, if there is something about that night that you didn’t tell me, you can trust that it’ll stay between us.”

“I was with you.”

“Ask him what he did after,” Brading instructs.

“Not all night,” you reply, cocking your head. “Where’d you go after you dropped me off?”

“Home. You know that,” he replies. “Even you’re doubting me now? Come on.”

“No,” you repeat. You reach for his hand, eyes trained on him. “I’m sorry. I just meant to say… if something happened, I wouldn’t judge you for it. You trust me, right?”

Rafe’s body buzzes at your touch. He does. He completely trusts you and it’s such a new, comforting feeling and he wishes you felt it for him, too.

“I do,” he says.

“You’d tell me?”

“I would.”

You nod reassuringly.

“I don’t know where Porter is,” Rafe says. “And I wish people would stop looking at me like I did something to him. I’m so sick of everyone expecting the worst of me.”

You’re not sure where his lie ends and the truth begins, but his fixed gaze is heavy with sincerity.

“We’re not getting anywhere with him,” Brading mutters. “End the conversation and meet me back at the office.”

“I don’t expect the worst of you,” you tell him.

His shoulders relax and you can tell your words did something to him. You nod again, a small, relieved smile pulling on your lips.

“I should get back to work,” you say. “You sure you don’t want anything to drink?”

“You’re just fishing for a tip now,” Rafe replies, smirking.

“Guilty.”

You both share a soft chuckle, the twisted joke behind your word choice not lost on either of you.

·········

The detective is tense when you see him again, a minor crack in his confident demeanor. It’s clear he thought he was going to catch you – both of you – today.

You thought you’d clear your and Rafe’s name through the monitored conversation, but Brading just looks angry now.

“You didn’t mention your relationship is more than friendly,” he says, arms crossed as he stands across from you in your boss’s office. He didn’t even care to sit down this time.

“Sorry. I didn’t know you needed to know that.”

“I need to know everything. You were withholding information,” he tells you. “And there’s something else you’re not telling me.”

The facade he was putting on has faded. He’s on edge and direct about the fact that he doesn’t trust a word out of your mouth.

“There isn’t,” you reply.

“Listen,” Brading says, his voice heavy and terse. “Porter’s family brought me into this because I’ve had a long, successful career of putting away scumbags like your boyfriend. I know your type. I know you’re covering for him. And you’re just making it worse for yourself by not telling me what you know.”

You don’t respond, staring at him blankly, your heart drumming in fear.

“I could make things easier for you if you just admit it,” he says. “A judge is likely to be lenient when someone helps with an investigation. I’d vouch for you.”

He’s intimidating. But you won’t give in. You never will.

“I don’t know anything,” you state.

His lips close into a firm line as he steps past you.

“I’ll see you soon,” Brading threatens before he opens the door.

·········

The lip of the sun still clings onto the ocean horizon as Rafe drives south. He was relieved when you texted him to come over tonight. He needs to see you. And he needs to talk about what happened this morning.

You answer your front door and Rafe takes in your gentle gaze and he swears that the pull he always felt towards you is a thousand times stronger because for once, you actually seem glad to see him.

“We can go to my room,” you say. You’ve been anxious to meet with him. You can’t control your impulse and you don’t see any reason to.

You press your cheek against his chest and wrap your arms around him the moment your bedroom door shuts behind you. His heart is thudding against your ear, his body hard and warm.

Rafe hesitantly cups your arms, not sure if you’ll push him away like you did last night.

“He just showed up at my work,” you say in a nervous rush, “and I thought if he heard you say you didn’t do anything, he’d back off, but then he said he knows I’m hiding something. He’s onto us. I don’t think we should talk to him without a lawyer. I can’t afford one. You have to help me pay for one.”

Rafe realizes you’re trembling beneath him. He doesn’t give a fuck that the man who scared you like this is a cop; if he was in front of him right now, he’d punch him.

“I will,” he says. “That was smart. The note.”

“I was so worried you wouldn’t see it.” You pull back, craning your neck to meet his eyes. “I know it was risky. You did a good job.”

He nods, gazing down at you. He’s not used to people telling him he did something right.

It’s unreal to be here, standing in your bedroom, past the guard you’ve forced him to stay behind for so long. It’s intimate seeing where you live, where you sleep, where you exist.

“He told me a judge would go easy on me if I helped with the case,” you admit, “but I have your back. And I don’t expect the worst of you, okay? I know you have my back, too.”

“You trust me?” Rafe asks, a hint of surprise in his deep voice. His hands drag down your arms, stopping at your wrists.

You wriggle against him, a subconscious test that you’re not trapped. He immediately releases you.

It makes his chest ache to know you expect him to harm you.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says.

Your body betrays you. Tears surface, hot and fast. The fresh wound lodges against your heart.

“It’s not…” You step back, knees wobbling. Your legs are suddenly desperate to rest and can’t hold you up any longer. “It’s not personal.”

You step away, sitting at the edge of your bed, head in your hands. You’ve barely been keeping it together, trying to outrun the shadow of pain that’s been haunting you. There’s no limit to what you’d give to forget what happened.

You brush your hands off your face when you hear the floorboards creak. Rafe leans in front of you, crouched at your feet. You watch his hands ghost over your calves.

It throws you for a loop, seeing him on your floor like this. For so long, all you assumed about him was that he thought he was above you. Now, he’s on his knees for you.

“Hey.” He says it in the same way he did after the gun went off. He doesn’t have to tell you to look at him. You know that’s what he wants.

You meet his eyes, and when you see the genuine concern swimming in the deep blue, all the strings hardly keeping you together unravel.

“It wasn’t about money,” you utter tearfully.

“What?”

“It wasn’t ever about money. He didn’t rip me off.” Your sobs start to come out as gasps. “He hurt me.”

Rafe’s veins turn to ice. He frantically searches your face for an explanation because no, it can’t be what he’s thinking.

“I passed out while he…” You shake your head, tears rolling over your cheeks as you shut your eyes. “It’s like my mind couldn’t take what he was doing to my body and I passed out. And then you came in…”

His breaths grow shallow. That’s why you were as angry as you were. Why you cried as hard as you did. Why you tense up and shove him away when he holds you.

When Rafe pushed Porter in that room, he never would have expected you’d be there, bearing the pain of something that fractured you. He’s furious, disgusted, in disbelief.

He sees now that you meant when you said you don’t regret killing him. The empty look on your face was never guilt. It was fear. Trauma.

“I know I shouldn’t have gone upstairs alone,” you whisper, eyes still closed. “I didn’t think–”

“Stop,” he says softly. His hands rest on your face, palms gently cupping your wet cheeks. Of all the things you thought you knew about him, you would’ve never expected him to be so tender. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

It settles your coiled heart hearing him dismiss the nauseating, intrusive thoughts you’ve had blaming yourself for what happened. You finally open your eyes to look at him again.

His eyes are glossy. He knows now and he’s looking at you with so much sympathy that your chest stutters with your gasps, stomach somehow twisting in both pain and relief.

For once, Rafe doesn’t say the first thing that pops into his head – that if he knew what Porter had done, he would have made him suffer, he would have tortured him, instead of shooting a single, life-ending bullet. Because there’s no point. You saved his life that night and he wishes he could’ve saved yours, but all he can do right now is tell you what he will do instead of what he would have done.

“I’m never going to let anyone hurt you again,” he murmurs. “I swear on my life. You’ll always be safe with me.”

He’s hesitant to startle you with his touch, but thankfully, you lean over and wrap your arms atop his shoulders and it’s so gratifying to know you’re using him to ground yourself.

Rafe holds you like he can’t get close enough. Because he can’t. Nothing he does now can take back what happened to you but everything he does moving forward will be to make sure you never experience a horror like that again.

His life is no longer a cycle of numbing thrills. He has a real reason to keep going now.

You inhale the comforting smell of his neck, your cheek pressed against his. You curl into him as you shake through your sobs.

“Nobody else knows,” you admit, voice muffled against his skin. “I didn’t think I’d tell.”

Even after what you’d done together, a bond that didn’t exist between you before digs its roots into you both. He’s holding you with softness you didn’t know he was capable of, after making a promise so sincere that you felt it in your core.

“You’re safe,” he whispers. And for the first time since that terrifying night, you feel it.

·········

It’s been five days since Brading accosted you at work. Even though he hasn’t bothered you since, and there haven’t been any public updates on the investigation, you’re on edge knowing that you and Rafe are suspects.

Since then, when you’re not working or hanging out with your friends, you’re with Rafe.

You still haven’t told the guys. You don’t know how you could possibly prove to them how good of a man Rafe actually is when you can’t tell them a single detail of what’s happened between you. You’d rather not have to explain yourself to them. Not yet.

Rafe doesn’t pester you about being your secret. As long as he’s something to you.

It’s dusk and you’re sitting on the quiet beach with him, cocooned in comfort and curled up on the sand, the setting sun playing across his handsome face.

Since your conversation in your bedroom, you haven’t spoken about the night that tied you two together.

But you have been speaking to each other like never before, holding onto the playfulness that always existed beneath your banter, allowing yourselves to talk and joke and kiss with no inhibitions. Except he doesn’t dare hold you without asking if he can first.

Tonight, as you sit side-by-side in the clouded orange and pink glow, Rafe feels a smile on his face, a real one, after not smiling for so many years. Being with you is the first time in a long time that he feels vaguely normal.

“It’s too bad,” you say, gazing at his dimples.

“What is?” Rafe rasps.

“That you’ve been keeping this smile from me for so long,” you say with a glint in your eyes. “Why were you so dedicated to hating me?”

“You hated me,” he scoffs with a smirk.

“You started it. All that Pogue/Kook crap.” You meant it as a joke, but Rafe’s smile fades. He looks ahead at the crashing waves. You hit a nerve.

“What?” you ask softly.

Rafe is consumed by his own emotions. He’s a victim to how demanding and overwhelming they can be. He’s been like that for most of his life.

Being with you has cleared some of the fog in his head. He knows now that he was desperate for some form of connection and that’s why he bought into the idea that being part of a group meant something.

If he had nothing of substance to him, nothing lovable, at least he had wealth in common with a social circle he always felt disjointed from. It was a ridiculous substitute for a sense of belonging.

“I was jealous,” he finally admits.

“Jealous?” you echo.

His jaw tenses. He can’t look at you.

“You’ve seen it yourself,” Rafe mutters. “When shit hit the fan, nobody backed me up. Nobody checks up on me. Nobody gives a damn. I don’t have any real friends. And you called your friends family. I don’t have that. I don’t have anybody. It’s why I sell coke. It’s pathetic, but at least I have something worth…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. The man who you thought had everything never did. He was in pain, lonely, selling drugs because at least it gave people something to like about him.

“Rafe,” you say quietly. He meets your gaze. You wish you could unsee the hurt in his eyes. “You have me. I care about you so much.”

You look at him in all the ways he’d always secretly hoped you would. The years of longing for you – the girl who always has a retort, who always keeps him on his toes, who always looks so frustratingly beautiful – all those daydreams don’t come close to how it actually feels to have you like this.

He wonders if you have any idea of all the ways you can break him.

“Yeah?” is all he can mumble, his throat tight.

You nod, finding his hand and pulling it to your chest. He’s not sure if you meant to press him up against where he can feel your pulse, but he feels the rhythmic thudding coming from beneath your skin, and God, is it insane that he feels like he lives for your heartbeat?

He thought he was fine living an empty life. But he’s gotten a taste of being wrapped up in you and he doesn’t want to lose it. Ever.

“You keep me safe,” you say softly. “Let me do the same for you in my own way, alright?”

He nods, blinking away tears. Your heart breaks and you lean forward, losing yourself in his kiss. His lips are soft and gentle, pushing against yours with a soft fragility.

“Are you okay?” you whisper against his cheek. He hasn’t been okay in so long. But this is the closest to it he’s ever gotten. He doesn’t want to hide you. He wants everyone to see you chose him.

“Do you want to go to that bonfire tonight?” he asks.

There’s a party at the beach you spoke at a couple of weeks ago, back when Rafe stopped you after you bought a joint from Porter.

“Together?” you ask. He nods, uncertainty pinching his face. You can tell he’s expecting you to say no. As if you’re ashamed of him.

You’re almost sure your friends won’t be there. They asked you to hang out at Pope’s tonight and you declined and said you’d stay home. They probably won’t be at the bonfire.

Either way, you’re willing to take the risk. Rafe is worth it.

·········

Gossip spreads like weeds. You can tell by how people stare at you when you arrive with Rafe that his name has been in everyone’s mouths, whispering conspiracies about what he did to Porter. You know your name will start to come up in those conversations, too.

“So, it’s true,” one of his buddies says when he sees you cupping Rafe’s bicep as you join the group, the bonfire crackling. “You’re really messing with a Pogue.”

“That’ll be the last time you call her that, got it?” Rafe says sharply. His friend scoffs a laugh, putting his hands up in feigned surrender, his beer bottle sloshing.

Rafe leans to mumble in your ear, “Do you want a drink?”

“Yeah,” you say, eager to take the edge off.

You swallow the bitterness of the drink Rafe picks up for you, staring ahead at the ocean, thinking about how somewhere in the vast expanse, Porter’s body is lying at the bottom.

“Man, it’s weird just… continuing to live life, isn’t it?”

You look up to see a man standing beside you. He’s a friend of the person you killed. You recognize him from the day at the club when Porter called you over. You still get shivers remembering his smile.

“What do you mean?” you mumble.

“Porter. He’s just gone,” he continues. There’s a slur in his words. He’s drunk. “He’s gotta be… you know. There’s no other explanation.”

You tighten your grip on Rafe’s arm, but he doesn’t notice, lost in conversation with one of his buddies.

“Yeah,” you offer. “It’s sad.”

“He told me he liked you,” he says with a raised brow. “He had a huge crush on you.”

You can taste bile on your tongue. You look up at Rafe, whose attention is on your conversation now. His stare is hard, his nostrils flared in anger.

“I didn’t know,” you say simply.

“Really?” he laughs. “He said you were playing hard to get.”

His vile words make your breath hitch.

The flame in Rafe rises so fast that within two seconds, he swings a punch. And suddenly, he’s leaning over, knuckles ramming into the idiot’s face as he lies on the sand, unleashing the rage of what happened to you and the urge to take your pain away.

He could kill him.

Rafe feels hands at the crooks of his shoulders pulling him back. He struggles to get on his feet, his friends’ words overlapping as they try to calm him down. He’s breathless, looking up to meet your eyes, taking in how completely lost and anguished you look.

He roughly pushes his friends off as he stumbles towards you, his shaking hands resting on your shoulders.

“Let’s go,” he says to you, looking at you like you’re the only one here.

“You’re such an asshole!” the guy on the ground shouts.

Rafe ignores him, his hand on the small of your back as he leads you away from the crowd. You’re trembling, thrown back to that night, thrown back to being called a tease, thrown back to being held down.

You reach the parking lot, not nearly far enough from the loud crowd, still hearing the crackling of the fire, when your knees buckle.

Your heart is pounding so hard that you’re afraid it’s going to give out. But Rafe holds you up as you stand between parked cars, looking at you with desperation.

“Baby, it’s okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay.”

You find strength as you pull your arms up around his shoulders. He holds you tightly, firm and still against your shaking body.

You’re slowly finding peace.

Then you hear JJ’s voice mutter, “What the hell?”

