#he was in jail last time i heard

[enhanced-operatives-division]

Junicrane/Starstruck Ramble

I will not be brief, all under the cut

To clear some things right off the bat:

No corpse, no proof with Juniper. Obligatory this is set in a canon where he's alive and adjacent to the agency in some way.

Reggie & Juniper are just gay to me, but I don't mind any interpretation of their sexuality

The games are set in 1967/68 to me (based on a couple bits in game) which is before it was legal to be gay in America at least (1971), which is relevant to how I interpret canon as being somewhat grounded in reality, despite unrealistic elements.

This is just an insane amount of headcanons/elements of and AU all culminated into one post. I will talk about some headcanons like they're just facts because they are established in my head, and it saves me over explaining literally everything, however I will explain some parts a little bit for clarity.

Alright. Actual beginning of the ramble:

Juniper is a character to me who had gotten so lost in his job as an actor and a social presence that in the end his whole life revolved around that 'role'. Because of this, by the time he's put into the situation where he's around the Agency, he basically knows nothing about himself, though he doesn't realise at first. Furthermore, what little identity he had has changed in so many ways. He's no longer a beloved famous actor in the prominence of public light, he's legally dead and he tarnished his career just before he was supposed to die, with the bonus of that making him lose the majority of his estate. From that, he also has horrific facial scarring from the electrical burns from literally having his face fried. I believe a friend of mine made a post about this a while ago (I also think they were the first to think it up also), but, to me, Juniper has a permanent trimmer in his right arm (aka his dominant hand) from the electrical current and it is messing with his nervous system.

All in all, he's not doing great, but he's too proud to admit that he's not doing great, because if anything, what's left of his ego is all he has as a defense since he's deep in unfamiliar water.

Before ending up around the agency (I have multiple interpretations of this, so I'm just going to bring it up generally), he'd never actually seen Reggie, and his only impression of him is a single voicemail, which was his only reference he had to later impersonate him. Juniper probably has very little feelings other than the ones he projects onto him because of Phoenix and that, at the very least, he's physically attracted to Reggie to some degree (that's like the beginning of how everything else would tumble into place in this sort of interpretation at least).

And on Crane's side? His feelings towards Juniper are probably very intense and muddled. On the one hand, he adores musical theatre, and that's his now ex-favourite actor. The thought of just casually being around him blows the bit of fanboy in him away at first because THAT'S the GUY, plus the inklings of a celebrity crush which still poke at him. And then there's the rational side of him, which knows Juniper has committed absolute atrocities on the side of Zoraxis, and hates him for that. Then there's how much Juniper comes off as an asshole at first because he refuses to cooperate with anything the Agency tried to put in place. He finds Juniper endlessly frustrating, and yet he's stuck working with him since, afterall, he's the one who knows the Agency's history with Juniper the best. I imagine him acting a lot like how he does IEYTD 1 around Juniper.

At this point, I'm just describing the pitch for a romcom.

I think the start of their relationship with one another largely started with Juniper trying to wind Crane up. It was a way of getting his attention, and I don't think Juniper knows why he's so dead set on that at first, because I don't think he realises he has a crush on 'this grump' at first. (I think that's actually the fun part about these two, because it's almost like a role reversal of the celebrity crush dynamic. This ex-big name actor has a TERRIBLE crush on an average joe and it is KILLING HIM.) But of course the Agency keeps them together because Juniper is at least conversing with Crane, so it's a start.

Through one way or another, they actually get talking casually, at least mildly at first. It takes Juniper a long time to fully deconstruct the wall he's built, and the thing is, Crane isn't the one trying to deconstruct it, at least at first, because yeah, Juniper realises if he wants Reggie to actually like him in any way, he can't keep winding him up. So they talk. Small talk at first, something rhythmic and almost easy to keep to a script. And over time that turns into actual conversations. Genuine ones in which Reggie rips out the occasional one of his jokes which Juniper is endlessly endeared about. The way he smiles just before he makes them, like he wants to chuckle at what he's about to say before he says it. That's probably when Juniper realised that he does have some vague crush on him, and that it wasn't going away.

This is what kickstarts John I can't-buy-you-things-to-impress-you-so-acts-of-service-it-is Juniper to do little things for him. It mostly starts off as him trying to make Reggie his tea how he likes it. However, the nerve damage in his arm makes that hard, as the weight of the kettle and trying to pour is hard all of a sudden. And he refuses to accept that, so he tries for a very long while. Long enough that Crane would go to investigate what was going on. And when he does see Juniper leaning over a cup with the kettle as he uneasily tries to pour it, and when Crane asks Juniper responds so matter-of-fact that his intention is nothing but genuine. And it catches Reggie off guard because Juniper hadn't done anything like that up to that point, and his very apparent vulnerability is so clearly on show.

It shifts something between them.

From that point on, conversations are longer, more familiar. Both of their attitudes soften, and Reggie makes more jokes. Juniper learns how to better use his left hand while strengthening his right back to a point where it could be used again. Slowly, they're both spending time with one another not because they have to, but just because they can. Little bits at first, not too far outside what they already were doing, but those little bits turned into long bits to a point where the other person's company was genuinely desirable.

As time passes, Juniper probably realises that he doesn't genuinely know much about himself or what hobbies he's into, because he never really had the time when he got big, and his home life in his youth wasn't bad, but it wasn't picturesque. I think Reggie would pick up on it, and absolutely try to introduce him to some things he's into. Some things stick, other things don't (corn husking very much stays Reggie's passion, and John will go with him sometimes because it's him, but it's not something he strongly cares for). Crane introduces him to a lot of music, and it's something that becomes a staple between them, with tracks they listen to more than others (tragically, I know relatively little about 60s music so I couldn't really say what). Occasionally they dance, never anything intense, think slow dancing, but the closeness is nice.

Through all of it, Juniper is battling the worst crush of his life, and he can't stand it, because I think he struggles to read people since he doesn't have anything like a script or a director to refer back to, so he has no idea if Reggie likes him back or if he's just desperate for that to be true. I think because of that any sort of confession between them would be incredibly raw, not only because of the time they live in making it hard for them to be truthful about how they love, but because it's a complete show of Juniper who's worked to be this better person. I don't exactly know how that would go, mainly because I don't have one set version of their dynamic, this post is just a generalisation of main consistent points.

Reggie does like him back, because he's gotten used to Juniper being just this guy, not a figure in the public eye, not a Zoraxis lackey, and not any sort of Agency operative (despite being under their care to some degree). He's someone he genuinely cares for, because they've given one another the time of day to learn one another, and I think because Reggie was a field agent, he was a lot better at reading Juniper than Juniper was at reading him. Eventually Juniper's company becomes something he could see around him for the rest of his life, and I think he accepts that he likes Juniper a lot more gracefully.

I think any affection directed at Juniper would at first be met with him feeling a little muddled. Reggie was a very physically affectionate person when he could be, and sure the initial flirting with one another came with the occasional little touches, but everything now was so deeply intentional. I also don't think Juniper would almost ever get over the novelty of being able to kiss him, or many other gestures, because it made the fact that they were together so very real, and it was great. I do think it comes easier to Reggie, and it's a big way of showing how much he cares, so it's important for Juniper to try and show it back because he knows how much it means to the other.

I like the idea of them eventually living with one another, too. I think Juniper would have always had a quiet little daydream of sorts where he does just live a domestic quiet life, and he can with Reggie (well, as close as they can get between the Agency and Zoraxis always being at odds), and he loves that, and he loves him, and it's immense.

I think they cook for one another a lot, it helps Juniper work on his dexterity in a controlled environment, which means a lot because it's a huge point of insecurity (that and his scars). He does improve, and Crane is proud of that and shows it and it's great. I also think they'd probably cook together too, because they can deal with being in the kitchen together and they work well with one another. It's probably a good way for them to unwind because over time they can do it in relative silence.

As I said before, I also think music is a staple in their household, and that Reggie listens to things on vinyl almost all of the time because he likes the background noise. Sometimes Juniper will catch him chuntering along to the music which he finds endlessly endearing. I wouldn't put it past his dramatic ass to also join in to fluster Reggie, but I also don't think Reggie would mind that terribly because Juniper has listened to the music enough to know the lyrics, and that's huge to him.

I don't think they are without rough patches, no relationship is, but I think the good part about them is that they're willing to talk about it (... eventually). They're used to long conversations, and while they're often less fun conversations, they're needed and they know that, and it works out.

Alright. I think I'm done for now. I haven't mentioned everything, but this definitely got the worst of it out of my system. If you ever want to hear any specific thoughts my ask box is open but other than that, behold my general dynamic for these two which has been festering in my head for years. I think they're great

[hcluv]

it’s the way that i’m emotionally attached to a kpop boy’s hair colour, SICKENING

[sachermorte]

so the thing about english is that people think it's so divorced from other germanic languages based on like. words. I've even heard people try to insist that english is a romance language. because of that whole messy business in 1066 with out-of-wedlock willy and his band of naughty normans. and now a good chunk of the vocabulary is french or whatever and they're prestigious so not using them makes you sound like a rube and this and that and the other

and yes william the conqueror will never be safe from me. I will have my revenge on him. he fucked up a perfectly good germanic language is what he did. this will be me in hell

but the thing is that most words in, say, german do have a one to one english equivalent. not all hope is lost, for those who still dare to see it. it's just that you 1066pilled normancels aren't looking in the right place

dog (en) ≠ der Hund (de) but der Hund (de) -> hound (en)

look with your special eyes. that one was easier. not all of them are this intuitive because of semantic narrowing and broadening and waltzing and hokey-pokeying and whatever else. I'll give you a few more

animal (en) ≠ das Tier (de)

aha! you think. I've got him on the ropes now.

but then

das Tier (de) -> deer (en)

nooooo!! you whine and cry in gay baby jail. the consonants are different!!! listen to me. listen, I say, putting both my hands on your shoulder. /t/and /d/ are the same sound. you just put your voice behind one of them.

nooooooooo!! you wail. deer are animals but not all animals are deer!!! listen to me. LISTEN. they used to be. animals used to be deer. that's just what we called them. it was a long time ago. it was a weird time in all our lives. it's okay.

let's try for a verb this time

to die (en) ≠ sterben (de) but sterben (de) -> to starve

same principle with the consonants, we're just changing a stop (where we completely stop the airflow and then let it through) for a fricative (where we still let some air go through. idk where it's going. maybe to its job or something.)

to starve used to mean generally to die, not just to die of malnourishment. we do that a lot. we take one word for a lot of things and make it mean one thing. or take one word for one thing and make it mean a lot of things. this is common and normal.

"okay but roland," you say, suddenly coming up with an argument. "what about tree? trees are super common. I don't think we'd fuck around too much with that. the german word is baum! what about THAT?"

"when did you learn german?" I ask, but then decide it isn't relevant right at this very moment. but fine.

tree (en) ≠ der Baum (de) but der Baum (de) -> beam (en)

beam??? you ask incredulously. beam???? BEAM?????? you continue with the same tone and cadence of captain holt from brooklyn 99.

yes. beam. like the evil beams from my eye I'm going to hit you with if you don't stop shouting.

but the vowels!!! you howl.

listen. listen to me. the vowels mean nothing. absolutely nothing. they're fluid like water. it got raised in english.

"WHAT DOES RAISED MEAN"

it doesn't matter right now. they were raised better than you, at least. stop shouting. open your eyes and see what god has given you. they're the same word.

"they're NOT the same word. they mean different things!"

we've been over this. they didn't used to. a beam was (and is) a long solid piece of wood. much like the long solid piece of wood I showed your mother last night.

FAQ:

Q: could english be some kind of germanic-romance hybrid?

A: do you become a sexy thing from the black lagoon just because you dressed up as one for halloween? english may have gotten a lot of vocabulary from norman french, but its history and syntax are distinctly germanic. that's what we base these things on.

Q: okay but what does it matter? this doesn't actually affect my day to day life

A: you come into my house? you come into my house, the house of an autistic man living in vienna austria and studying english linguistics and you ask me what does it matter? sit back down. I was going to let you go but now I have powerpoints to show you

Q: you're stupid and wrong and gay and a bad person

A: I know it's you, Willy

[inkskinned]

i have a fever. let's imagine pokemon world dash discourse together. (sorry i do not have darkmode.)

🤳🏻 pokestopit reblogged team-sprocket

👻 gengaydar Follow

For the last fucking time owning a gengar is NOT graverobbing. what is actually wrong with you people

#gengar #why am i even still on this site #i don't have a gengar but like. what's even going on over there #is marowak graverobbing now too??

💅 deerlinguist reblogged givemeyourstrongestpotion

👩‍❤️‍👩 lightscreend Follow

farfetch'd is like the most edible pokemon just because he comes with his own aromatics. pop that bad boy in the oven with some oran berries.... don't mind if i do

⚧ feministforcepalm Follow

@dyketraining tags pass peer review

🚣🏼‍♂️ magicarpaltunnel reblogged haxorsus

🐦‍⬛ corvikite Follow

I love to hate things and people. And when I turn out to be RIGHT and that person is a DICK? All parasocial relationships are bad and evil unless I am right about hating someone and then parasocial relationships are good actually

🪐waterbubbil Follow

We all thought about the same person let's just be honest here....