You pull back, spotting him a few feet away with Pope and John B getting out of the car, looking at you with an expression you can only describe as appalled. You don’t have words. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Blistering sirens reverberate through you. They get so loud so fast that you don’t realize you’ve lost contact with Rafe until a police car jolts to a stop a few feet away from you.

This has to be a nightmare.

Detective Brading swings open the door, followed by another cop, rushing towards you and Rafe. He’s carrying handcuffs. You might lose consciousness.

“Knew this day was coming, didn’t you?” Brading says before he grips Rafe’s wrist, pushing him up against the nearest car.

Rafe struggles, but Brading slams him against the hood of the car so hard that you hear the thud of his skull against the metal.

“Stop! You can’t hurt him like that!” you cry. The other police officer steps in front of you, pushing you back. You expect him to handcuff you, too. He doesn’t.

You look around you in terrified desperation as if someone can help. The crowd has quickly come closer, watching in awe, as if you and Rafe’s lives aren’t being pulled apart for everyone to see.

You meet Rafe’s frightened gaze as the side of his face presses against the car. Brading flatly recites his rights, handcuffing him, ignoring you as you beg that he tell you why he’s being arrested, that he stop hurting him.

Rafe doesn’t say a word until you whimper in pain and plead to the officer keeping you back to stop holding so tight. He tries to charge forward, demanding he take his hands off of you, earning him another rough push against the car.

Brading hauls him away and you try to follow, but the other officer keeps you back, gripping you so hard that it reminds you of Porter all over again.

“You want to get arrested, too?” he mutters. Your muscles give in, losing tension. You still don’t understand why Rafe’s being arrested and you’re not.

“No. Sorry. I’ll stop,” you say weakly. “Where’s he being taken?”

The officer doesn’t believe you at first, but eventually, he loosens his grip.

“The county jail,” he says, looking past your shoulder as the car door shuts.

Then, they leave, and you’re in front of the crowd, in front of your friends, frozen and speechless.

·········

Your mouth is dry as you wait in the lobby of the quiet jail. They won’t give you any information. Nothing about what the charge is, how long Rafe will be here, if he’ll be given bail. It’s been an hour.

You hold JJ’s car keys in your shaking hands. You were frantic when you begged him to lend you his car, promising you’d take care of it.

He confusedly agreed and you left immediately, not exchanging any other words, following the police car just in case the officer lied to you about where they were going.

Your phone is dead and your connection to the outside world is dead with it.

Your stomach drops when you spot Brading exit through a door behind the processing desk.

“What’s happening?” you ask. “Where is he? Is he okay?”

He stiffly cuts through the lobby, pushing open the front door, letting it swing behind him. You grunt as the door hits your palms.

“I suggest you go home,” Brading mutters as you trail him into the dark parking lot. “I can charge you for assault against a police officer if you don’t stop harassing me.”

“Please. I just want to know,” you plead. “Nobody will tell me anything.”

You’re sure he’s getting a power trip out of this. You didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. Now, he won’t tell you.

“Please,” you repeat, feeling utterly powerless. The detective stops abruptly, facing you, his face in a scowl.

“I’m ordering you to go home,” he says sharply.

“Brading?” someone calls behind him.

Within a matter of seconds, you hear something you never thought you’d hear again. The single and unmistakable blow of a gunshot.

·········

You’re in disbelief, staring ahead at the stranger sitting in your living room as her gaze travels between you and your parents. The woman introduced herself as an agent, flashing a shiny badge before she came inside.

Last night, you gave the cops a statement about what had happened in the parking lot. A man was out there, agitated and waiting for Brading. He shot him and looked you dead in the eyes before another man shouted for him to get down on the ground.

He drove away, tires screeching, as the officer who’d rushed out of the jail shot at the car. You remember dropping to the cold concrete, being interrogated by a detective, and eventually being ordered to go home and not tell a soul what you’d seen.

You’re still terrified, unable to accept what your life has become and how the domino effect you’ve been thrust into could be so vicious.

“Detective Brading is in critical condition,” the woman says, “but he was able to identify the man who shot him.”

“What about Rafe?” you ask. “Is he okay?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know who that is.”

You sniffle your tears, shaking your head in disbelief. You still haven’t been given any updates on him.

“I’m here because the man from last night,” she continues, “is part of a family that has dangerous affiliations. Brading has a history of putting away high-profile criminals, and he arrested the shooter’s brother. His brother recently passed away in prison and… he tracked Brading down to make him pay. He’s still at large. According to your statement, he saw you, is that right?”

You nod anxiously, waiting for her to get to her point. By now, you have enough trauma to last you ten lifetimes.

Then, she tells you that for you and your parents’ safety, you’ll need to be put into witness protection and that you’ll be relocated and given new identities immediately.

When you ask what you’re supposed to say to the people you’re leaving behind, she’s eerily calm as she tells you, “Nothing. I’m sorry, but there’s no way you can contact anyone you know. Everyone will be under the impression that you’ve died.”

·········

You consumed Rafe’s thoughts as he sat in the county jail cell. He didn’t focus on how suffocating the room was, or how badly his wrists burned from the handcuffs, or what his future was going to look like.

He thought about you, how completely and deliberately you were in his corner, how all the embarrassment of being arrested in front of all those people was erased when you yelled in his defense.

The only voice in the crowd standing up for him, while everyone else watched, was yours. He has never cared about someone more than himself. You changed that.

That’s why when he receives the news that you passed away in an accident, he snaps.

next >

note sorry for the drama… now i can finally share that this inspired this part of the story 🤭

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[elixirfromthestars]

key: angst ☽ | fluff ☼ | 18+ ♡ | 500+ notes ✧ | 1k+ notes ୨୧ | 2k+ notes ❀

─ ⊹ ⊱ Series ⊰ ⊹ ─

The Biker's Tulip ☼ ୨୧

biker!bucky x florist!reader

A small town. A biker and a florist, each one carrying the burdens of their past, and yet despite that, finding solace in one another along the way...

─ ⊹ ⊱ Collections ⊰ ⊹ ─

In the Name of Love & Law ☼☽ ✧

detective!bucky x lawyer!reader

This collection follows the love story between Detective Bucky Barnes and you, one of the most notorious prosecutors in New York, working alongside the detectives of the Brooklyn homicide precinct. In the midst of navigating the chaos of your jobs, you also have to navigate the growing feelings between you and Bucky that seem to be going nowhere no matter how hard you try to ignore them...

─ ⊹ ⊱ Two Parts ⊰ ⊹ ─

A Night Of Frights and Delights ☼ ୨୧

athlete!bucky x artist!reader - college au

It's Friday the 13th and the college kids in town decided to host a weekend camping trip on the outskirts of town. Your best friend convinced you to go much to your reluctance. What could go wrong when the one guy you can't stand is also there?

Part II ♡ ☼ ✧

You and Bucky have danced around the lines you've placed ever since that weekend camping trip. Months later, when Tony Stark hosts an extravagant party, he finally makes a move to cross them.

─ ⊹ ⊱ Oneshots ⊰ ⊹ ─

One Call Away ☼

agent!bucky x journalist!reader

You’re a journalist in the late 1950s working for a gossip magazine. You write an article about the actor Steve Rogers, and his agent Bucky Barnes is not happy about it. He confronts you and offers you a deal.

In Five Years ☽

bucky x enhanced!reader

Bucky was having a hard time expressing his feelings about finally being free from the Winter Soldier program. To help him out, you suggested writing a letter to his future self and burying it in a time capsule to visit this moment again in the future. The plan was to open the time capsule five years from now. That was until Thanos showed up.

My Dearest ☼ ✧ ☽

duke!bucky x lady!reader

On the night of Lady Maximoff’s ball you find yourself in the gardens, troubled by your emotions. As if by fate, the rain pours down reuniting you with the one who is the very object of your troubles.

Written in the Stars ☼

bucky x avenger!reader - established relationship

Your boyfriend, Bucky, takes you on a date full of surprises under the stars.

Boulevard Confessions ☼ ୨୧

40s!bucky x nurse!reader

Being a third wheel to Peggy and Steve wasn't your ideal Thursday night fun. However, when they tell you Bucky is tagging along you eagerly decide to join them. That is until a third party makes its presence known.

Sink Your Teeth In Me ♡☼୨୧

bucky x neighbor!reader

You and Bucky are supposed to attend Sam's party on Halloween. However, when you show up to his place looking like temptation itself—he gets other ideas on how to spend the night with you.

Crossroads ☽

bucky x neurosurgeon!reader

On a rainy night on your way home, fate decides to cross your path with someone who used to hold the dearest place in your heart.

Dancing Embers ☼

40s!bucky x nurse!reader

A cozy cabin, the love of your life, and the warmth of a fire. What more could you ask for on a cold winter night?

By The Warmth Of The Oven ☼ ❀

bucky x avenger!reader

You are baking cookies for the Avengers holiday party when a certain super solider comes into the kitchen tipsy for the first time...

In His Embrace ☼

agent!bucky x journalist!reader

As a new day begins and the snow cascades beyond your windows, you know there's no place you'd rather be than in his arms.

A Snow Day With You ☼

athlete!bucky x artist!reader - college au

The end of the semester has you stressing beyond belief, so Bucky decides to cheer you up by spending a snowy afternoon sledding.

─ ⊹ ⊱ Drabbles ⊰ ⊹ ─

Together ☼ ✧

bucky x wife!reader

It’s been a month since you had a baby with your husband, Bucky. On the first day he went back to work, however, you can’t get her to stop crying—that is until Bucky comes home.

Lucky Day ☼

bucky x reader - college au

Bucky, your childhood best friend, takes you to a baseball game to thank you for helping him with his chemistry class. However, between bets and kiss cams, luck seems to be the real game being played.

Tranquility ☼

bucky x avenger!reader - established relationship

On your day off from saving the world, you decide to have a date in the park with your boyfriend Bucky.

─ ⊹ ⊱ Blurbs ⊰ ⊹ ─

No matter when or where, Bucky will always be there at your call. ☼ ✧

⌞‼⌝ I do not give consent to have my work posted, translated, or published to any third party site or app. 

⌞‼⌝ All images/gifs used are not mine, and come from google unless specifically stated otherwise.​

⌞‼⌝ Heart divider by @/enchanthings

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Detective Story

References (Elements; Subgenres; Tips; Some Vocabulary)

Detective story - one whose plot hinges on a crime that the characters investigate and attempt to solve.

Also called “whodunnit” stories or crime stories.

Most detective stories are written from the point of view of a detective.

5 Basic Elements

A Detective

Usually featured as the protagonist.

Spend time thinking about your detective’s personality, their motivations, their background, their strengths, and their weaknesses. You’ll want your detective to be unique among the other detectives out there.

A Crime

Most detective stories revolve around a central crime or string of related crimes.

Since the crime will be the catalyst of your short story or novel, it should be interesting, memorable, and seemingly unsolvable—that way, readers will be so tantalized by the mystery of it that they’ll need to keep reading.

A dead body is a very common crime in detective fiction, but there are plenty of other options—from robberies to disappearances.

Suspects

Many detective stories include an array of suspects that could have committed the crime (either they have weak alibis or have a history of lying).

Your suspects are a vital part of your detective story; they serve as red herrings (or distractions) that will direct readers’ attention away from the true culprit.

Some mystery novels don’t have any suspects—this is a deliberate choice by crime writers that serves to heighten the tension in the story, but if your story doesn’t have any suspects, find creative ways to keep the case from going cold.

An Antagonist

The person whose goals are in direct conflict with the antagonist’s.

Traditionally, the antagonist is the true culprit for the story’s crime (or crimes), but that’s not who your antagonist has to be; the antagonist of your story could be a police officer who wants to solve the crime first or someone who knows the identity of the culprit and is trying to cover it up.

A Setting

The setting is a very important part of any detective story because the action in most detective stories takes place on the streets of its location.

Therefore the stories are inextricably linked to the time and place they are set in and are memorable because of those details.

5 Subgenres

Here are just a few subgenres that fall under detective stories

Police-department procedurals. Focus on police work and often feature homicide investigators and other departments of a local police force.

Cozy mysteries. These have a lighter tone than traditional detective fiction and avoid explicit depictions of the murder. They are often set in a small town and focus on puzzle-solving rather than suspense.

Hardboiled detective stories. These stories are usually dark and explicit, featuring a veteran detective who treats violent crimes matter-of-factly.

Thrillers. Emphasize suspenseful storytelling, often featuring chase scenes or murder sprees that the detective must stop before the time runs out.

Locked-room mysteries. Feature crimes that, at the outset, appear impossible—for instance, a murder taking place in a seemingly locked room with no other way in or out.

5 Tips for Writing a Good Detective Story

Interesting Motivation

The motivation of the culprit is one of the most crucial and prominent parts of detective work—what readers want to know even more than who committed the crime is why they committed it.

Nothing spoils a good detective story more than an uninteresting or unbelievable motivation (for instance, a serial killer who is just “pure evil” and has no discernable reasons for murdering) or an unmotivated confession.

In the same vein, your detective should also have a strong motivation for being in this line of work—it’s not easy, and many people wouldn’t be able to stomach it.

Learn about Detective Work

Readers want to feel immersed in the world of your detective story—whether it’s the world of the law or the seedy underbelly of a small town.

That’s why it’s so important to get the details right when crime writing—so you can keep the reader’s attention with believable plot points.

Do the research to make sure that you know who would be the first to make it to the scene of a crime, how detectives would go about tracking people down or questioning them, and what role forensics would play in your crime scene, so that your readers don’t spend any time wondering if what they’re reading is accurate to real life.

Too Easy

Readers pick up detective fiction because they want to be intrigued by a good mystery—so if your crime is too easy for them to solve, they’ll get bored and likely not finish the story.

Trust in your readers’ ability for logical deduction and don’t give too much away, leaving them guessing and really shocking them.

A Payoff

Try to avoid an outcome where readers will feel let down by the answer.

In the words of S. S. Van Dine, a famous mystery-novel-writing art critic, “A crime in a detective story must never turn out to be an accident or a suicide. To end an odyssey of sleuthing with such an anti-climax is to hoodwink the trusting and kind-hearted reader.”

By that same logic, try to avoid any “deus ex machina”— an impossible-to-solve situation is suddenly resolved with little or no effort from the characters.

Experiment & Innovate

Read lots of detective fiction and then subvert the tropes—

What if your main character is the person who committed the crime, and your bad guy is the detective or official investigator working to solve it?

Or what if your character’s love interest was the victim?