🎀 contest-winrar Follow

For me it's always going to be people who keep Pokémon without any thought as to their enrichment and needs. You do not need a fucking Arcanine, you live in a studio apartment and don't walk more than a block a day. You think you want a Gardevoir but are you okay with having an unknowable creature reading your thoughts every waking moment of the day? Even while you do... the nasty?

It drives me crazy because people see a Champion and think they have the time, energy, money, and space necessary to raise a Dragon type. Unless you have generational wealth, let me spell it out for you: you do not have the funds for a Dragon type. And yes! Charizard is on that list, guys! You can't even afford to feed yourself!

📯 jessiejustlickme Follow

local tumblr user declares the poors only get rat pokemon. maybe a bug pokémon if we are very good. we must grovel in the streets amen

🎀 contest-winrar Follow

Laugh all you want but I'm serious. I have heard of someone who is living with a MR. MIME like it's her HUSBAND!!!! That's fucking GROSS. These are creatures that TRUST us and NEED us.

Did you know that most Ponyta prefer to be in a herd? Are you going to have the space for that? Did you know that if you don't properly care for certain fire species their flame goes out? Sure, they're cute when they're small: but unless you're a rancher or a Gym Leader... I'm sorry. You're gross to me if you think otherwise. I hate people like that.

And for the record, rat and bug Pokémon are very valuable from an ecological standpoint. They hold an extremely important niche. People like you would rather they be hunted to extinction because they're pests, not pretty. It's disgusting.

🐦‍⬛ corvikite Follow

anybody in this thread smoke weed

#NOT THE RATS FOR THE POOR PEOPLE... GIRLLLLLL #the thing is they're not like... wrong.... #like i agree with the sentiment #my friend tried to get a slyveon just by like. playing catch a few times #.... like you do need to try.... #also fyi i have a large species so i'm biased #grovyle my baby . my man. u are costing me like so much in pokepuffs per month

👁‍🗨 badsol

why are we all talking about what pokemon to eat tonight lmafo

#.... obviously jigglypuff. homegirl is 90% cotton candy

🪅 feebassguitar reblogged metrognome

🫖 sinisteacher Follow

Like okay I got into science because I love to learn but the more I find out about how we've classified Pokémon types the more insane I feel. What do you mean there's no singular true indicator? What do you mean that there are several conditions which completely alter their base type?

Literally today my lab partner and I got into a very serious discussion about Luxray. That thing is a fuckking dark type!!!!! I'm sorry!!! I don't care what Bulbapedia says!!!! anyway i threw a pokeball at him and it swallowed him whole and now i'm going to jail for unlawful imprisonment of a TA

🍙 thesandwichking Follow

there's something, like, very dystopian about the idea that if u put an ugly hat on ur favorite little creature it changes like. the DNA. like. do other pokemon look at what you've done and cower? that's their friend... similar but changed... forever having known a life that is entirely alien to them...

🐳 wailordsupreme Follow

.... Are we going to ignore that OP swallowed a human into a ball???

#yes we are. #my friend loves those hats but I think they're so ugly #and stupid #if i wanted a specific type imma get that type..... #typesetting #show james

🧗‍♀️ backpacksandcavesnacks reblogged eevee-lotion

👑 lemmegrabmyballs Follow

ROUND 5 of 6 (see blog for more)

PLEASE REBLOG FOR VISIBILITY:

✍️ dreepydrabbles reblogged ash-hole

☠️ marrowhackoff Follow

just saw someone say writing omegaverse fanfic of your pokemon is bestiality. ma'am this is the monster fucking site. you should be grateful that it's only omegaverse.

#the things i've seen would melt your eyebrows clean off your face #..... typhlosion they could never make me hate you baby #i know that's not what's in your heart

🪽 honey-tree-skies reblogged gymcrawler

🐛 youngstirjoey Follow

Okay say what you will. But shorts really are comfy and easy to wear

🛀🏽 intimidatecutsyourattack Follow

Sorry bud. But. Investing at 3 notes

🐛 youngstirjoey Follow

don't do this to me. i h avue a wife . and chi ld

[rafesangelita]

₊˚⊹˚ 𐙚 WHEN YOU KNOW, YOU KNOW | PROLOGUE

a pogue!sweetheart!reader series by rafesangelita ©

SUMMARY: nothing could’ve ever prepared you for the handsome kook that came crashing into your life.. quite literally. it’s hard to think that at one point you and rafe didn’t know one another, especially since you two have spent every passing day together for the last four months.

WARNINGS: drug use, driving under the influence, reckless driving, rafe arguing with ward, descriptions of a mild injury, mentions of addiction and sobriety, blood, reader tends to rafe’s wounds, fluff, opposite of slowburn, forced proximity (?), time skip (from four months ago to the current day), slight angst

AUTHOR’S NOTE: ahhhhh!! it’s finally here, and i couldn’t be more excited to share this with all of you!! all feedback is deeply appreciated <3 feel free to ask to be added to the taglist if you’d like!

LINKS: series masterlist | next chapter

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

rafe set a new record for himself tonight, and he wasn’t proud of it. not only did he lose count of the lines he snorted off of topper’s coffee table, he also had ward blowing up his phone. “aye, man, i don’t think you should be driving.” topper slurred, downing the alcohol in his glass. cleaning the residue from his nose, rafe shook him off, stumbling through the crowd of people in the living room before hopping in his truck and peeling out of the packed street.

jaw ticking, rafe cursed to himself when his phone started ringing, ward’s contact lighting up the screen. “i’m going home already, alright? yes— yes, dad! i know we have a meeting with some investors in the morning.. what? no i’m not fuckin’ high!” he rambled on, feigning offense when his father called his bluff. “just stop— i know, okay? i’ll be there in a minute—” before rafe could finish his sentence, he took a sharp turn, swerving onto the curb before hitting a light pole.

you were locking up the icecream parlor when you heard the high pitched squeal of tires against the pavement, a loud crash making you jump from your spot in front of the door. spinning on your heels, your eyes widened when you saw a black truck just feet away from the main street, smoke billowing from under the hood. unsure of what to do, you looked around to see if anyone was nearby, but of course, the strip was always empty at this time of the night.