Common Terms in Detective Fiction

Establish a working vocabulary will help improve detective fiction writing

accusation - statement that places blame on a specific person or persons

alias - an alternate name used to conceal identity

alibi - an explanation that removes a person from the scene of a crime when it occurred

angle - specific strategy or way of looking at facts as employed by the detective during an investigation

autopsy - the medical examination of a corpse to determine cause(s) of death

booking - the process whereby a suspect is officially arrested and charged with a crime

case - the investigation of a crime from the time it is reported/ discovered until it is resolved (closed)

charges - specific crime(s) a person is accused of

circumstantial - indicative but not conclusive

clue - anything that sheds light on a particular case

collar - the actual arrest by a police officer

corpus dilecti - the actual body that proves a murder has been committed

crime of passion - a crime committed in a rage of anger, hatred, revenge, etc.

culprit - the “bad guy;” criminal

D.A. - district attorney; works for the government

deduction - conclusion reached through a logical progression of steps

defense - the argument made to show the innocence of the accused person

evidence - material that will prove innocence or guilt

eyewitness - someone who actually observes a crime and/or criminal

felony - major crime (i.e., armed robbery, murder, rape)

foil - the detective’s “right hand man;” he/she is usually quite different in nature. Ex: Holmes/Watson; Nero Wolfe/ Archie Goodwin

frame-up - deliberate trap set to lay blame on an innocent person

habeas corpus - accusor has to produce a body in order to hold a suspect

homicide - the act of murder

hunch - guess; instinct

informer - relays information to police/detective for money (usually)

inquest/inquiry - legal questioning concerning a particular event or action

lead - something/someone that may help move an investigation to a solution

malice aforethought - criminal was already considering a hostile act before the crime occurred

manslaughter - accidental killing

misdemeanor - minor offense

modus operandi - method of operation (m.o.) that a criminal employs during his crimes

morgue - city government building where dead bodies are kept during investigations

motive - reason for committing a crime

perpetrator - offender; criminal

post mortem - the report from an autopsy

premeditation - deliberate intent to perform a crime before it occurs

private eye - private detective

prosecutor - attorney working for the District Attorney; person trying to prove guilt in a courtroom

red herring - a false clue that usually misleads the reader (and often the detective)

set-up - a trap that is designed to catch a criminal or victim

sleuth - detective

statement - official document containing information supplied by witness, suspect, or any other person involved in an investigation

stool pigeon - informer

surveillance - constant visual or electronic monitoring of a person’s activities

suspect - someone who may have reason to have committed a specific crime

tank - jail cell

third degree - intensive questioning of a suspect

victim - person who is hurt or killed as a result of a criminal act

Sources: 1 2 Writing Notes: Autopsy ⚜ Word Lists: Forensics ⚜ Law-Related

[reynasdream]

OOO BRO I just saw your lil post about writing for reverse 1999 and lemme tell you how FAST I dashed over here like I could be in the Olympics LMFAO

ANYWAYY BOOKIE I was LOWKEY WONDERING if you would be comfortable enough to doing Tennant and Dikke (separate!) x Ace detective! (Fem or Gn) Reader?

LIKE.. IDK imagine reader like Goro Akechi from persona 5😭 BUT OF COURSE that’s only if you’re comfortable and confident w it!🫧

HAVE A AMAZINGGG DAY THO!!

HELLO MISS!

⤷ pairings: dikke x reader, tennant x reader

⤷ content: all pairings are separate, reader is gender-neutral with no specified pronouns, mentions of homocide, very slight suggestiveness in dikke's part, not proofread

DIKKE

⤷ she had heard of you before from the townsfolk. to be completely honest, she had never really thought much about you other than that you were a smart and incredible, yet expensive detective.

⤷ you had helped solved several cases in the past despite your young age. you had started ever since you were a child, however, your work was more..."unofficial".

⤷ you were more recognized by her when you had gathered evidence to solve a major unsolved homicide case. she became more interested in you, and when she had the time, she sought out for you.

⤷ she didn't want to hire you, however. she simply wished to know you and your work better.

⤷ she asked to meet you at a small cafe, one where you two wouldn't easily be noticed by the townspeople.

⤷ after speaking with each other for a while, you two decided to have these meet-ups at least once every two weeks. the meetings became more often, but of course, you couldn't meet all the time because of both of your duties.

⤷ still, she enjoyed your company and knowing more about your career and cases in the past.

⤷ it didn't take long for her to realize she was in love with you.

⤷ one random day she decided to just confess to you. she invited you to the same cafe, but she tried to make it more special by giving you a gift and a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

⤷ she tried hinting that she liked you, and you did catch on, but you didn't say anything, thinking you were wrong.

⤷ that's when she just confessed to you. her face was tomato red when she confessed, and she attempted to hide her face with her hands.

⤷ if you accepted her confession, she'll take you outside and kiss you behind the building...maybe it'll lead to something more?

⤷ if you rejected her confession, she'll be okay with it, but she'll still want to be friends with you. she just won't be able to hang out with you so much, because now she's moving on and hanging out with you will only make her feelings toward you intense.

TENNANT

⤷ she knows you are not an easy one to fool with her..."charms".

⤷ she essentially spies on you, observing your personality and actions to determine who you are.

⤷ assuming you're wealthy, she'll most likely try to cheat you out of your wealth.

⤷ when her charms prove as useless, she may resort to her arcanum skills to manipulate you.

⤷ if they don't work on you somehow, then she'll be less ticked off and more intrigued by you, similar to dikke except with more malicious intentions.

⤷ she will befriend you, and work her way up to a higher status as your friend in order to manipulate you.

⤷ that's when she realizes that she has fallen in love with you, and she'll try to win you, this time with less...deceiving intentions.

⤷ she will try to win your heart, and although it definitely doesn't seem like it, she's rather desperate.

⤷ i mean, you're gorgeous, smart, and rich. it's not a surprise that she wants to be with you.

⤷ one day, she decides it's time for her to confess her feelings. her real feelings.

⤷ she invites you to a fancy restaurant, even offering to pay for everything. she gives you a couple luxurious gifts and treats you even more well than usual.

⤷ when she does confess, she is very much different from dikke. she speaks with full confidence, not bothering to hide her flushed face as she tells you her feelings.

⤷ if you do accept her confession, she would be delighted. she'll often take you out on fancy dates to restaurants, museums, operas, or other places considered as "sophisticated".

⤷ if you don't accept her confession, she'll understand, but that doesn't mean she won't be upset. she'll try to move on but she definitely won't forget you and your cute little face.

[itszouis]

the final post! you can find the rest of the posts under the tag 'grapejuicebluesrry 2024 fic rec'. i love reccing fics so if you read any of the fics from these posts please dont hesitate to send me an ask with your thoughts!

· · ──────────────────────────────── · ·

Let's Fall in Love in a Place You Want to Stay (134K) by embro 

A George of the Jungle / Tarzan AU where Louis is a model who meets Wild Man Harry in the Congo. He was raised by apes and barely speaks a word of English and turns Louis' life upside down.

· · ──────────────────────────────── · ·

to haunt a heart (110K) by etherealbliss | @givesuethemoon

A high-profile double homicide in the quiet, small town of Ashford, WA sends shockwaves through the public. Louis, the lead detective assigned to the case, is headstrong, earnest, and desperate to prove himself. Harry, the widow of one of the victims, is insufferably rich, wears far too many vintage dressing gowns, and is desperate to prove he’s not guilty.

Their desperation unexpectedly blossoms into something beautiful behind closed doors, amidst the ticking time bomb of a slowly unravelling mystery that the two soon find themselves deeply entwined in.

· · ──────────────────────────────── · ·

Requiem for the Dawn (176K) by ifiwasabluebird

With the Nexovirus continuing its relentless spread across the globe, authorities are grappling with a new and alarming development. Infected individuals are now exhibiting violent and unpredictable behaviours, creating a heightened level of danger for both themselves and others. The origins of this new symptom remain unclear, but medical professionals are working around the clock to understand the nature of this disturbing transformation. Those who were once mild-mannered have become a potential threat to public safety, raising concerns about the safety of communities everywhere. Governments worldwide are implementing stringent measures to curb the spread of the Nexovirus. Some regions have declared states of emergency, implementing curfews and lockdowns to ensure the safety of their populations.

Stay home.

· · ──────────────────────────────── · ·

The Sound Of Your Silence (143K) by Ioudloudlove 

After a freak accident, Louis can hear people's thoughts. He has no control over it, his days consumed with other people's darkest and most disturbing confessions. The only way of blocking it out? Sex... and lots of it. Louis jumps from partner to partner, searching for respite from his own personal hell.

One day, a stranger approaches him on the train and Louis is stunned when he can't hear anything. He's intrigued but still doesn't plan on sticking around for more than the night. But there's something about Harry, something that winds it's away around Louis and keeps pulling him back.

Who is this man? And why can't Louis forget about him?

· · ──────────────────────────────── · ·

would it be enough if i could never give you peace? (129K) by hemakeshimstrongx | @hemakeshimstrong

Harry Styles is in the middle of a whirlwind tour when he gets dumped by his boyfriend of six years. Reeling and surrounded by chaos and a handful of meddling friends, the last thing Harry expects is to be wooed by a foul-mouthed football star who happens to be the king of Manchester's - possibly the whole of England's - hearts.

Louis Tomlinson is vying for a spot on England's World Cup roster for the first time in his career. It would be a hell of a lot easier to focus on football if every journalist wasn't asking him why he was at a popstar's concert in the midst of training. All Louis wants is a World Cup win. He ends up with a whole lot more.

[or: Harry's fresh off a break up when the media starts shoving a romance that does not exist down his throat, and the throats of everyone in the entire world. When he starts chatting with the footballer stuck in the middle of all this with him, Harry ends up experiencing something he'd never anticipated, and certainly had never felt before]

[OR: the unnecessarily long AU inspired by taylor swift & travis kelce]

· · ──────────────────────────────── · ·

All The Stars Align (143K) by babyhoneyhslt

Omega Prince Harry of England has been engaged to Prince Louis of France ever since he was a young boy. Having met him at four and forming a bond, Harry is upset to find that Louis no longer treats him like a friend, instead treating him coldly.

However, Louis has his own dark secrets and Harry doesn’t know just how many dangers linger in French Court.

· · ──────────────────────────────── · ·

All in the Golden Afternoon (126K) by leighllbealright | @leighllbealright

[i read the entire series after putting this post together and absolutely recommend reading it all!]

When Louis Tomlinson needed to find a new preschool for his daughter, he wasn't expecting the one across the street to be everything he and Goldie ever needed.

Or: the one where Louis is closed off, Harry is the weirdest person ever, and Gemma may as well be a psychic.

Somehow, calico-cat-style, they forge a beautiful family from pieces that don't quite fit.

· · ──────────────────────────────── · ·

discover more fics under the cut!

· · ──────────────────────────────── · ·

Light Spills In A Flood (162K) by unscattered_horizons

Liam retrieves an old copy of Hamlet from the bookshelf and grabs the plum coloured blanket that Harry crocheted for their flat when they moved in a few years ago.

Zayn lays between Liam’s legs with his back on Liam’s chest, settling in to read along and pulling the blanket across their laps. Liam reaches his arms around Zayn, holding the book open so they can both read the verses. Zayn turns the pages as they go, brushing Liam’s hands each time he does, and they both feel a little tingle in their fingertips with each new page. The third time he brushes Liam’s hand, Zayn keeps his fingertips there, tracing Liam’s tattoos as if redrawing them, marking each petal in his memory. Liam feels like his hand is on fire, as if Zayn really is inking the roses into his hand again, hyper aware of how gentle Zayn’s touch is. It feels like a blessing.

It’s a measure of how exhausted they both are that they only make it through the end of Act 3 before Zayn is fully asleep and Liam is drifting off too. Liam wakes Zayn with a hand through his hair, brushing strands off his forehead where they’ve fallen to cover his eyes, those beautiful golden brown eyes.

· · ──────────────────────────────── · ·

Belong To The Rain (172K) by unscattered_horizons

“We really are that couple, aren’t we?” Harry asks when taking a breath, eyes shut while he focuses on the way Louis tastes, the smell of his cologne warm on his neck, the way his hair falls against Harry’s face and tickles at his skin.

Louis kisses him again before answering. “Probably, but you’ll have to be more specific.” He moves his hands onto Harry now, holding him firm.

“The kind that just got a lock and key tattoo.” Harry groans when Louis bites his neck and tugs on his hair to pull his head to the side.

“We have about a dozen matching tattoos, H. That ship sailed a decade ago.” Louis makes his point by squeezing Harry’s tricep where the literal ship that matches Louis’ compass is delicately inked into his husband’s skin.

“Thank fuck…” Harry trails off, Louis’ hands moving around to hold Harry’s ass and shift their bodies even closer together, one leg between Harry’s while he pulls him lower down the wall. “Louis…” Harry doesn’t get an answer so he pushes his hips into Louis to get his attention. “Lou.”

“What babe? You alright?” Louis pulls back so he can look at Harry fully. He gets one of Harry’s searching stares.

“I want a baby.”

· · ──────────────────────────────── · ·

The Map Of You (144K) by unscattered_horizons

While deciding between the merits of two jumpers, Niall realises that maybe he should just have someone else decide for him, and that his travel companion likely has useful opinions about what to bring along. But if he’s honest with himself, Niall’s excited for their trip and he misses Shawn. It’s been a few days and he just wants to see him. As he’s home alone fretting over his fashion choices, virtual Shawn will have to do.

Shawn answers the facetime call after three rings with a grunt and a “hold on my hands are full.” Several drawn out blurry backgrounds later, Shawn’s face finally enters the frame, flush and out of breath, and Niall can see he’s also in the middle of packing for their trip. “Hey, man. You packing too? My studio time ran late so I’m just throwing shit in my suitcase and hoping for the best. And I have to finish packing what’s getting sent ahead to L.A. You’re probably all set and have been for a month, yeah? Course you have, you’re a virgo.” Shawn tosses his hair out of his eyes but it falls back almost immediately, making him frown up at it. He knows he just answered in a jumble of words, but he wasn’t expecting a video call right at this moment. Not that he minds. He never minds when it’s Niall.

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Our Souls Intertwined (154K) by Darling28, freakingmeout

Louis is an established singer-songwriter, leading a full but lonely life in the music scene and finding solace in writing fanfiction about himself.

Harry, on the other hand, is a loyal fan and aspiring musician who comes across Louis' fanfiction without realising that Louis himself is the author.

Their connection deepens through online exchanges and quickly develops into something they both need. When they finally meet in real life and discover who they really are, they soon realise that despite their feelings for each other, they will have to fight hard for the relationship they both want.

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Black Raspberries and Butterscotch (114K) by MushroomMushroom28

Harry felt tears line his eyes. He’d waited so long for this. So fucking long-

Louis slammed into him, nearly knocking them both over. “Hazza,” he whispered, completely out of breath, arms vice-like around Harry’s body.

“Lou.” Harry gave in to the tears, letting them fall onto Louis’s shirt. “Lou, I’m here.”

“You’re here.” Louis sniffled and pulled back to look at Harry. “You’re really here.” They both broke into blinding smiles.

Harry took Louis in, looking almost exactly as he did four years ago, but with just a little more life experience behind his eyes. Those blue irises were as piercing as ever, none of his portraits having ever done him justice. His hair was wild as always, sticking up however it pleased. Harry laughed. It was good to be home.

(OR What happens when two best friends, late to present as their secondary genders, finally spend a summer together after four years apart?)

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We Were Young (And I Was So Naive) (123K) by hc2828

Prompt: Harry and his daughter move back to his hometown of Holmes Chapel. He shows her the best parts of his upbringing, the park he used to play in, the bakery, and even the polaroid photos of him and his high school boyfriend, Louis, he thought he'd thrown away after their breakup. What happens when they run into said boyfriend at the supermarket?

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futile devices (i do love you) (103K) by fckingfreakshow

“You okay there, Curly?” Louis leaned against the counter next to him, eyes dancing.

Harry nodded, “Yup, yup, I’m good. Just, um, like to make sure my resting heart rate is normal, you know? My lo mein was spicy.” God, he really talked some shit.