“son of a bitch!” you heard someone groan before they tumbled out of the front seat, falling face down against the concrete. you gasped, dropping your purse before running across the street. “are you okay?!” you helped the stranger sit up, wincing when you saw blood dripping from his nose. he stared at you wide eyed, his pupils blown as you kneeled in front of him. he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

“it’s okay, you don’t have to say anything.” you reassured him, slipping off your cardigan before holding it against his nose. you noticed the open gash on his brow, your heart sinking when you saw his eyes soften. “we really need to get you to the emergency, do you have a phone?” rafe shook his head, leaning back against the tire of his truck. “no. well, yes, i have a phone.. somewhere.. but i can’t go to the emergency, not like this.” just then, rafe felt a sharp pain shoot up to his temple from his neck.

“yes, like this! you’re all scraped up.” you said incredulously. “no, i mean i’m not sober.” as if he was waiting for you to judge him, rafe watched as your expression didn’t falter. “i promise you, going to the emergency and getting help from a professional is a lot more better than not going at all. your truck can always be replaced; you can’t.” your words lit a fire in his chest, the sincerity in your tone making him crack a pained smile.

“i’ll go to jail for this, and i just can’t do that right now. i have to be somewhere in the morning, my dad will kill me if he finds out..” remembering that he was on the phone with ward before he crashed, he scrambled up to find the device, only to groan and plop back down on the street. still holding the pink cardigan to his head, you guided his hand to hold it for you. “what are you looking for? i can try to find it.” rafe let out a shaky breath, mumbling “my phone.” before you got up and spotted it near the tire.

turning it over, you held it up for him to see. it was completely shattered. “i don’t think it’s going to work..” you handed it to him, a bitter laugh falling from his lips. “what the fuck?” he breathed out, holding his head in his hands. you’ve never seen someone look so defeated before, your feet moving on their own before you could think. “do you think you can walk? my place is only five minutes away.” rafe looked up like he couldn’t believe the words that just came out of your mouth.

“your place?” he repeated, half shocked and half confused as to why you’d offer him help. “yes,” you nodded, taking his hand in yours, “i don’t have a phone there, but i can at least get you cleaned up..” rafe tried to weigh out his options, only to realize he didn’t have any. “are you sure?” he was truly at your mercy. “yes. here— just keep holding this to your head, let me go get my purse and we can be on our way.” you left him with your cardigan, running across the street and grabbing your bag before getting him up.

“i’m a lot stronger than i thought.” you joked, attempting to lighten the mood as you wrapped one of rafe’s arms around your shoulders. “fuck, what about my truck?” rafe leaned his weight on you, nearly making you topple over before you took a step. “someone will find it and call a tow, you could call the towing company tomorrow,” you explained to him, “do you have anything valuable in there?” rafe laughed, shaking his head. “just my piece of shit phone that has no value now.” he grunted, walking with a slight limp.

“hey, uhm, what’s your name?” rafe looked down at you, both of you sharing a glance before he looked away. despite him not being in the right state of mind, there was no doubting how insanely pretty you were. “y/n.. and yours?” why on earth were you getting butterflies right now? “rafe.” was all he replied before he started asking you an abundant amount of questions. rafe learned a lot about you in the short five minute walk to your camper. what you did for a living, where you currently worked for some extra money, what your hobbies consisted of.. along with being a pogue.

“so.. you live all alone in this pink camper in the middle of the woods? aren’t you scared some psycho will come across it and want to know who’s inside?” he asked, genuinely concerned. “a psycho?” you flashed him a playful smile, “like you?” rafe watched as you unlocked the small screen door, a chuckle threatening to slip from his throat. “i would laugh if it didn’t feel like i had a thousand needles stabbing me in my brain right now.” he swallowed thickly, accepting the hand you offered him to step in.

he was immediately hit with the smell of freshly baked cake and vanilla frosting. he loved it. “i know it’s really small in here, but you could just take a seat right there on that little couch and i’ll go get my first aid kit.” rafe did as you said, eyes darting around your space. pink florals, white lace trim, usually he’d be irked by this kind of decor, but for some reason unbeknownst to him, he didn’t mind it this time. rafe leaned back on the soft sofa, settling into the cushions while you scrambled for the little first aid kit somewhere in your bathroom.

spotting the small box on your little shelf, you grabbed it before making your way back to where rafe was sitting. he opened his eyes momentarily, finding you even more pretty now that darkness didn’t surround you two. he kept his gaze on you, watching as you took your bottom lip between your teeth. “sorry about this..” rafe took the pink cardigan away from his head, the fabric now stained with blood. “oh, don’t worry about it,” you smiled, “you needed it more than i did.”

pressing a damp cloth to his nose, rafe groaned when you applied the slightest bit of pressure. “i’m sorry!” you pouted, taking a seat next to him. rafe reassured you he was alright, a groan leaving his lips as he clutched his stomach. eyebrows knitting in confusion, you lifted his shirt, your eyes widening at the sight. he was scraped and bruised, a small wound adorning his lower abdomen. “here, lets get this off.” you pulled rafe’s t-shirt over his head, both of your cheeks heating at the compromising position.

“we could stop if this is too weird for you—” you shook your head, taking an ice pack out of your freezer. “no, it’s okay.” you pressed the cold bag to his skin, still wiping away the dried blood on his face. “i’m not sure how far you live, but i don’t think it’s a good idea for you to walk anywhere.” your voice was barely above a whisper, the sound of it soothing rafe more than any kind of medicine he could take right now. “don’t worry about me, i’ll be fine.” rafe watched your fingers dance across his stomach, your nails sparkling underneath the dim lighting of your camper.

you thought for a moment. “i guess what i’m trying to say is; i think you’re better off staying the night here..” you trailed off, meeting his gaze, “you’ll be able to get to a phone in the morning and call whoever you need to. you should just get some rest right now.” rafe was stunned. you wanted him to stay? “i don’t know..” he sounded uneasy, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t help but feel like he was imposing. “it’s okay, i swear! you could take my bed since there’s no way you’ll be able to sleep on this little thing.”

“no, no way, i’m fine with sleeping on the floor.” you smiled at him, eyes flickering down to his lips. “no, really, it’s okay, rafe.” he liked the way his name sounded rolling off of your tongue, “i’ve fallen asleep plenty of times over here, i’ll be fine on the couch.” you got up, wringing out the towel you were using to clean him up. “i just have one rule, though,” rafe held the ice pack to his stomach, humming as you grabbed some ointment and a couple of bandages.