Louis reached out, pulling Harry’s wrist away and replacing his fingers with his own. Well, now he was fucked. Louis’ fingers were soft, so soft, and causing his heart rate to skyrocket erratically.

Harry was about to force himself to take a step back just as Louis’ fingers twitched. They locked eyes as a thumb brushed over his Adam’s apple and his lungs collapsed altogether when it slowly pressed down. With wide eyes, Harry watched Louis’ flicker to his throat for a split second before it was over, so quickly as if it hadn’t happened. As if he hadn't just put pressure on Harry’s throat.

What. The. Fuck. __

or, the one where harry's mom gets engaged when he's 17 and he's truly, madly, deeply in love with his 23–or 24–year old stepbrother.

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I'll be ready - never you fear (112K) by 2Bsodefenceless, scribbleink

Spending his summer by the sea in Lavender Cove, after a fateful accident at work, was nothing Harry had really planned. He also didn’t plan to meet the lifeguard with the captivating blue eyes and the curious, curly dog.

He came to find peace but ended up finding happiness instead.

Or, if happiness comes in form of Louis Tomlinson, welcome it with open arms.

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Bitter Tangerine (119K) by purpledaisy 

Maybe it’s Niall, he reasons to calm his storming heart. Maybe he’s not actually gone for the holidays yet, maybe Harry got the dates confused. Slowly, he holds his breath and pushes the kitchen door open. The first thing he sees make him jump, a wooden spoon held out like a sword. Once his brain processes the sight in front of him, it’s less the sword that gets him than who is attached to the wooden spoon.

“Harry,” the swordsmen speaks before Harry can, his voice low and steady though confusion laces each word.

Harry’s breath catches. Every string around his heart, all the protection he spent nine months building, rips out and tears open all at once as he says, “Hi Louis.”

-

AU: Nine months after they break up, a twist of fate brings Harry and Louis back together at Christmas.

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Big Yellow Taxi (171K) by louisismycat (tiflamomet) | @liminalkitty369

Harry returns to his allotment to find the field next to it has been overrun by a youth football club.

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California Sold (123K) by isthatyoularry | @isthatyoularry

Notoriously closeted boyband member Harry Styles is famous on a global scale, meanwhile Louis, as his best friend, is back home in Manchester, living the typical life of a 24 year old. When Harry needs Louis with him in LA, a publicity stunt gone wrong changes their friendship forever.

A fake-relationship AU between two lifelong best friends.

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All This Time (101K) by Wellington28

Harry and Louis are both cops working for the same police department in the tiny (fictional) town of Wellington. Louis' mother is an addict, and because of that, he's often forced to look after his little sisters. He keeps to himself and hides that part of his life from everybody, until one day he's forced to decide - keep his family's secret, or open up to the man who can help him?

or

The one where they're both cops, Louis is sassy, Harry is flirty, and they finally stop being stupid (mostly Louis) and realize they're meant to be together (with some surprises thrown in along the way)

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Surprise/Wonder (116K) by emmli28

A movement by the fireplace caught his eyes and as he turned around the most wonderful blue eyes he had ever seen stared back at him. They belonged to the most beautiful man, with sharp cheekbones and jaw, and the most incredible eyelashes. Who was this? Harry thought and could feel his stomach swirl.

“H-hi,” Harry stammered.

“Hi!” the blue eyed man replied while he stood up and walked over towards Harry. “I’m Louis,” he said, reaching out his hand to shake Harry's and Harry took it in his. Once again Harry felt a swirl inside his stomach as he touched the softest hand he’d ever held in his. Louis, Harry thought, that must of course be Liam's friend. What a nice surprise.

Or the one where Harry goes on a cottage trip, with his friends Liam, Niall and Zayn and Liam’s new friend Louis, and gets too nervous around Louis because he’s just too beautiful.

Or the one where Harry is obsessed with Louis’ hands and Louis doesn’t mind at all, and where Harry and Louis fall in love and find themselves in the process.

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Twists of Fate (112K) by freakingmeout | @freakingmeout28

Some marriages don't start with love…

When his parents tell Harry that they expect him to marry Louis Tomlinson he's more than just against it, he hates them for thinking it would magically solve all his problems and make him their dream son.

Louis on the other side isn't keen to marry someone like Harry either, but since it's his only way to save his family's name, he goes for it.

Against their own will they get married and are sent on a honeymoon together where they don't have a chance to avoid each other.

Their marriage doesn't start with love, but while Louis helps Harry fighting his alcohol addiction they find something in the other that they both needed. Through trials and tribulations, their bond strengthens, transcending the confines of tradition to blossom into a profound love story of resilience and redemption.

A story for the 1D I Do fest, a very free interpretation of the following prompt:

Arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, preferably larry, forced proximity. Sent on a honeymoon but it’s at the room in the Maldives thats in the middle of the ocean only accessed by boat. Featuring sharing of beds, secret pining, awkward morning wood, arguments but you cannot escape the other.

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Baby, You're Perfect (112K) by loveheartslouis | @loveheartslouis

Harry Styles has been waiting his entire life to meet his soulmate, the owner of a dagger soulmark to match his rose. Louis Tomlinson has never wanted his soulmate and always covers his dagger soulmark.

Louis learns that they’re soulmates and he doesn’t tell Harry, breaking Harry's trust and his heart

Louis has all the time in the world to convince Harry to forgive him. Right?

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For A Rainy Day (143K) by Ioudloudlove

THIS WORK COVERS TOPICS THAT MAY BE TRIGGERING TO SOME READERS FROM THE OUTSET. PLEASE CHECK THE TAGS & WARNINGS. THANK YOU

Louis is struggling; isolated and lonely after a violent relationship ended in kidnap and a near death experience, he is trying to rebuild his life in a new city, staying anonymous amongst the many faces. Every morning he visits the bakery opposite his flat to add a bit of routine to his upside-down world.

The owner of the bakery, Harry, notices the man with the beautiful, sad eyes. He sees his lights on in the early hours, watches his shadow pace back and forth. One day, he decides to perform a random act of kindness; a gift pinned to the door with a note: For a rainy day.

As Harry begins to fall for the man, he continues to leave him surprises at his front door. But one day, Louis catches him in the act, and he is forced to come clean. They start a friendship, Louis sharing his experiences that led him to where he is now. How will Harry cope when Louis admits he’s ready to check out of life? And can he convince him that life really can be wonderful again?

OR

A secret admirer AU where Harry tries to be the hero Louis desperately needs.

[galtchild]

Tumblr forced me to draw Columbo. By which I mean I've been watching Columbo. I drew Columbo.

Thanks @columboscreens for posting the internet archive link.

You, too, can watch columbo! It's real good. He annoys rich people into confessing to crimes.

[suzdin]

Okay hear me out - Tim Rockford smut. Maybe like, getting fucked on/over his desk? Just a thought. 😇

I like the way you think 😎👉👉

——

Tim doesn’t even notice you enter his office.

He’s hunched over his monitor, chin rested in his hands, face pinched tight in concentration. He was good about not bringing his work home with him—but here, in his element at the precinct, amidst the mish mosh of a particularly grisly homicide case—he was a far different animal than the Tim you shared a bed with.

His eyes are dark, brow furrowed into a hard line. You aren’t sure what he’s looking at—you don’t want to know—but you’re certain it can’t be good judging by the frown deepening his features.

You close the door quietly behind you. The small sound is enough to jar him, and his eyes brighten to a familiar honey brown when he sees you.

“Hey, baby,” he says quietly. You can sense the relief in his tone.

“Hey,” you greet in return. “I brought dinner?” you say, forming it as a question. You don’t want to interfere if he’s on the verge of a breakthrough.

“Oh, yeah, right. Of course. What time is it?” he asks.

“Seven thirty. PM,” you reply. “Knew you must be working late again, so I picked up Chinese. Your favorite,” you say, putting the bag down on his desk.

The relief you’d detected a moment ago transitions to something different, something far more un-itched, insatiable, the moment he rises from his chair and crosses the room to you, hooking both arms around your middle and pulling you into an embrace, placing a small kiss to your clavicle.

“I’m sorry I’ve been working so much lately. I miss you,” he murmurs against your throat.

You lean into the kiss, humming softly. “I miss you, too. Do you have time to eat with me?” you ask.

You feel him grin into your skin, large hands tracing a path up your sides, then once more down your back, where they settle before the dip in your spine.

“I’m not particularly hungry, but I can think of something else I’d like to eat,” he says with a crooked smirk.

“Tim! Right here? In the office?” you scoff, swatting at his wandering hands.

“Can’t think of any other reason you’d wear this skimpy little sundress at seven thirty at night if not for me…” he tuts in a deep timbre. Your skin prickles with goosebumps. “Besides, everyone is busy watching the game. They won’t pay us much mind.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, but you make no attempt to stop the roving path of his finger tips skimming just below the hem of your dress, brushing your thighs, or when one of his broad, warm hands cups one of your asscheeks.

“Mmm,” he grunts into your neck, still planting soft kisses there. “Smell so good for me too, baby.” You’re wearing Versace Yellow Diamond—his favorite.

“Okay,” you snicker, biting your lip playfully. “Alright, I confess. I wanted to look nice for you. Maybe brighten your day a little.”

He licks a slow stripe from your collarbone to the bare rise of your shoulder, pausing there to nip at your skin. You emit a breathy moan, your head dropping back.

Tim makes a noise of approval in his throat at the small sound. Eyes locking with yours, his hand moves from your ass to the soft cradle of your panties between your legs, smiling when he feels damp cotton.

“Mm. Can think of a few ways you can brighten my day.” His fingers press down harder, rubbing slowly over your clothed clit and seam. You dip your face to his chest to muffle the moan that bubbles up.

He moves his hands to your hips and walks you backwards to the desk, gently pressing you against it as you collide with the cool metal. You watch his eyes shift from dark honey to chocolate to near black, but in a way different than before. A way that you know all too well.

His hands traverse your body, kneading you under his fingers with admiration, drinking in the sight of you in that sundress; the way it clings in all the right places, shows off just the right amount of skin.

“All of this. All for me,” he whispers, hooking his fingers below, lifting the dress above your head and pulling it off.

You shiver, having never been naked in his office before. The most you’d ever done is give him a blowjob under his desk, which you’d kind of half expected to happen again. Being this exposed is as much a turn on as it is frightening.

If there’s one thing you know for certain about Tim, it’s that he likes to be in control, something you were all too willing to relinquish to him, so long as it helped to bring him out of his head about his job. And right now it seems to be doing the trick nicely.

His kisses are harder now, more ravenous, kissing and sucking everything within reach—your lips, your jaw, your neck and shoulders. His weight is pinning you firmly against the desk, one hand deftly spreading your legs as his fingers trail over the spot in your panties that is growing increasingly more wet.

Without saying a word, he spins you, your pelvis flush with the edge of the desk, placing a hand between your shoulder blades and pushing you forward until your cheek makes contact with the metal. You let out a chirp of surprise, and he hushes you, chastising.

“Shh, baby.”

You feel Tim crouch behind you, his hands squeezing your hips as he tugs you slightly back. He presses his face into your heat, strong arched nose bumping your seam as he inhales your scent.

“Smell so fucking good,” he growls, pushing your panties to the side and flattening his tongue against you, swiping a slow path between your folds.

“Oh god, Tim,” you groan, rolling your hips in tandem with his movements. “You feel…a-amazing.”

He pulls you further apart with his hands, the tip of his tongue circling your clit for a few laps, making you buck involuntarily at the stimulation. He chuckles and the sound vibrates your core, feeling like fucking heaven.

His attention returns to your fluttering hole, his tongue dipping inside of you, lapping gingerly at your walls, pressing as deep as he can, the slow drag making you thrum and clench around the small muscle.

“Taste like heaven, baby,” he praises, bringing two of his fingers up to softly swirl the bud of your clit, and it’s too much; too much and not enough all at the same time.

“Feel like heaven,” you say with a whimper, your body starting to writhe from all the stimulation, a single hand coming up to depress the small of your back to keep you from squirming.

“Stay still,” he scolds, but you love it. You love to be his plaything.

You grapple for purchase on the desk, just trying to maintain some modicum of dignity and composure as Tim is slowly unraveling you from behind, and you guess by the noises he’s making in reverence to your pleasure that you coming undone is exactly what is spurring him on; he needs to get you off before he can make you his.

The sounds he’s making into your core are downright salacious, obscene, and utterly delicious, that familiar and welcome pressure beginning to flower low in your pelvis.

He senses you’re close and increases the rate of ministrations to your sensitive clit, knowing by heart exactly how much pressure to use, how much you enjoy. At the same time, his cheeks hollow to drink and suckle at your opening, the combination of his mouth and fingers threatening to completely unmake you by the time he’s through.

You bite back a sobbing moan and then you’re coming, hard, into his mouth, his hands planting you firmly in place while he rides out your high, his own soft moans and chirps of satisfaction muffled deep in the tunnel of your pussy.

He doesn’t pull away until you’re protesting that it’s too much, the sensations are too much, tears threatening to spring from your eyes from the overstimulation. “Wish we were in bed so I could hear those pretty sounds at full volume,” he croons.

He stands, one hand still heavy on your back as he rises, and you hear the metallic clink of metal, the grinding of a zipper. Next thing you know, you feel the rock hard press of him at your opening, teasing you as he gathers your slick.

You can practically feel the tension radiating off of him in waves, how much he needs this release.

“You don’t have to go slow, Tim,” you tell him. “Use me.”

He doesn’t make any sound or any attempt to move, at first. You wish you could see his face so you could know exactly what he’s thinking, though you’re pretty sure you have a good idea.

His fingers curl into the heel of your back. “Use you,” he repeats darkly. “I’ll use you.”

His hips abruptly snap forward into yours, sinking himself all the way to the hilt, balls slapping into you from behind, all of it causing you to cry out.

“Quiet,” he scolds again, soon followed by a roar of cheers you hear from beyond his office door, the rest of the precinct still watching the game a telling reminder that you aren’t alone. “Here.”

A thin strip of leather is lowered in front of your face, smelling distinctly of him. “Open up.”

Your mouth drops open and he pushes his belt between your teeth; you bite down, understanding the implications of the silent ask.

“That’s it, baby. Every time you want to scream, bite down harder for me, okay? Imprint yourself on me.” The words go straight to your core and you moan, the belt already working like a charm as your noises get lost in the leather.

“Good girl,” he praises.

He grabs your arms by the wrists and twists them behind your back, holding them in place with his much larger hand as he rails into you from behind, a preferred position of his. He loved having you completely pinned like this. He knew you loved it, too.

The wet squelch of where he’s currently driving into you is loud and indecent in the small office, the desk groaning under your combined weights. You’ve never let him fuck you here before, but you always knew he wanted to. It was thrilling and terrifying knowing someone could hear, someone could walk in at any moment and catch you—see just how much he loves to make you fall apart.

His own release is imminent, not too far on the horizon now, with how tense and worked up he’s been. You know you’ll probably cum again when he does, the sensation of his spend shooting into you often piloting you once more over the edge, each stutter step of his hips as he grows ever closer sending delicious vibrations straight to your core.

You moan and bite down harder on the belt, the sound dying in the leather and the column of your throat.

He snarls from behind you. “You ready for my cum, baby?” he asks, breathlessly, barely able to get the words out, so close to coming undone.

You can’t speak, so you nod fervently in response.

“Yes— oh yes. Gonna fill you.” A deep, dark growl rushes out of him, loud enough to be heard by someone who might be paying attention, and you think he probably needs the belt more than you do.

He cums deep inside of you, thick ropes of semen painting your walls, driving you to your second orgasm; you go boneless beneath him, clenching tight around his length, sucking him in further. You would cry out, if you could. Instead, you dig your teeth further into the belt, tasting the leather on your tongue.

“Good. Fucking. Girl,” he growls, each word defined by a rut of his hips as he empties the last of himself into you. “So— so fucking good to me.”

You feel a string of cum dribble out of you as he pulls out, and he chuckles, peering down at you to admire his work.

“Look at you, fucked full of me,” he says, plunging two fingers deep in your pussy to push himself back inside. “Want you leaking me the rest of the night.”

He helps you up and redresses you, sliding the dress back over your head and straightening it out for you, making sure you look nice and proper once more. You kind of wish you didn’t.

“Alright,” Tim says, kissing you affectionately, his love for you far greater than what he can articulate. “Let’s have dinner.”

[crimsonsoulpower]

"Compassion is ethics detective."

Joel Theriot tells Rust when he's being rough as usual as he tends to be as the cop that he is.

Marty gets his fair share for killing the guy which, bad it gone differently, would've lead to different circumstances. Maybe getting to errol sooner than they did.

But the same happened with Rust too. A guy whose confession he got out for double homicide offered information and asked him to make a deal. Instead of following through on that, Rust just beats him up and then that guy is found dead next day. Every thing he said turns out to be true which haunts Rust for the next decade. Maybe had he actually listened to the guy instead of going for police brutality, it would've turned out better.

[flastar13]

I was in my bed cold and bored, searching on Netflix for a light but fun movie, when I found Once Upon a Crime. I loved the concept of a little red riding hood detective who befriends Cinderella and together they investigate a crime but the ending disappointed me.

Spoiler Alert

It turns out that Hans' murderer is Cinderella but it was in self-defense, Hans was a disgusting guy obsessed with cutting women's beautiful hair regardless of the fact that women refused to let him cut his hair. Unfortunately Cinderella had the misfortune of running into this creep in a scene that she uncomfortably reminded me of a predator convincing his victim to come with, WAIT THAT'S WHAT'S HAPPENING. Upon arriving at Hans' house, the stylist tries to forcibly cut Cinderella's beautiful blonde hair in a confrontation that reminds me eerily of an attempted rape but Cinderella manages to defend herself and hits him with a rock, unfortunately FOR HER NOT FOR HIM DISGUSTING HANS, he dies. Here I recognize that her actions are truly criminal although I still empathize with her because the victim is Margot, her stepsister who abuses her and kills her dove for being ugly and sells her cake. Cinderella blames her for the crime but it doesn't turn out as expected. planned.

Little Red Riding Hood discovers the truth and gets Cinderella to confess, so I prepared myself for an emotional scene where Little Red Riding Hood asks the prince for mercy for her friend, after all she was able to hide a corpse so that her friend can have a moment of happiness in her life. shit and had Margot arrested for one night for being a bully to Cinderella even though she knew she was innocent of the murder. Then the prince, who they said was so fair and strongly suspected the rumors about the disgusting Hans, would forgive Cinderella for the murder because it was self-defense, but he would force her to pay the penalty for trying to frame Margot for murder, showing us the girls that it is okay to defend ourselves from disgusting guys no matter how influential they are and the law is going to protect us but at the same time saying that no matter how bad they are to you, framing your bully for homicide is wrong and will be punished by independent law of the evil one, what is your bully because you are violating the law. After that, Little Red Riding Hood would point out that Cinderella's family is guilty of committing domestic abuse and that if the disgusting Hans got justice, Cinderella should also get it, the stepmother and her daughters would be arrested for longer than Cinderella so after paying her Crime would return home free from her abusers with the friendship of Little Red Riding Hood and the prince who loves Remi but pities her and developed brotherly affection for Cinderella. That was the ending I expected in 2023, where women can defend themselves against disgusting guys and have male friends.

What I got was a poor victim who is shamed for defending herself against a disgusting but rich and influential guy who got justice even though her murder was in her own defense while her victim didn't get her abusive relatives They were arrested for having her as a slave. Then the other girl Remi for not defending herself from the disgusting Hans, leaving her with a scar that depresses her so much that she hides even from her boyfriend, the prince, is rewarded with the prince's hand in marriage for acting for a year as if she were guilty of being attacked. by a madman while Cinderella is imprisoned for defending herself. Nice teaching, let that influential man rape you and then leave society so they don't see how hurt you were because you will be rewarded for your passivity with a handsome and rich boyfriend but if you defend yourself you will be arrested and no one will care why you did it If you are poor you will never get justice, you must be rich to get it.

[nadvs]

the act of unravelling (part five) (end)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

< prev

Rafe knocks again. And again. And again.

Your front door rattles in its frame, his knuckles still sore from the punches he threw at the bonfire last night.

He sat in the holding cell after being questioned by Brading, ruminating over everything he’ll say to you when he sees you. He needs to tell you that you’re right; the detective is onto you both.

Brading brought up your name, asking about Porter, asking what Rafe had over you that would make you want to protect him.

He’s confident you’re both guilty, but he doesn’t have the evidence to prove it. He’d booked him on a drug charge, telling him they’d searched his bedroom and found enough coke to arrest him for more than just possession.

His questions had nothing to do with that.

He demanded Rafe tell him about Porter, trying to provoke him into a confession. As he sat in the small, dingy interrogation room, your words echoed in his head. I don’t think we should talk to him without a lawyer.

So, he didn’t. Brading gave up and threw him back into his cell. Rafe would’ve lost his temper if he didn’t have you to protect.

The lawyer came in with Ward early this morning. After Rafe told him about the arrest, the lawyer explained that Brading had abused his power by not providing Rafe with his right to make a phone call.

Rafe couldn’t make eye contact with his father as he was escorted into a courtroom for the bail hearing an hour later. The lawyer was well worth the money Rafe is sure his father is paying him. He was given a court date and granted bail, which Ward covered.

“I’m sorry I got mixed up in this, okay?” Rafe had muttered to his father in the car on their way home. “I’ll get clean. I’ll stop selling.”

“You should know better,” Ward sighed. “The cops showing up to our house like that… what are you thinking?”

“I’m not,” he said.

“And what was that… about that missing kid? You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?”

His own father jumping to the worst conclusion, even though it’s true, pierced the wound Rafe has held in his heart since childhood. He’s nothing but a disappointment. A stain on the family name.

Now, he’s at your front door, and he’s been knocking for what feels like five straight minutes. Nobody’s answering. The house looks empty. The car is gone.

He checks his phone again to see it’s almost two in the afternoon. All his texts and calls to you have gone undelivered.

He can’t even entertain the thought that you’re doing it on purpose; he knows you’re loyal to him. He never thought he’d trust somebody the way he trusts you, but he does, and he would never expect you to turn on him.

He needs to find you.

He makes his way to the country club, figuring you must be at work. When he rushes to the restaurant, tapping the bartop, he impatiently asks where you are.

The bartender looks at Rafe with a look he can’t quite read.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m her boyfriend,” Rafe says. It’s the first time he used that title, but it feels right for what he has with you. “Is she working today or not?”

“Oh… I…” The bartender uneasily looks around the room. “I shouldn’t be the one to... I don’t…”

“What?” Rafe snaps.

“Our boss told us this morning,” he responds, his expression pained. He leans closer, hesitating as he says, “She was in a car accident and she didn’t make it. I’m sorry, man. I wish I wasn’t the one to tell you.”

Rafe straightens, his body flooding with a sharp, harrowing chill.

“You…” He shakes his head. “You got something wrong. You don’t– you’re confused.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know her that well, but…” The bartender nervously shrugs. “Everyone liked her.”

Liked her. Liked. You’re not in the past tense. You’re here. You’re somewhere around here. The ringing in his ears grows louder. The man only shakes his head, frowning in sympathy.

“You’re confused,” Rafe repeats. “What did– who told you that?”

“My boss,” he tells him again.

Rafe erratically rushes out of the building, starting his car even though he doesn’t know where to go, and looks ahead with a blank stare as his chest heaves.

“No,” he mutters to himself, his voice strained. “No, this is– he’s fucking wrong. This is…”

There’s no way this is real.

He pulls his phone out to call you. Again, it doesn’t even ring. His phone beeps with the dropped call notification. He tries again. Nothing.

His limbs are shaking, eyes burning with tears. A mistake. It’s a mistake. He just needs to find another way to contact you.

He opens a social media app to message you there. Before he can type in the search bar, a smiling photo of you is at the top of his feed.

It’s a news article. Local woman dead after late night crash. The post caption reads: This is crazy. She was so young :( Rest in peace.

He taps to read the comments, reading worthless prayers and canned condolences as he keeps scrolling, every roll of his thumb making him sicker.

He finds the article. Saliva coats his tongue and he’s sure he’s about to throw up as he reads it.

The vehicle was traveling southbound… Ran off the roadway… Pronounced deceased on scene.

No. You were just with him last night, a living, breathing, beautiful girl telling him you care about him, your touch warm and soft and real.

Deceased. That cold, final word doesn’t describe you. It can’t.

He barely makes it in time to open his door and vomit on the concrete. When he slams his hands over his steering wheel, he does it until his palms throb in pain. He cries until his throat burns.

No. This can’t be real.

╰┈➤ three weeks later

The town you live in now is in a land-locked state with an even smaller population than Kildare. The agent in charge of your case gave you and your parents everything you needed to assume your new lives.

Your old one ended on a road back home, covered up with a story that you’d lost control of your friend’s car and died on impact.

You’re sitting in the therapist’s office, picking at a loose string on your shirt. The protection program placed you with a clinical psychologist who specializes in trauma recovery, but you worry you’ll never be able to rid yourself of the paralyzing pain that has sept into your heart.

You come here once a week. You’re supposed to be moving on, setting roots here, accepting your new identity.

But you haven’t and you can’t. You’re not allowed to contact anyone, but every day, more and more, you yearn to find a way to tell the people you love that you’re okay, to put them out of their grief and misery.

You wouldn’t dare take the risk, but you’re constantly checking on what you left on the island, searching news sites and social media for anything you can find through a faceless account.

Rafe’s arrest record is public. Sale and distribution of an illegal substance. You know now that Brading arrested him for coke that night. You’re sure he did it just to get Rafe in custody to be able to intimidate him into talking about Porter.

You know nothing else about him. He hasn’t posted anything since you left. His name only comes up on the law enforcement website, offering no further information on a trial or a sentencing.

When you look up your friends, seeing the photos and messages they posted in memoriam of you never gets easier. You left JJ and Pope and John B with the shock of seeing you in Rafe’s arms, then you left in JJ’s car, unknowingly racing towards your faked death.

The investigation on Porter has hit a dead end. The last article came out a week ago titled: Family seeks closure as disappearance of Porter Arnoult remains a mystery.

And the man who shot Brading, who made a full recovery, is still at large, meaning you’re still in danger.

“Come on in,” your therapist says gently, peeking out her office door.

You settle in the worn seat. You’ve told this woman everything but for the truth about the night that was the catalyst to the mess your life has become.

You promised Rafe you’d keep the secret to the grave. You meant it.

·········

The heaviest, sharpest ache sits in Rafe’s chest as he stands at your final resting place, as he reads your name in stone, a hyphen between two years that are much too close to each other.

There was no funeral. Word had gotten around that your parents were too distraught and left town shortly after the accident.

His head is pounding with his hangover, his body weak from the booze and coke he’s been pumping into it.

Stay out of trouble. That’s what his lawyer told him. But his court date is in a couple of days and he’s done everything but. This is the first time he’s come to your grave and he feels like a piece of shit for waiting so long, but he couldn’t do it.

He never deserved you. A piece of him knew, gnawed at him, that you’d realize he didn’t measure up. But he was ready to try, for once in his life, to be better.

And then, you were taken from him. And the idea of paying his respect to a girl who’s nothing but a memory now is not for your benefit. It’s for the grieving, and while he’s not worthy of that relief, he came to the cemetery in case he won’t get the chance again for a long time.

He’ll likely be going to prison soon. His lawyer said the best case scenario is a reduced sentence and a heavy fine.

Rafe’s numb to it. It’s why he’s been getting fucked up at parties, telling anyone who asks about you or him to shut up because he knows they don’t care. All he does is get wasted and open his wallet only to buy more shit to dull the pain.

You were a light in the clouds that always consumed him, and because you’d followed him after he’d gotten arrested, you died.

He’ll never forgive himself for the fact that caring for him is what killed you.

╰┈➤ one week later

It’s Rafe’s last night of freedom.

He was sentenced to 14 months. His life is fucked. All because he was an idiot who decided to sell coke.

Brading sat in the courtroom as the arresting officer, looking bitter, likely because his plan to get Rafe to crack about Porter’s case never worked.

His lawyer told him it was a win to get such a short sentence, as if living behind bars can ever be considered some sort of victory. He’s being locked up tomorrow, a nasty blotch on his record, a traumatic experience waiting for him.

He’s at a party on Figure Eight, dipped into a numbing high on a couch. Coke and booze coarse through his veins. He’s subconsciously been hoping that it’d kill him before he has to go to prison.

It’s been a month since you died. The hole in his chest only digs itself deeper, burying him alive. He ignores the people who pretend to care about him, remembering how they’d acted when rumors spread about him doing something to Porter.

He knows this will follow him forever, being suspected for Porter’s disappearance, being connected to you, the innocent girl who got involved with him then tragically passed away.

He doesn’t care what people think. He thought he was lethargic before. That was nothing.

He gets lost in the high, hearing the people and the music around him, catching flashes of phones in the crowd as people celebrate life while he wishes his would just end.

“What were you doing with her?”

Rafe’s vision blurs and refocuses until he can see who’s standing over him in the crowded living room. It’s Pope, his nostrils flared in anger.

JJ and John B stand close behind, disgusted looks on their faces.

“Fuck off,” Rafe slurs.

“What were you doing with her?” JJ shouts louder. A few heads turn at the noise.

Rafe’s jaw tenses in anger. His body is heavy, but he pushes himself off the couch, staring at your friends, knowing they have no fucking clue how badly he’s been suffering without you.

“She didn’t want to tell you,” Rafe mutters, “because she knew you assholes would make her feel bad about it.”

“She’s… she’s fucking dead because of you,” JJ says, his voice laced with tears. “She was on the road because of you.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Rafe yells. He swore on his life that you’d always be safe with him. He deserves to die.

He has nothing to lose. He shoves JJ down onto the floor, landing a single punch before he’s pulled back and struck in the jaw with a hard fist.

Rafe spits out blood, his neck at the crook of the couch, knowing no amount of physical pain could come close to matching how bad his heart hurts.

·········

When you see Rafe in the background of a Kook’s social media story, your breath hitches. He’s sprawled out on a couch, head tipped back, lips parted and eyes rolling.

You know it’s stupid. You know you’re putting yourself in danger by doing it. You’re not supposed to contact a soul from your past life.

But he looks near death in the video.

You go to Rafe’s account and start to type with trembling fingers. You’re using the burner account you made, a fake name with no photo, but you hope reminding him of something only you two would remember is enough.

It’s me. The girl you always gave a $50 to at the club. I’m okay. I had to go into hiding. I had no choice. Please take care of yourself and don’t tell anyone about me. I miss you.