“you can only lay in my bed if you’re clean.. and you need a shower.” the corner of rafe’s lips quirked. “if you want to see me naked all you have to do is ask.” you blinked, pushing his chest softly. “that’s not what i meant.” you giggled. “i’ll get you a change of clothes, just get in there for right now.” rafe was already too far in to look back. getting up with your assistance, you guided rafe to the bathroom before shutting the door behind him. “there’s clean towels and wash rags on the shelf!” you called from the kitchen, yawning as all of tonight’s events started to catch up with you.

rafe didn’t know what to make of all of this. one minute he was high out of his mind, crashing into a light pole with his dad on the phone, and the next he was inside some gorgeous girl’s camper getting tended to before using a strawberry scented body wash in her shower. what the fuck was his luck? taking his time in the shower, rafe thought about how he’d explain everything to ward tomorrow, from the towed truck to the cuts and bruises.

he wondered if ward would even care.

by the time rafe was done, he was stepping out of the bathroom smelling like a slice of strawberry cake with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. he glanced over at the couch, your back facing him as you slept soundlessly. moving aside the pink curtain that concealed the doorway to your room, rafe slipped into the sweatpants you left out for him, settling underneath your silky soft sheets shortly after.

how was it that you just happened to be the only person around when he crashed? how did he crash right in front of where you worked? and why were you being so nice to him? rafe had so many questions and couldn’t think of any logical answers. he didn’t believe in fate, but looking back on it, that seems to be the only explanation. the next day he woke up to his clothes freshly washed and wearable again, your music playing softly in the kitchen. “good morning!” you chirped, your hair and makeup already done for the day.

“hey..” rafe was still shirtless, his eyes following your every move. “what time is it?” he took a seat at the little booth by the wall, his head no longer pounding the way it did last night. “it’s about to be ten. i was debating if whether or not i should’ve woken you up earlier, but you really needed to sleep.” you leaned back against the counter, admiring the handsome man in your camper. “your wallet should also be with your clothes there on that chair,” you started, “..so i was thinking; the little store just right outside of these woods has a pay phone that you can use.”

rafe nodded. “yeah, that sounds good.” he couldn’t think of the last time he woke up without not wanting the day to be over with already. “hey, listen— uhm, i owe you a huge one for everything you’ve done for me.. i apologize if it was an inconvenience in any way, but i really do appreciate you.” rafe got up, grabbing his wallet from your room. “here. please take it.” you looked down at the hundred dollar bills tucked between his fingers, shaking your head as you moved his hands away.

“absolutely not.” you laughed. “no, please, take it.” rafe got closer, opening one of your palms before closing it around the bills. “rafe, i don’t want it!” you backed away, “i’m serious.” rafe let out a sigh. he already knew how this would go, so instead of urging you to keep it, he placed the money on your dresser after he was done changing. “well i guess i’ll be leaving now.” you masked the disappointment on your face by offering him a smile. “yeah, i guess so..” without saying a word, you and rafe stared at each other before he wrapped his arms around you, the action giving you butterflies.

before you could say or do anything, he pulled away and left, leaving your camper feeling more emptier than usual. you walked over to the door where you watched him walk away until you couldn’t see him anymore, a pout on your lips as you did so. while you were sure that you would more than likely never see him again, you couldn’t have been more wrong. that day was the first of approximately one hundred and twenty one days, and counting, that you two would spend together. rafe came back to you the next day with a brand new pink cardigan to replace the other one you so selflessly let him ruin.

one icecream date turned into several, which then progressed into him coming over to your place with an overnight bag, his very own toothbrush now taking a spot next to yours. which then led to him picking you up and dropping you off at work, and so on until he finally said that you were his. you two spent the entire summer underneath the trees, rolling around in the grass as you two gasped each other’s names into your mouths, sharing sweet kisses and an even sweeter love that continued to grow with no intentions of ever stopping.

rafe had gotten sober out of fear that he wouldn’t remember what a love like this felt like if he was high all the time, and without judgement, you were there with him every step of the way. you stayed by his side when he felt like all hope was lost, and for that he could never thank you enough. although ward wondered where rafe would go off to, he didn’t bring himself to care as long as he was doing what he needed to do for the family business. with his dad off of his back, and you to come ‘home’ to everyday, he could say that he was finally, truly happy.

even now as you two sat in your favorite diner, sharing a milkshake and laughing at whatever the other was saying, you felt no worries when you and rafe were together, your heart threatening to burst at the seams everytime you looked at him. everything was perfect.. at least for now. all good things must come to an end, and when you two are threatened by none other than ward himself, the love bubble you two have been mindlessly floating in is suddenly popped.

taglist: @percysley @oceandriveab @archiveofvirtue @weirdowithnobeardo @mattyskies @ankoluvly @cnnamongrl @b3bybunny @littlelamy @nemesyaaa @lovinqbella @jeonmochi99-blog @corpsebridenightamare @whorelaud @mymvlody @idontknowwhyimhere33 @ursovaine

[januaryembrs]

SWEET AND RIGHT AND MERCIFUL | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

request: my DARLING @avis-writeshq says: OMGGGG EM CONGRATS ON 3K !!! soooo deserved and i’m so so happy for you!!! please may i request tea for sunshine!reader 🥹🩷 maybe the moment when she realises just how much she likes him (perhaps she was in heavy denial beforehand)? I LOVE YOU SO MUCH THANK YOUUUUU 🩷🩷🩷

description: The Sunshine rookie Spencer had heard so much about is the first one to make him laugh since he got out of prison.

length: 4.1k

warnings: Lucky Strikes episode, talks of humans eating humans, cm gore, blood, violence etc. UnSub gets creepy with reader. sex jokes, spitting water.

author's note: dedicated to @avis-writeshq because she is my GIRL when it comes to Spencer Reid x Sunshine brain rot, and also because she requested a Drabble for them but I couldn't stop writing and here we are with a full ficlet.

It had been three weeks, three painfully long weeks since Spencer Reid had returned to the BAU, nearly ten years since she’d seen him lecturing at Pennsylvania. He looked different, but then Emily had said quite literally on her second day that their endgame was getting him out of prison for a crime he didn’t commit, and it seemed only natural that being a fed in a foreign jail would knock someone around. 

She’d been too nervous to speak to him on their first day working together, had stuck to Luke’s side like glue because he was closest in age to her and he didn’t seem to mind the way she could speak a hundred miles per hour. They had only really had any contact when she was chatting with Garcia in the kitchenette at lunch, when she was talking to the tech whizz about the crochet set she’d bought even though she couldn’t seem to wrap her head around the way everything bobbed and weaved and bobbed again, and how the woman on youtube seemed to make the tiny bumblebee seem so achievable while hers looked like a yellow turd. 

He’d come up behind the two of them, his footsteps deadly silent despite the fact he had sneakers on, and she wouldn’t have even known he was there had Penelope not lit up with glee at seeing Reid poking around their office again. 

“Coffee, honey?” Penelope asked, looking over the girl’s shoulder, and it was only when he murmured a ‘mhm’ that the rookie noticed he’d crept up behind her, leaning over to grab his mug from the cupboard, and she hopped to the side immediately. 

“S-sorry, just shove me out the way next time, my mom says I have zero spacial awareness.” She said with a nervous laugh, and he didn’t seem to care as he granted her a small glance, pushing the button on the coffee machine and clunking his mug beneath the tap. 

“Have you met our newbie, Spence?” Penelope asked, friendly as ever even though the women caught the way his jaw seemed to feather with clenched muscle, like he was holding himself back from snapping, and his eyes were tired as he looked over at Garcia, barely flicking his gaze to the new face despite her prompt, “This is Y/N, she’s joined us from cold cases,” 

“Hi,” The woman chirped with a quick wave, despite the fact he was stood only a foot away from her, “It’s nice to meet you after everyone’s spoken so highly about you, Penny said you like invented the term genius,”

Spencer pursed his lips, trying not to make a backhanded comment about how dumb that sounded because of course he didn’t invent it, of course it was coined in the mid seventeenth century from the latin gignere to mean ‘exceptional natural ability’, and the last time he checked he wasn’t even born then. But he stopped himself, because she was just being nice, and it wasn’t her fault that he hadn’t been sleeping or that he couldn’t eat dinner without waiting to hear a buzzer go off to let him know when it was meal time, and it certainly wasn’t her fault that she was just a few decibels too loud with her cheerful tone and smile that he could hear in every syllable. 

So he just gave her an awkward smile, and an acknowledging nod, the whir of effort from the coffee machine slowing down as his drink finished pouring, and he grabbed his mug, not even caring that the ceramic scolded his fingertips because he’d felt so much worse before and gotten through it. 

“I’ll catch up with you later,” He said coldly, not returning the sentiment, and he’d turned before he could see the way her smile dropped, her brows creasing in worry as she watched him head back towards his desk.

“Did I say something wrong?” She asked with a small voice, and Penelope wrapped an arm around her shoulder giving her a kind squeeze and a sad smile. 

“It’s not you, sweetie, he’s just-” Garcia swallowed, her own pout growing over her red painted lips, “He’s not like the Reid we used to know, he’s struggling,” 

And so she nodded, chewing at the inside of her cheek with a frown. It felt silly to have her feelings hurt, except she’d been thinking about the day two agents from the BAU came to give her sociology class a talk on geographical and societal factors compelling crime, how she’d headed straight to her tutor that evening to swap her major to criminology. Because she’d hung on every word Agent Hotchner and Agent Reid had said, which definitely had nothing to do with the fact the younger of the two was so dreamy in his glasses and tweed jacket. 

She’d been excited to meet him again after nearly ten years, maybe even thank him for changing the trajectory of her entire life. He was still handsome, and despite the fact she’d grown up since then, had only thought about him as that hot guy who gave a lecture in her class that one time, she still had felt that silly fluttering feeling in her chest the second she saw him talking with Emily in her office the morning he got back. 

And he’d look at her like she was a girl scout selling cookies; a passing face, a summer temp, no one worth getting to know.

She pretended like she wasn’t the slightest bit disappointed, he’d been to prison for god sake. The guy had bigger problems than a little nobody girl from another department.

Things weren’t much better the day they got the case.

“You might want to cover your eyes for this bit, my little sugar plum,” Penelope said, looking at the rookie with soft eyes, and Emily smiled at her gently, knowing the girl had a bit of an innocent streak, not completely unlike Penny when she’d started the job. 

“Why? I’m sure it’s nothing-” She cut herself off when Penelope clicked onto the next page, and the image of a woman who could only be described as utterly butchered flicked onto the screen in full size, “Oh,” 

“Oh, indeed, rookie,” Rossi said with a wince, looking at the mulch of blood and muscle where her legs had been removed, and her fingers severed clean off as if with a carving knife. 

Luke looked up at the girl, where she’d gone a little peaky, and he patted her back gently, sliding his bottle of water over to her without a word. 

“All the telltale signs are here,” JJ said on a sighed breath, images of the rest of the crime scene flicking up on the screen.

“Pentagram, legs and fingers gone,” Rossi agreed, Luke and Matt looking between the team with a questioning glance, as she downed a sip of the water. 

“There’s even one neat aspect right here,” Emily said, the tip of her finger pointing to one of the pictures of the floor outside the bathroom stall where the body was found, “Her earrings and jewellery are laid out equidistant on the floor,”

“Sure as hell looks like him,” Rossi said, and she cleared her throat, looking to the older man on her left. 

“Like who?” She asked, her eyes snapping to Spencer who opened his mouth to speak, which seemed to be the only time he ever did bother making conversation; when there was a body on their hands.

“Floyd Feylnn Ferrell,” He said, as if the original case had only been wrapped up last week, but then with his memory she wasn’t exactly surprised, “A psychotic cannibal who’d been killing under the radar for years,”

“He killed ten prostitutes and then moved up to low risk victims,” Prentiss added, the rookie’s eyes wide. It wasn’t anything she’d never heard of, but it never made it easier knowing something even worse was coming after the murders. 

“He kept slipping through the cracks and avoiding justice so people referred to him as ‘Lucky’” JJ said, her eyes darting over the crime scene photos that seemed to take her back ten years to when they’d seen almost an identical set of photos, like Hotch was about to call ‘Wheels up in twenty’ any minute now.

Rossi sighed, looking at the younger girl who watched him wide eyed, “Have you eaten today, rookie?”

She shook her head dumbly, “Why?”

“Because the worst of it was he owned a barbeque joint,” Her face dropped even more, if that was even possible, “And he fed one of the victims to the search party,”

Her hand flew to her mouth, blinking at the seasoned agent in terror, because that was something she hadn’t ever thought would enter someone’s mind until she heard it. As simple as it sounded, for someone who had seen cases going back twenty, thirty years, some particularly heinous in nature, there were new lengths she didn’t realise a human could ever go to, let alone would.

Penelope stopped, shutting her laptop lid and glancing at JJ in a plea for help, as the thought of what had happened after the Ferrell case rushed to the front of her mind, when the guy she’d thought wanted to take her out on a date shot her. 

“I have a computer…” The blonde trailed off, heading for the door to the office room with a dazed look in her eyes, and the rookie watched her leave, her neck and palms clammy as she thought about what Rossi had just said. 

“I think I have a computer too-” She rushed, and she bolted from her seat before she could think of anything else, dashing after the technical analyst because she feared she was going to throw up if she didn’t get a breath of fresh air. 