You don’t see his reply until you wake up the next day. What kind of sick joke is this?

It’s not a joke, you respond. I used to tell you all the time not to call me a Pogue, remember? I know this is confusing. I wish it wasn’t like this. I’m sorry.

He doesn’t respond. You don’t blame him. He thinks it’s a twisted prank. But even though it was a stupid risk to take, you’re glad you tried. You just wish it worked.

A day later, you unsend your messages and delete your account just in case.

╰┈➤ sixteen months later

“It’s completely your choice,” the program agent continues, sitting in the living room of the home you still don’t consider home. “We set you and your family up for permanent placement, but the man you saw was captured with his associates and died in a shoot-out. We’re confident you’re no longer in danger. You can choose to stay here, or go back.”

You look at your parents with wide eyes, in utter disbelief. It’s been over a year. You all have jobs and friends and a foundation now, even though it’s built on lies.

But you’ve been aching to go home since the day you moved here. And you’re going back to the island, with or without your parents.

╰┈➤ three days later

The flight was painfully long. You came alone. Your parents didn’t feel the need to go back in time and come here. They don’t have the ties you do to home.

The fact that they could watch you leave was confirmation that all you shared with them was a last name. You always felt alone around them. You never had their love. Not really. It’s why you clung to your friends.

Kildare’s salty breeze is the same. Even the way the sun hits here feels unique. You keep the window of your rental car down as you drive through familiar streets.

You’d considered contacting your friends before finding them, but what happened with Rafe would likely happen with them. They’d think it was a cruel prank. They wouldn’t believe you.

It’s a sunny afternoon. You knock on JJ’s door. Your heart is in your throat. You’ve been discreetly keeping up with what your friends publicly post. It seems life here never changes much.

You crave the familiarity. The peace.

The door swings open. JJ stares at you like he’s seen a ghost. You expected as much.

“Hi,” your voice is thin, what you rehearsed coming out rushed. “I witnessed a crime and I was put into protection. They had to fake my death and put me somewhere safe. But I’m not in danger anymore. And they let me come back.”

He doesn’t have the words. You don’t blame him. He pulls you in and this is what you’ve been missing so agonizingly – feeling wanted.

He invites the guys over and after a tearful reunion and a long catch-up, you finally ask them about Rafe, terrified you’ll hear the worst, even though you’ve been keeping up with local news.

“He just got outta jail,” JJ says.

“For what?” you ask, worried he took the fall for what you did to Porter.

“Selling coke,” he says. “I think he got like, a year. I’m pretty sure his dad paid to get it scrubbed from the internet.”

“He kind of went crazy after you…” Pope trails off. “Crazier than usual. But since he got out, he’s not bothering us. He’s just quiet. He’s different now.”

You nod, desperate to go see him.

“What happened that night?” JJ asks. “Were you and him… like, a thing?”

“Yeah,” you say. “He’s… He wasn’t who we always thought he was. I was surprised, too. It happened really fast. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys.”

“That doesn’t matter anymore,” JJ says.

You give him a grateful smile, knowing it won’t take long at all to get used to this again, to being your old self with your old friends. You left, but your heart stayed here.

·········

Rafe’s sister is visibly in shock to see you when you show up at the Camerons’ doorstep later that afternoon. You tell her what happened, sure the gossip will spread before you even step foot off the property, and ask her where Rafe is.

She tells you he went out on the family’s boat. You thank her and head over to the marina.

·········

Rafe spent every day in prison thinking about those messages he got the night before he was put behind bars. The person behind the account knew things only you would.

It might have been a twisted joke or someone’s way of keeping him above water while he wished he could drown.

But nobody would care enough about him to do that. Only you.

He never saw a response after he replied, and fourteen months later, when he got his phone back, the messages and the account were gone.

It’s been nearly a year and a half since you left. Hope is a ridiculous thing. He doesn’t even consider it your death anymore. You left.

The only thing that kept him going through his monotonous, soul-draining time in prison was the nearly invisible shred of hope that it really was you who sent him those messages.

He wishes he could remember the account name. It was a random assortment of letters and numbers. Sometimes, he’s convinced he dreamed it, like his survival instinct kicked in and made him hallucinate the possibility that you didn’t actually die.

He gazes out at the deep blue water, white caps tumbling over the waves as the boat bobs with the tides.

After you, he missed the sea most.

You remember where his boat was parked. Every detail of that night is burned into your mind. Vowing to keep the secret in the beach house, dragging the body over the dock, planning your alibis on his boat.

There haven’t been any developments in the case. Porter’s body is still out there somewhere, your secret lying with him.

Your heart stops when you spot Rafe’s back as he pulls a rope on his parked boat. His hair is buzzed now, his back broader and his arms larger than you remember. You close the distance, almost falling off the dock when you approach his boat because you’re that awestruck.

You’ve dreamt of this moment. You weren’t sure it’d ever come.

He turns, wrapping the rope around the cleat of the boat, squinting under the sun. He breathes a quiet grunt as he tightens the rope, then stands and surveys it.

Something catches the corner of his eye. He looks up. And pure relief washes over his handsome face.

Rafe rushes towards you like you might disappear if he doesn’t reach you fast enough. He jumps off the edge and nearly knocks the wind out of you when he surrounds you in his heavy arms, squeezing you.

Tears prick your eyes, and suddenly, you’re sobbing. From disbelief. From relief. From love.

“I knew it,” he whispers shakily, nuzzled into your neck. “I knew it. I knew it. Fuck.”

Your eyes are shut as he holds you, both of you suspended, bobbing boats creaking around you, gulls crying in the sky.

He finds the strength to pull back, meeting your eyes. Those eyes. They never left his mind. He knew you were out there and he wondered what they were seeing every single day.

You gaze up at him, vision blurred from your tears. Safety. That’s what he feels like to you. Like nothing can hurt you.

“I missed you,” you say in a whisper, but the words can’t possibly represent how painful life has been, how much you’ve been worrying about him.

“Me, too,” he says, cupping your cheek like you might break, like you’re a dream that might slip away. “I can’t believe…”

You nod. You can’t believe much of what’s happening, either.

·········

You’re in Rafe’s arms until the sun goes down, sitting in the hull of his parked boat, not wanting to part for even a second to allow him to drive out into the water. You don’t need to go anywhere. You want to be rooted with him.

You sat here once before, in a past life of a past life, conspiring and coming up with a story to cover up the murder.

“I never forgot what you did when I got arrested,” Rafe says into your ear, your back flush against his chest, the sun an orange sliver on the horizon. “Yelling at that asshole not to hurt me.”

“It was horrible seeing him do that to you,” you murmur, remembering how hard Brading had pushed him against the car to handcuff him. “He eventually gave up, huh? I kept checking the news, but the case went cold?”

“Yeah. He left town,” Rafe tells you. “He had no evidence. We got rid of it all.”

You nod with a long sigh.

“How was it?” you ask.

You don’t have to say it. He knows you’re asking about prison.

“Knowing you were okay kept me through it,” he admits. You turn to meet his pained blue eyes.

“It’s all behind us now,” you say.

He presses his lips against yours, warm and tender and soft, dismissing the cold that’d been sitting in your soul since you were forced to leave.

Epilogue

You’ll always feel the void of the year and a half that you were gone deep in your heart. But as time goes by, it gets smaller and smaller.

You’d planned to stay with one of your friends while you found your footing to get your own place, but Rafe insisted he buy you a condo, saying it’d be the best use of his money.

He hadn’t expected to still have access to his family’s bank account, but his father seemed to see a difference in him after prison.

You see a change in him, too. You mention it to him sometimes, how his temper has completely faded away.

“Still like me, though?” he once asked, half-joking.

“I love you,” you told him. It was the first time you said the word and his heart felt like it was going to burst. He kissed you hard and told you he loved over and over.

Rafe comes over all the time, preparing meals together, making up for lost time.

One night, as he dozes off next to you in your bed, you realize you still don’t regret your crime and if you don’t by now, you never will.

Sometimes you wonder if you should be remorseful for taking a life. But that man was evil and the world is a better place without him. People die, but the past doesn’t, and while you may carry it with you forever, you wouldn’t take it back.

Your eyes slowly trail over Rafe’s face in the dim light, your heart pounding as you think about how you got here, two broken people who found each other on a terrifying night.

It’s all still so crystal clear in your mind. The blood on his face the night it happened. The way he held you when you told him what your real motive was. The tears in his eyes when he reunited with you.

You pull a blanket over him. He’s everything to you now. And like your love, your secret remains between you two, binding you together forever.

(the end)

[handeaux]

Don’t Eat The Oatmeal! The Curious Case Of The Dayton Street Poisoner

Among the most peculiar crimes ever recorded in Cincinnati was the mystery within a mystery spawned by breakfast at 912 Dayton Street on the morning of Friday, March 30, 1900.

Four generations lived in a two-story house at that address, owned by a renowned and aged Methodist minister, the Rev. Dr. Mordecai J.W. Ambrose. Doctor Ambrose was in poor health and was attended by a full-time nurse named Ellen M. Galvin. Also living under his roof were Ambrose’s daughter, Francephin, her husband Charles A. Aiken, their divorced daughter Susie Winold, and Susie’s two young children, Harold and Frances. A couple of weeks earlier, the Aikens had hired a servant girl who said her name was Violet Foster.

On the morning of March 30, Mr. Aiken arose early and left for his job at the American Book Company. Mrs. Aiken, Mrs. Winold, Harold, Frances, and Miss Galvin sat down to breakfast about 9:00 a.m. The new servant girl served an egg dish, but Mrs. Aiken sent it back and claimed the eggs were stale. The servant then offered oatmeal and served a portion to everyone except Mrs. Winold, who said she was not hungry. As the family got up from the table, everyone but Mrs. Winold complained of stomach pains and several became violently ill. Mrs. Winold ran to the kitchen to find the servant girl but she was not there. Mrs. Winold eventually located her upstairs in her room, apparently also ill.

Mrs. Winold called for a doctor who lived in the neighborhood. He immediately diagnosed arsenic poisoning. After caring for the obviously ill, he took one look at Violet Foster and determined that she was faking her symptoms. Someone called the police. The doctor’s suspicions were confirmed when a police detective ordered the servant girl downstairs and she got up immediately, showing no further evidence that she was in any sort of distress. Thanks to the doctor’s timely attentions, none of the poisoning victims died.

Police visited several neighborhood pharmacies. At the Overbeck drug store, employees identified Violet Foster as the woman who had purchased arsenic the evening before. Pharmacies at that time recorded the names of anyone who bought poisonous substances, and the young woman signed for the arsenic as Lena Heigh. It looked like a simple case of attempted homicide until Violet Foster, alias Lena Heigh, confessed.

The local newspapers swarmed to this story because Susie Winold and her children had created a front-page sensation in Cincinnati the previous year. Susie married a traveling salesman named Charles O. Winold in 1892. He was from Massillon, Ohio, and his job took him over most of the eastern United States. Over the years, the marriage soured. Charles blamed his mother-in-law. Whatever the cause, Susie moved out, taking her children, and relocated to South Dakota. Charles knew she was establishing residency to get an accelerated divorce, so he tracked her down and kidnapped their children. Charles first brought Harold and Frances back to his parents’ home in Massillon, then took them to Brooklyn. A nationwide search for the abducted children resulted in their discovery in Hoboken, New Jersey. Susie, now freshly divorced, and Charles met in a Brooklyn courtroom where she was awarded custody and he got weekly visitation. Charles made only minor efforts to see his children as his business kept him traveling, but neighbors began to report him watching the house on Dayton Street.

Violet Foster, under police interrogation, claimed that it was Charles Winold himself who forced her to buy the arsenic and that it was Charles Winold who had placed the arsenic in the oatmeal. Winold, the servant girl claimed, had appeared at the kitchen door on several occasions, explaining that he intended to kill his wife in revenge for taking his children away. As he was being dragged into this case, Winold was wending his way through his sales territory, making no effort to hide his location. He was apprehended in Baltimore and brought to Cincinnati for questioning.

Further investigation revealed that Winold had iron-clad alibis for every instance in which Violet Foster testified that he was threatening her at the Ambrose house. On the morning of the poisoning, Winold was in a Toledo hotel. The servant’s story crumbled further when police learned that her real name was Faltha Gilliam and that almost nothing she had told them about her past was true. Although she claimed her parents were dead, police found her mother, father and a handful of siblings living in poverty in Lower Price Hill.

Faltha Gilliam was tried and sentenced in Judge Rufus Smith’s courtroom in October 1900. She was sentenced to four years in the Ohio Penitentiary. At her sentencing, the newspapers reported that she had been flirting so indiscriminately with the male prisoners at the county jail that a couple of young men were ready to fight a duel over her.

Only a few newspapers looked beyond the version of the story assembled by the police and presented in court. Faltha Gilliam’s many and repeated lies called her credibility very much into question and enabled Charles Winold, confessed kidnapper, to totally escape blame. The Cincinnati Commercial Tribune [1 April 1900] published statements made by Gilliam to a reporter that suggest there might have beenh a very different motivation for the poisoning:

“The extraordinary creature admitted repeatedly yesterday that she has known and met Winold clandestinely since last December; that he knew when she secured the situation as a domestic at Dr. Ambrose’s residence in Dayton Street, and that he planned and she assisted for days in the arrangements for the commission of the crime.”

The Commercial Tribune reported that Gilliam had herself once worked as a traveling salesperson, met Winold on a train in Indiana, reunited with him in Cincinnati and that he had encouraged her to take the servant position at his ex-wife’s house. If true, Winold may have set her up to take the fall while he traveled to establish his alibis. It was never explained why Gilliam served poison oatmeal to Winold’s children after his ex-wife refused the deadly concoction.

Faltha Gilliam was released from the penitentiary a year early because of good behavior and she seems to vanish from the historical record. Charles Winold moved back to Massillon and remarried in 1905. He died from prostate cancer in 1914. Susie Winold lived a long life in service to the Methodist church and died in New Jersey, aged 80. Harold and Frances both recovered from their deadly breakfast. Frances married a man in Michigan in 1915. Harold served in the Navy through World War I, married and had a daughter. The nurse, Ellen M. Galvin, sued Dr. Ambrose, as head of the household, for hiring the poisoner without checking her background, and the pharmacy, for selling the arsenic, asking $10,400 from each. Both cases were dismissed. Although she claimed the poisoning left her unable to work, Galvin was listed as a nurse in the Cincinnati city directory for several more years.

[niigata-division]

Happy Pride Month!

Happy Pride Month everyone! Hope you all are doing okay! Be safe and have fun celebrating! You matter and who you love and who/what you identify as matters as well! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜💖

Well, I did this last year for my teams so it's time to do it again with my new team! So this year in celebration, I decided to reveal the romantic and sexual orientation of Valor Guard! I hope you enjoy them, and I apologize if I unintentionally offend someone.

— Seiji

Demiromantic Bisexual 

After the death of his wife, Seiji is reluctant to open his heart to anyone, because he feels like doing so would be a betrayal to his wife who he loved fiercely despite their differences. If he were to fall in love again Seiji would prefer to form an emotional connection with the person beforehand and only then will Seiji open his scarred heart to the person. 

On the matters of sex, before he got together and married his wife Seiji had experimented with his sexuality sleeping with multiple males and females, especially during his delinquent days. He finds both genders sexually attractive but he tends to lean more towards women but would not say no to sleeping with a male. Nowadays though he’s much too busy with his job and raising his daughter than trying to figure out where his next lay will come from.

— Lyall

Demiromantic Omnisexual 

Lyall is pretty guarded romantically in no part due to his former status as a model and actor with many people only wanting to date him just so they could say they they managed to get the Lyall Shiba’s attention. That being said Lyall has only had romantic feelings for a handful of people in his life before. The first was a strange homeless teen by the name of “Momoka” which ended up with Lyall being nearly murdered. The second person Lyall has ever had feelings for is Kaoru Shinozaki of Edogawa what started as a one-night stand has spiraled into romantic attraction for the genius hacker. Recently though Lyall has started to gain feelings for his old friend and fellow homicide detective Joey Kurusu of Kanazawa something that surprises him but if given the chance he would go for it.

On the matters of sex, Lyall does not care what gender a person identifies as having slept around with all sorts of people during his time as a model and actor. If Lyall found them attractive and they consented Lyall was willing to sleep with them and give them the best night of their lives. Nowadays though since becoming a homicide detective Lyall is more focused on solving cases than sleeping around but he’d be lying if he didn't say he wanted to see Kaoru or Joey naked in his bed again.

— Ayumu

Demiromantic Demisexual

After how his first marriage to his ex-wife ended Ayumu is weary of dating again. That along with the fact several people have only dated him for his family's money has left Ayumu reluctant about letting down the walls around his heart to anyone. Though it seems like Shisuta Heisha of Ueno wormed her way inside despite that and Ayumu has genuinely developed romantic feelings for the nun. Now if only he could confess those feelings. 

On the matters of sex, Ayumu feels the same way about sex as he does about love. He’s not looking to sleep around with just anyone and would like to know a person beforehand for a while and then decide if he can trust them before taking them to bed, which is unlikely.

[listanon]

Currently Airing: Jan. 1 2025

+Call Me By No Name - adaptation of a novel by yuki shasendo announced, japanese GL premiering January 9. airing on gagaoolala

+Flirting With the INTP - korean GL short series. By RedQ same company who produced other korean GLs like love tech, girlfriend project day one and less than 75 degrees. First episode on youtube

I Am Devil - heartbroken actress enters a fake marriage to save her sick grandmother. Other lead is in love with another woman (for now) and another woman falls for the actress. Airing on maxlive online tv on youtube and tiktok

+Kimi no Tsugu Kaori wa - also called fragrance you inherit japanese GL

Melody of a Dream - web series on jpc channel on youtube 

Mate - poppy and fai will be the side couple, airing on weTV and on zense youtube excluding thailand, taiwan, philippines and north america 

Mompedsawan [��ม่อมเป็ดสวรรค์] - Thai PBS GL, historical GL in Thailand 1800s and based on a poem. Airing November 17. 26 episodes. Official trailer with eng sub released on Thai PBS youtube. episodes on VIPA, FB live, Thai PBS and ch3. Episodes on Friday, Saturday and Sundays

One Night of Love - GL on weTV. About a young screenwriter who has a crush on her friend and plans on confessing to her through her script

Petrichor (englot) - one is a detective and the other is a forensic doctor working together on a homicide case. 10 episodes. On channel one31 and iqiyi worldwide for the uncut. Airing on Saturdays

Pluto (namtanfilm) -  airing on viu and on gmmtv’s youtube 

Stay With Me - GL miniseries From siam studio on youtube

Airing Schedule:

Tuesdays: Mate (next episode on January 7)

Wednesdays: Flirting with the INTP / I Am Devil

Thursdays: Call Me By No Name

Fridays: Kimi no Tsugu Kaori wa / Mompedsawan

Saturdays: Mompedsawan / Petrichor (next episode on January 11) / Pluto (final episode January 4)

Sundays: Mompedsawan

Upcoming Events:

January 12: idolfactory's 2025 lineup event, will likely see Cranium's pilot trailer there

January 17: teaser for 9star's "The Newbie"....a new GL?

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Children Shouldn't Gamble With Dead Things (Part 2)

When Bruce warned Dick about Two-Face, he set one inflexible rule:

Don't make deals with the devil.

But with the stakes this high, Dick has to do something. So here he is, flipping a coin with Harvey Dent.

Part 1

Part 3

---

There are few things that can rattle a seasoned detective. Murder is a daily event, sometimes more. Abuse, harassment, threats, all par for the course. Gore and greed and desperation will barely phase them. But kids?

… well, kids bother first responders. A lot of first responders. Detectives, unless specialized in the area, are no exception. And even then, there’s no guarantee.

So Police Captain Jim Gordon is having a hell of a time trying not to be bothered by this.

“Maybe you misunderstood me?” Two-Face - Harvey Dent, Gotham City’s once-finest DA - is looking at Gordon with a condescending grin, cuffed hands folded neatly.

Gordon leans forward on the table, the blood-stained bat still clutched in his hand. “What happened at the warehouse?”

“Let me make this real easy for you, Gordon,” Dent says in a mockingly sweet voice. “The boy is dead.”

“Who is dead?”

“Robin!” Dent jumps to his feet, leaning forward so they’re practically nose-to-nose. His breath smells like mint and onions. “The Bat’s little pal is off flying with the angels now.”

“Watch yourself, Dent,” Ritter warns, but Dent pays him no mind.

“The brat’s taking a dirt-nap, just like Watkins. Though, to be fair, His Honor is actually sleeping with the fishes. So, yes. You could call it double homicide. I’d be okay with that.”

It's appalling, how brazen Dent is. How proud he is. He's an attorney. (Or he was one, anyway.) He knows he doesn't have to tell Gordon anything. He knows he can ask for his legal team and end the interrogation there. But he doesn't, because he wants to confess. He wants to see Gordon’s expression. He’s living for it.

Ritter drops his hands on Dent’s shoulders and forces him to sit down.

“I’ll only be confessing to my lawyer from here on out.” And then Dent lets out a cackle that sounds so much like Harvey and simultaneously not at all like Harvey.

Gordon doesn't attempt to keep his cool. He storms out of the interrogation room, bat still in hand.

“You okay, Captain?” It's Mitchell.

In any other situation, Gordon would say he's fine. But this isn't another situation.

“No. No, I’m not,” he grumbles. “I once counted that maniac as a friend. But right now, I’d like nothing better than to send him straight to hell.”

“So where do you you want us?” It's a new voice. Rosenzweig.

“Head back to that damn warehouse, Rosenzweig. See if the harbor patrol has dredged up Watkins’ body.”

“Want me to go too?” Mitchell asks, but Gordon shakes his head.

“I need you canvassing the hospitals, starting with Gotham General.”

“What am I looking for?”

Gordon pinches the bridge of his nose, stifling a sigh. “A John Doe, DOA. A kid. Eight to twelve years old. Black hair. Beaten to death.”

He doesn't stick around for questions. This is bothering him. It bothers him far more than it should, and he's not certain as to why. It's a kid - that's the first problem - but Gordon has seen kid vics before. No, this is different. Because this isn't just a kid who died. It’s not even just a kid who died at the hands of Harvey Dent.

No. Gordon is bothered because the kid that Gordon had warned Batman not to bring to crime scenes is dead. And he’s dead because Batman took him out to fight crime. Because Batman put his crusade over the kid’s safety.

Gordon’s not just pissed. He’s livid.

“Heya, Captain,” Anderson greets, barely looking up from her computer. “I thought you swore off smoking?”

Gordon grips the offending box tighter in his hand. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what she thinks. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks. If he has to choose between a few cigarettes and a miserable binge-drinking session, he’ll pick the cigarettes every time.

The captain hasn’t even made it to the roof before he’s digging in his pocket for a lighter, shaky hands lighting a shaky cigarette. But he manages, because he must, and throws the roof door open. He paces over to the giant spotlight and flips its switch. The light hums to life, a giant bat projecting into the sky.

“Batman,” Gordon mutters under his breath. “What the hell have you done?”

---

Alfred was uncertain. He doubted. He thought the boy was good for Master Bruce, but he’d been hesitant to say the same of Robin for Batman.

But now, months into Robin’s tenure, Alfred is willing to concede. The outlet seems to be good for the boy. And the boy seems to brighten Bruce’s mood greatly. And with few safety concerns realized, Alfred is willing to admit that he was wrong. Perhaps Robin isn’t such a bad idea after all.

And then the Batmobile screeches into the Cave, and Master Bruce hops out with the lad limp and bloody in his arms.

Alfred takes it all back. This was a horrible idea.

“Alfred, he’s dying.” Master Bruce’s jaw is set, the boy clutched to his chest like he never wants to let go.

“What happened?” Alfred demands. He takes one look at the boy and points to the stairs. “Take that cowl off. Now. Then start the van.”

The van, not the Batmobile, because even if it's faster, Master Bruce would never permit an identity breach like that.

Master Bruce obeys, setting the boy down on a medical cot like he’s made of china and eggshell and rushing up to the manor.

Alfred’s medical training kicks in like he’d never left the service. His fingers fly to Master Dick’s throat, his other hand digging a knuckle into the boy’s sternum. The boy groans, but it’s muffled. Gargled, almost.

Alfred’s stomach sinks, and he grabs the code cart, rushing it over to the boy. Then he rips open the airway drawer and takes the intubation kit. Judging by the bruising and the snoring sound of Master Dick’s breathing, the boy’s throat must be swelling shut. And Alfred doesn’t have much time before this task gets infinitely more difficult.

And then he realizes his mistake. Dick Grayson is a boy. A child. The medical supplies that work for Master Bruce will never work on a nine-year-old. Alfred feels fear creep up his spine. The boy needs a tube now.

And Alfred doesn’t have one. Not one that will fit a child’s airway. Stupidly, Alfred hadn’t even considered that this might be an issue. That the boy would even patrol with Bruce long enough to be hurt.

For half a moment, Alfred considers giving in. Considers calling an ambulance, identity be damned.

But even a few minutes is too long. Alfred has to manage this airway now. He doesn’t have time to wait. The boy doesn’t have time to wait.

So Alfred goes for the few multi-sized supplies he has. He finds the smallest oral airway he has and puts it in the boy’s mouth, pushing the tongue out of the trachea’s way. His throat is still swelling. It’s still an issue. But it’s the best he can do for the moment.

Alfred is lucky enough to have a mask small enough to seal over the boy’s face. He provides artificial breaths with an ambu bag. “HURRY UP, SIR!” he screams, wondering if Master Bruce can even hear him. But he has to try, because until there’s a second set of hands, Alfred can’t tend to the boy’s injuries. He has to wait.

Master Bruce returns thirty-five seconds later. It feels like thirty-five minutes.

“Alfred, what-?”

“Come here,” Alfred orders. “Take the bag from me and do exactly as I’m doing now. Hold a tight seal on the mask. Squeeze the bag gently every three seconds. Watch for chest rise and fall.”

Master Bruce follows his orders to the letter. Panic lines his eyes, but Alfred doesn’t have the time nor the faculty to pay attention to it. He goes through the motions, hands flying as he does only the most important of interventions.

“What happened?” Alfred demands, heart sinking when he fails to find a properly-sized c-collar.

“Two-Face,” Master Bruce says, breathless. “Blunt-force trauma. Wooden bat. Hits to the head, chest, abdomen, and… everywhere, really.”

“I can see that,” Alfred mutters under his breath. There’s a particularly concerning injury to the lad’s right arm - a compound open fracture, the white of bone shining behind the blood and torn muscle - but it's not the priority. There is, however, a rather nasty wound to the boy’s side, torn open and bleeding rather profusely. Alfred holds pressure to it, earning himself a muffled whine from Master Dick. The boy tries to roll away from Alfred’s hand, but Bruce sees it coming, grabbing the boy's shoulder before he can escape.

Alfred packs the wound and applies a pressure bandage, which only makes Master Dick cry out louder and squirm more, becoming (reassuringly) more responsive but (frustratingly) less cooperative.

“I know,” Master Bruce says, so quiet that Alfred almost doesn't hear him. It takes Alfred a moment more to realize that Master Bruce isn't speaking to him. He's speaking to the boy. “I know it hurts. Just stay alive, okay? Just stay with me.”

Master Bruce has never spoken like that. Not to anyone. It’s simultaneously sweet and nauseating. Because a situation so dire that it pulls a paternal instinct out of Master Bruce? That's something Alfred never thought he'd see. Not ever.

With no time to ponder on Master Bruce’s behavior, Alfred grabs the portable stretcher and lays it beside the boy.

“Master Bruce, stop ventilating for a moment. Hold c-spine.” It's almost pointless, when there’s no feasible way to hold c-spine and carry the stretcher, but Alfred is doing what he can with what he has. And this is what he has. This is what he can do. He just has to pray it's enough.

Master Bruce places one hand on either side of the boy's head, holding his neck straight. Alfred slips the edge of the stretcher under Master Dick’s back before easily sliding him over and securing him to the stretcher.

They carry the boy to the manor's garage. It feels like ages, but they manage to get the boy to the van and secure him inside. Just one more pair of hands would have made moving such a fragile patient ten times easier. Ten times faster.

Alfred immediately situates himself in the back, ripping open an IV kit. “Master Bruce,” he says. “Do hurry.”

Master Bruce scrambles into the front seat, slamming the door behind him. They're off like a shot. Alfred doesn't know if the Batmobile has ever moved this fast, much less the twenty-year-old family minivan.

“Master Dick?” Alfred calls the boy's name occasionally, hoping for some response. Sometimes he gets a moan, but sometimes he hears and sees no change in the boy's awareness.

It scares Alfred more than he’ll ever admit.

Master Bruce is frantic behind the wheel. Alfred can tell how desperately he wishes he could sit in the back with Master Dick, but he knows that Alfred is better suited to care for the boy. As a compromise, Alfred tries to provide a steady stream of updates. “The lad’s bleeding has slowed, thank heavens. But his throat is swelling, and I lack the proper supplies to intubate a child. I’ve placed an IV, but until we reach higher care, there's nothing more I can do for him but provide breaths. How long do you estimate until we reach the hospital, Master Bruce?”

“We’re not going to the hospital.” His tone is even, the way it always is, even when he says the most ludicrous of statements. “We’re going to Leslie’s.”

“You aren’t serious!”

But he’s always serious.

Alfred puts up a fight, but Master Bruce is insistent, going so far as to play the “legal guardian” card. Alfred is offended at best and appalled at worst, but for the boy’s sake, he lets it be. Master Bruce has clearly made up his mind, and arguing will only distract him from the road.

Leslie is waiting at the back door when they arrive.

“Broselow cart!” Alfred calls, and Leslie’s eyes go wide.

“Dammit!” She props the door open and rushes back inside. With luck, she has a cart. Without luck, the boy is dead.

By the time the boy has been transferred to a cot in the clinic, Leslie is cursing up a storm, ripping open the drawer of a rainbow-colored cart and pulling out properly-sized intubation supplies.

“Get the collar on him,” she orders, pulling the plastic airway from Master Dick’s airway and making her own intubation attempt.

Alfred slides the c-collar on while instructing Master Bruce to hook the boy up to the vitals monitor.

“Okay,” Leslie mutters, securing an ambu bag to the tube in the boy’s throat. She squeezes the bag, watching the boy’s chest rise and fall with the influx of air. “Okay.” She straightens, finally looking up.