Spencer watched her hair swish as she scurried out the room, and he wondered how long she would last if she couldn’t stomach just a few photos. He had struggled with the gore at first, sure, but he’d never ran. Maybe he was being cruel, but he couldn’t say that a girl like her exactly fit the part of an FBI agent, she seemed… pure, like driven snow, and if anything he’d hate for the bloodied parts of their job to stain a girl so squeaky clean.

Emily nudged his shoulder, nodding towards her retreating figure when he looked up at her questioningly, “You keep an eye on her in this case. She’s still learning,” 

And Spencer grit his teeth, because he hated the idea of babysitting when he had a dozen of his own problems, but he nodded indignantly. 

He just hoped she didn’t make things too hard for him. 

–

The door swung open behind Ferrell, the UnSub’s sister, the midday Florida heat boring down on her back, Spencer bristling at her right as Luke pocketed his badge. 

And then there he was. The guy from the photo, his thick, wiry glasses exact matches to the ones he’d been wearing the day he got caught, though she supposed a mental facility didn’t exactly have funds for replacements. 

“It’s no problem, Lori, I’ll speak with them,” His voice was a strong southern twang, and almost chillingly calm. His sister looked over her shoulder at him, the woman fretful as she glanced between the four agents, ten years of troubles on her shoulders. She sighed, running a hand over her neck nervously and headed back inside to be with her son, leaving them alone with their suspect on the doorstep, “You’ll have to wait, I’m on my way to church. It’s right around the corner so I’m within the thousand permitted yards from the monitoring station,”

He quickly glanced at where Matt and Luke stood behind her, the former with his arms crossed over his chest as he eyed up the thin, twiggly guy who looked like the type to live in his mother’s basement until he died, not the type to cannibalise and murder. 

His eyes darted over to where Reid towered over him, familiarity flicking in his face as he looked at the agent, and he smiled slowly, like something out of a horror, the uncanny valley of a face so normal when she knew he was so sick somewhat terrifying to her. He fed one of the victims to the search party. She heard it rattling around her skull as she saw the whites of his teeth, and she imagined him ripping into her then and there, her hands shaking.  

“Hey, I remember you. Where’s your friend, Agent Morgan?” Floyd said, and she felt Spencer tense up beside her, which she guessed meant it was a sore subject as she jumped into the conversation, her lips moving before she could think better of it. She’d always had a habit of talking too much when she was nervous, or to fill gaps, or when she could tell someone was uncomfortable, she’d always been told it was one of her more irksome traits. 

“You wouldn’t mind if we took a look around, would you? Just while you’re gone?” She asked politely yet, for once, she regretted ever opening her mouth the second he turned his attention on her.

She felt something cold and dreadful run down her spine as he looked straight at her, his sepia eyes trailing down over her neck, running over her body and down to her hands that fidgeted at her sides.

They waited on baited breath, her stomach flipping with sickness as that manic smile drew even wider, trained solely on her, a thought privy only to himself somewhat amusing to him. She felt herself lean away without even meaning to, incidentally feeling Spencer’s arm bump into hers as she did, and the three men seemed to tense up as they watched Ferrell smell the air, savouring every second of it, his eyes blown wide with something unreadable. Lustful yet starved, like he was on a four day fast standing next to an open roast. 

“You’re awful pretty for an agent,” Floyd said, that drawling accent of his turning her stomach, and his eyes trailed down over her calves, and she cursed herself for wearing a midi skirt. But she hated jeans on her thighs, hated the way Florida air clung humidly to her skin when she didn’t let it breathe, but she thought she might just hate the way his mouth filled with saliva more, “Do you like running, agent?”

“Sometimes,” She whispered, shrinking in on herself even more as he took a step out of the home. 

And Spencer felt his chest drop at the sound of it. She sounded petrified. But then, he would be too if someone his size looked at him like he was a five-course banquet. And he regretted ever thinking of her as babysitting, as defective, because she was clearly trying her best, and this was where it had gotten her. Right on the UnSub’s menu.

“I bet you do a lot of running, chasing after bad guys, huh?” Floyd pushed, leering towards her with another smell of her perfume, and she could have sworn his smile only widened into something cheshire cat-esque. She nodded with a worried gulp, her breath picking up when his hand began moving up to where a rogue stray hair fell out of her bun, running over her collar bone, her heart beating so wild and heavy beneath it. 

And it was enough for Spencer to act, because within the blink of an eye, he’d side stepped in front of the rookie who seemed frozen in her spot, and Floyd’s arm was shoved away where it hit Spencer’s bicep. Ferrell was forced to stop looking over her clammy skin with heavy swallows like he was imagining just how she would cut and marinate, and instead was confronted with a frown that could send any man scarpering, Spencer’s lips pressed into something furious, his shoulders seeming only more broad than they usually did when he purposely blocked Ferrell’s view from her. 

“You’d better get going, Floyd,” Spencer said, his voice a deadly sort of calm, and his arm stuck out behind him to keep her where she was as he spoke, “You’re going to be late for church,” 

And Floyd listened, despite his smarmy smile as he dared a look at her when he passed by, despite the fact his eyes trailed back down to her jugular like he was ready to sever it there and then to string her up and cure. 

Spencer’s hand fished around his pocket, glaring at the back of Floyd’s head as he strolled down the street, tossing the keys to Alvez, “Take her back to the car, don’t let her out of your sight,” 

And the two of them listened while he and Matt swept the house, because anyone would be insane not to when Spencer looked so angry he could have put a hole through Ferrell’s head without blinking an eye.

–

“Eating people, who eats people, what on earth is that all about,” She muttered, the four of them in the SUV heading back to the station. She sat at the front with Spencer where he drove because Luke and Matt were gentlemen and had offered her the extra leg room, and Spencer had zero qualms because he was under strict instruction to keep an eye on her. 

She did that alot, he realised. Muttered when she was thinking about something. Where he went deadly silent when troubled, too focused on sorting through the mental files that seemed to be so resistant to organise these days, she was his entire opposite, always talking or humming a tune under her breath or playing an invisible set of piano notes on her knee, something to always keep the space filled. 

He’d hated it the first few days, the sound like a blaring alarm coming from over by her desk, cutting through his limited attention span, grating on his nerves and making him have to bite his tongue to stop himself from yelling at her to shut the fuck up. But then, it wasn’t exactly personal to her, even the sound of the coffee machine had been enough to pull at his hair in frustration. At twelve years old, it spluttered and whirred and kicked back at every drink it made, every second of it winding Spencer’s patience up like a jack in the box.