“Alfred, take over bagging.”

Then Leslie lifts Master Dick’s eyelids, checking for pupillary reactions. Alfred doesn’t pay close attention, but he gets the feeling that the results aren’t ideal.

“Your field work is first-rate, as usual,” Leslie tells him. “But this boy needs an emergency room, not a back-alley clinic.”

“I share your assessment, Dr. Thompkins,” Alfred agrees, “though our mutual benefactor thinks otherwise.” He shoots Bruce a harsh glare, but Bruce refuses to meet his eyes. “After all, we have our secrets to preserve, do we not?”

“I’m already regretting my complicity in these ‘secrets,’” Leslie sighs. She pushes the blanket aside and gasps. “Sweet lord,” she breathes.

And she has every reason to be concerned. Master Dick’s torso is a Jackson Pollock of purple, blue, and black. Internal bleeding is putting it lightly.

“Bruce, what in god’s name happened to this boy??” Bruce turns away, and Leslie grabs his arm, pulling him back. “He looks like he's been through a thresher!”

Master Bruce doesn’t speak right away. Leslie is primarily focused on the boy - as is Alfred, still bagging dutifully - but even as she performs the secondary assessment, checking for signs of broken bones and different kinds of internal damage, she keeps a deadly silence. It’s obvious she’s waiting for a reply.

“Just take care of him, Leslie,” Master Bruce says, refusing to meet her eyes. “Alfred will explain everything.”

Alfred feels his stomach drop to his feet.

“You’re not leaving?” Leslie demands, grip tightening on Master Bruce’s sleeve. “Bruce, you can’t just-”

“I’m sorry,” he replies hurriedly. “I have to go. I need to make sure the person who did this is made accountable.”

“To hell with that, Bruce!” Leslie fumes. “I need extra hands!”

Master Bruce swallows hard. “I… Leslie, I… I can’t.”

Alfred has never known Master Bruce to be squeamish. Not in the slightest. But the tone in his voice is so genuinely pathetic that Alfred doesn’t argue with it.

“He’s going to die, Bruce,” Leslie insists.

“He won’t. He’s in the best hands.” And then Master Bruce slips out the door, heedless of Leslie’s persistent calls for him to come back.

“Dr. Thompkins,” Alfred says quietly. “I suggest we get a FAST exam and begin pharmacological interventions.”

Leslie huffs but doesn’t speak further on the topic. She remains dutifully attentive to the boy, even if she’s woefully understaffed and undersupplied for such a demanding patient. And Alfred helps, because damn him if this boy doesn’t survive the night.

It won’t happen. Not if Leslie and Alfred have a say in it.

---

“You’re late.”

Bruce knows. He can tell by the small mountain of cigarette butts at the commissioner’s feet. He must have smoked a full pack waiting for Bruce to arrive.

“Did you get him?” Bruce asks, flicking the Bat-Signal off. It powers down with a loud whir.

“Yeah.” Commissioner Gordon shakes a cigarette carton into his hand, but, as predicted, it’s completely empty. He huffs in frustration, tossing it over his shoulder and picking up the plastic-wrapped item beside him. “Two-Face and his twin Stooges were right where you said they’d be. We pulled Watkins out of the river an hour ago.” He stands. “What about your partner?”

It’s said casually. Maybe a bit judgmentally. Bruce knows how Gordon disapproves of Robin. And unfortunately, Bruce is starting to see his side of the argument. Dick wasn’t ready.

“I benched him for this one,” Bruce says. Even cowled, he can’t meet Gordon’s eyes. Not when guilt is weighing so heavily on his shoulders. Not when he was breathing for his partner just thirty minutes ago. “Watkins’s death is on my head alone.”

“WRONG!” And Gordon is so abrupt - so suddenly furious - that it breaks Bruce from his pity party. He looks over his shoulder, and Gordon is pointing the plastic-wrapped stick (the bat, still bloody and worn) at him. “Don’t lie to me!” Gordon fumes. “This isn’t Harvey Dent’s blood!”

Bruce keeps his voice level. The anonymity of the cowl helps uphold his facade of calm. “Robin’s alive.”

“Show me.” Gordon isn’t budging. Not an inch. His expression is rent, and Bruce is reminded of Gordon’s little girl, not much older than Dick. Of how personally Gordon must be taking this.

“You have to trust me on this, Jim,” Bruce says, voice softening. He steps up onto the ledge of the roof. Dent will pay for his crimes, and that’s what matters right now.

“If I find out otherwise, everything changes between us. Everything.”

“Robin’s retired.” Bruce slings his grappling hook out, catching on a distant ledge. “You have my word.”

As Bruce jumps, allowing gravity to swing him down and away, he hears Gordon’s parting words, bitter and grim:

“That used to mean something.”

Bruce can’t worry about him. Not right now.

---

Name: Richard (Dick) John Grayson

Leslie’s chest aches.

Age: 9 years, 11 months, 0 days

She’s seen it all before. Working here? Doing what she does? Of course she’s seen it all.

Mechanism of injury: beaten with baseball bat

But that doesn’t make this any less frustrating. In fact, the circumstances make her more irritated with it all.

Intubated appx. 1 hour post-injury. Difficult airway, required direct laryngoscopy. Remained intubated for 36 hours before coma score improved. Extubated without complication.

When she agreed to help Bruce with his night charade, she never agreed to this. She never knew Bruce would let a child patrol the streets with him. She never knew that she’d have to keep a critically injured child alive by herself because Bruce prioritized his secret over a kid’s life.

Secondary assessment identified a compound open fracture of the right arm, injured ribs (no x-ray available; severity unknown), head lac (no CT available; concussion suspected; severity unknown; coma score 15), laceration across right midaxillary (stitches required), and severe internal abdominal hemorrhage (exploratory laparotomy required).

Dick has been in and out for three days now. He’s not well enough to be moved - not yet - but Bruce has been nagging her ever since Dick’s vitals got within an acceptable range. He wants the boy back in the Cave, but Leslie isn’t sure she’ll take Dick anywhere but the hospital once he’s safely out of the woods. But for now, she keeps Dick where she can see him, because at least at the clinic, he’s safe from Bruce’s faulty judgment.

“... Mom?”

Leslie is at the boy’s side in an instant. “It’s Leslie,” she says softly. “Do you remember what happened?”

Dick takes a long moment to get his bearings. “... Two-Face.” His voice is still raspy from intubation.

“Yes. And do you remember where you are?”

“I’m… at your clinic.”

“Good. How do you feel?”

Dick hums. “Not amazing.” He looks past Leslie, eyes questioning. “Where’s B?”

Leslie fights a wave of anger. She doesn’t know where he is. Maybe it’s better that way.

“He’s out. Alfred will be here tonight, though.”

Dick’s eyes flit away, remorse lining his face. “Right,” he whispers.

He wants Bruce here. Even after everything, he wants Bruce here. And even after everything, Bruce denies him that one small comfort.

“I’ll call him,” Leslie offers.

“No,” Dick says softly. “No, don’t… Don’t bother. He’s probably… I dunno. Probably busy.”

Leslie is sure he is, but she really doesn’t care. She calls him anyway. Bruce needs to learn that revenge is really only applicable when there’s nothing you can do to prevent the tragedy. And right now, the biggest tragedy would be to leave this boy alone, hurt and scared.

---

Batman is alone on his next patrol. And the one after that. And the one after that. And the next eight ones after that.

Gordon really isn’t sure whether to be angry or reassured. Batman did say Robin was retired. But there’s also an awful lot of evidence that Robin is dead. The only thing they’re missing is a body. And if he is dead, it's awfully convenient for Batman that “retired” and “dead” look identical from Gordon’s standpoint.

Every time Gordon sees Batman, he's tempted to ask for proof. To bring Robin out one last time, as proof of life. Because Harvey Dent has to pay for his crimes, but exactly what those crimes are remains incredibly vague unless the victim steps forward.

The forensics lab ran the blood from the bat, but, unsurprisingly, the DNA doesn't match anyone in the GCPD’s database. So all they really know is that the blood isn't from a felon. That leaves many avenues open, one (and the most likely) of which is that it's Robin’s blood. It's what Harvey Dent is claiming. Hell, he's confessed to it. But if the only evidence of criminal activity is a baseball bat with unidentified blood…

Well, even the harshest of juries would have trouble convicting someone on that. Even if that someone is a well-known felon. If there's no body and no injured child, then how can they convict?

Two weeks after Dent’s arrest, Gordon summons Batman to the GCPD, determined to get some answers. He smokes like a chimney waiting for the Bat to arrive, but he doesn't care. He won't keep giving Batman outs because he's a good colleague. If there's suspicion regarding Robin’s safety, Batman must be investigated.

“Commissioner,” Batman says with a stiff nod. “What's the situation?”

Gordon tosses his cigarette butt on the ground and stomps it out. “Harvey Dent is confessing to murdering your partner. He's been sticking to the same story for weeks. And as a detective, I’m obligated to investigate the claims.”

“I told you,” Batman grits out. “Robin is alive.”

“And unfortunately, that's not enough evidence, and Dent knows it. He's only confessing because he knows you’ll never give out Robin’s identity. Without some sort of damage, we can't convict.”

Batman seems to consider this. He scowls harsher than usual, drawing his cape around his shoulders. “He’s right. I won’t compromise Robin’s identity.” He sucks in a pained breath. It's more emotion than Gordon has ever seen on the Caped Crusader. “But Dent deserves to rot for this.”

“I don't know what to tell you.”

Batman pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “I’ll get you your evidence, Commissioner. Give me two hours.”

Two hours later, Gordon finds a manilla folder on the roof. It’s stuffed full with pictures, each labeled with the date it was taken and the name “Robin.” The pictures are all strategically faceless, with blank, unidentifiable backgrounds. Even the picture of a gash on the boy’s forehead cuts out everything but the top of his head.

And the images themselves are… vile is the best way to put it. Broken bones. Blood and stitches. Bruises so dark and extensive that Gordon can’t find an inch of uninjured skin. Two-Face certainly had beaten the boy. Possibly to his death. The injuries look severe enough.

But Gordon is comforted by the time lapse. The injuries, while terrible regardless of the photo, do appear to be healing. The earliest photos look more gruesome than today’s pictures, if only marginally.

Part of Gordon is relieved. The boy is alive, and there’s evidence to lock Dent away for this. But the other part of him is still furious. How could Batman bring the boy with him in the first place? It’s too dangerous, and Batman knows that as well as any cop would.

The anger makes Gordon’s hands shake, and he lights another cigarette to calm his nerves. This case is going to be the death of him.

---

“It wasn’t me that killed you.”

Judge Watkins sinks, mouth open in a wordless scream.

WHAM.

“It was the Bat.”

The noose tightens around Bruce’s throat, his expression wrecked with agony.

THUD.

“It wasn’t me that killed you.”

Two-Face swings over and over, each blow fiercer and deadlier than the one before.

WHAM.

“It was the Bat.”

Two-Face smiles down, into the dirt hole. His twin lackeys stand by his side. The Mad Hatter and the Riddler and Scarecrow laugh along. The headstone reads: “ROBIN. NOT GOOD ENOUGH.”

THUD.

“The Bat.”

THUMP.

“The Bat.”

THWACK.

“The Bat.”

“NO!!!”

“Dick.” Bruce is sitting at Dick’s side, hands preventing him from rolling off the bed.

Dick blinks. The face in front of him is blurry. He can’t remember exactly what happened, but he remembers Two-Face putting Batman in a noose. He remembers…

“You’re alive…?” Dick can’t help the head rush, dizziness overwhelming him. Bruce’s hand is the only thing keeping him upright.

“Easy. It’s okay,” Bruce soothes, adjusting Dick’s pillow and helping him into a seated position against the bed’s headboard. “You were dreaming.”

And now that he says it, it makes sense. Two-Face didn’t kill Bruce. He beat Dick, yeah. That much of the dream was real. But Bruce turned out okay. He rushed Dick to Leslie’s clinic. He wasn’t hurt.

“How do you feel?”

Dick winces. Even thinking about it hurts. “Like… Like I fell off a building. Twice.” He laughs, even though it makes his ribs twinge and ache. “Occupational hazard, right? Give me a couple of weeks, and I’ll be back out there with you.”

Bruce’s expression hardens, and he stands up, pacing over to the window and staring out at the grounds. “No, Dick,” he sighs. “You won’t.”

“I… What?”

“This was all a terrible error in judgment,” Bruce continues, speaking like every word doesn’t hammer another nail into Dick’s heart. “Gordon was right; you’re just a boy. What the hell was I thinking?”

The breath catches in Dick’s throat. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears. “Bruce, what are you saying?”

“You’re fired. Robin’s finished.”

Dick lunges forward, every bone and muscle screaming from the mistreatment. He grabs the sleeve of Bruce’s suit jacket, trying to pull Bruce away from the window. Trying to see Bruce’s expression. Trying to see what’s going on behind his eyes.

“Bruce, you… you can’t! We’re a team. We’re partners! You said so yourself!”

“And you didn’t listen!” Bruce snaps, ripping his arm from Dick’s grasp and turning on the boy. His eyebrows lower, the lines in his forehead deepening. His jaw clenches, muscles tight like he’s about to spring into battle. “You disobeyed a direct order! An innocent man is dead, and you were nearly killed!”

“That’s enough!”

“Stay out of this, Alfred.”

Bruce and Alfred argue, but Dick doesn’t hear a word of it. All he can hear are those horrible, life-changing four words.

You’re fired. Robin’s finished.

Dick feels nauseous, palms clammy and head spinning. Lights and sounds become painful, the room going in and out of focus.

Bruce passes by him, headed for the door.

“Bruce! Bruce, I’m sorry. Two-Face, he… he tricked me! I thought I could save you both!”

But Bruce isn’t listening.

“It’s over, Dick. You’re better off this way.”

The door slams shut, and Dick feels way more sick than he did when Two-Face hurt him. Everything is hot and cold and dizzy and not making any sense and-

“Alfie,” he whispers, collapsing against the headboard. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“You will rest. You will recover. You will go on with your life.”

Dick can’t look at him. All he sees is the hazy Bat-Signal in the sky. The distress call that Dick will never answer again.

“Sure,” he agrees miserably.

“Is there… anything I might get you, young sir?”

Dick swallows hard, face burning. “Nothing.”

“Very well. Perhaps later.”

Alfred shuts the door with a gentle click, but Dick doesn’t hear it over his racing thoughts.

You messed up. You got close, you felt comfortable, and now you’re alone again. And it’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault.

Dick is ashamed of crying. But alone in this too-big bed in this too-big room in this too-big manor, Dick is okay with it. No one would hear him if he screamed, probably. No one would even care.

---

Dick leaves the manor the next day. He’s in pain, his world blurs and spins, and just breathing takes a gargantuan level of effort. But even so, it hurts less than staying in the manor, worrying Alfred and burdening Bruce. Dick can take care of himself, and he’s bound and determined to do so.

But before he goes, he leaves a note on the dining table where Bruce will find it. And it reads as such:

Dear Bruce, I guess it’s time for me to move on. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do if I’m not allowed to help you anymore. Alfred doesn’t need to worry about entertaining me and taking care of you too. You don’t want a partner. And you don’t need a son. I’m sorry I failed you. I won’t forget everything you’ve given me. Thank you for teaching me how to be strong. Dick

Part 3