But he found himself listening in on her mumbles, glancing over at how her frown screwed up her doe eyes, her lip pulling between her teeth whenever there was a tiny pause in between her words, before she started again. He’d quickly realised it was the easiest cheat in the book to know when something was bothering her, that she was so much of an open book, not at all cold and guarded like him or so many other profilers he knew, that he wouldn’t need to bother deducing her like she was his next UnSub to know what was wrong. She would just tell him as it was, wear everything vulnerable on her face. 

“Something the matter?” He pressed, Luke also keeping a close watch on her from the back seat as she shook her head to herself, and her head snapped over to the driver’s side, her expression entirely caught even though she’d not exactly been subtle about her turmoil.

“M-me? “ She pointed to herself, and Spencer nodded, trying not to smile because sometimes she could be clueless, not the dumb kind but something sweet, naive, and he found himself somewhat jealous that she didn’t need to be the smartest person in the room to be worth something, she could just be herself, “Yeah, I guess I just,” She huffed, running her hands over her skirt, “I don’t get why anyone would want to eat someone else, it just-” She shivered, not in a theatrical or fake way but like a ghost had walked over her grave just thinking about Floyd smelling at her. 

“Some cultures used to cannibalise other members of their society as funerary practices as early as twenty-four thousand years ago,” Spencer said, and she stopped fidgeting to listen to him, “There’s evidence that the Magdelanians in North Europe used to turn their dead’s skulls into cups they would then drink out of,”

“That I can understand, those guys were probably starving and it’s not like they can just chow down on a damn sabertooth as an easy lunch or something,” She said, and he bit his lip from stopping her to explain that the two of them were about four thousand years apart from one another, “But like, when there’s a burger king or taco bell on every corner, why are you eating women. Who eats women for breakfast lunch and dinner, like raise your hands which one of you would ever eat a woman,” 

Luke sniggered, and Matt smirked at the innuendo of it, the double meaning of her words flying entirely over her head.

“I dunno, Alvez, do you like eating women?” Simmons asked, a smug grin in his words as the boys cackled childishly, and Spencer rolled his eyes with amusement. 

“Pretty partial to it actually,” Luke chimed in, and she whirled in her seat to look behind her of scepticism, “How about you, Reid?”

“You guys are so weird,” She murmured, and Spencer took a quick glance off the road to see her looking entirely baffled, her feathers ruffled at the fact she was left out of the joke. 

“They’re talking about oral sex,” He explained, because he remembered when that had been him for the longest time, and how it had made him feel like the butt of every punchline to not understand why everyone would smile at him knowingly, yet he found himself doing the exact same to her, his lips twitching at their corners.

Spencer watched her scoff, looking back at the two grown children in the back, “I take it back, you guys aren’t weird, your gross. Why can’t you be mature like Spencer?” She huffed, sitting back in her seat and fixing her skirt, “See if you were grownups like Agent Reid and I, you’d know the term isn’t eating a woman, it’s called focalratio,” 

Matt pulled a face of confusion, flicking his eyes to her, “Isn’t that to do with a camera lens?” 

“Do you mean fellatio?” Spencer asked, trying his hardest not to smirk because he didn’t want to make her feel stupid, except she just waved a hand at him.

“That’s what I said. I see why they call you Doctor Read and not Doctor Listen,” She giggled at her own words, watching the trees go by her passenger window, almost entirely oblivious to the way Spencer’s face cracked into a grin, something easy and charmed in his chest. 

And for a moment, he saw exactly what Penelope had been talking about when she wouldn’t stop talking about how likeable she was and how it was harder to hate her than it was to love her. 

Luke took a sip of his water, the bottle nearing the end as the Florida sun warmed it up, and he figured he might as well finish it before it became stagnant and undrinkable. 

“Actually the term fellatio describes only male genitalia, the female equivalent would be cunnilingus-” Spencer explained, and he knew she was listening because he felt her eyes on the side of his face as he spoke, except he was cut off by the sound of her screaming so loud he nearly slammed on the breaks then and there. 

“LUKE!” She yelled, and when Spencer looked, she had water dripping down the back of her hair, soaking her shirt to her skin, her black bra straps suddenly clear as day as they pressed against her dove white top. Alvez looked mortified, and he found himself apologising between coughs, water dribbling down his chin where he’d been so shocked to hear that word coming from Spencer’s mouth that he’d completely forgone swallowing and simply spat the whole thing out right through the gap between the headrest and the seat. 

And Spencer laughed; it was quiet and foreign and nothing on the roaring cacophony coming from Matt in the back, as her and Luke descended into a squabble, her proclaiming him as a disgusting alpaca man as she tried to dry herself off with his jacket. But she caught it, the small chuckle coming from her left, and she looked at him, the sodden shirt almost forgotten when she saw him laugh. 

She thought then that she wanted to make him laugh like that a million more times. And she knew she had it bad for Spencer Reid all over again.

[ellecdc]

I HAD AN IDEA FOR A REQ BUT I FORGOT IT AND I JUST REMEMBERED AGAIN

okok so shy!reader (similar to r in the poly!marauders + lily fic that i am genuinely obsessedddd with) but with barty and she just gets so flustered and blushy when he’s so loud and outspoken about his affection for her

barty would absolutely accidentally (& lovingly) torment poor shy!reader. thanks for your request! (I'm obviously currently in my Barty-girl era - I deserve jail time ur honour)

Barty Crouch Jr x fem!reader who tries hiding from Barty, much to Remus' chagrin

There were very few places in the castle that Remus could escape to from his nettlesome roommates. Thankfully, his roommates would rather be trampled by a stampede of hippogriffs than spend their precious free time in the library of all places. Unfortunately, Remus was still too easily spotted in his current hideout.

“Rem! Hide me!” He heard you squeak as you came flying around one of the stacks of books; eyes wild like a prey animal looking for their last chance at survival. 

“What?” Remus asked dumbly, but it was no use. 

You let out a cartoonish ‘eep!’ sound and dove underneath the table Remus was currently sat at; your head basically situated in Remus’ lap as you looked up at him desperately. 

“Please.” You practically begged. “You never saw me!”

“Who’s looking for you?” 

Remus' question was answered in the form of a haunting whistling weaving its way casually through the aisles and aisles of books before pausing directly in front of Remus’ chair.

“‘Lo, Junior.” Remus greeted politely, causing the Slytherin boy to narrow his eyes at him.

“Lupin.” He drawled suspiciously. “Aren’t there usually…more of you?”

Remus grimaced as he felt your nervous claws dig painfully into his calf. “Nope.” He replied an octave too high to be considered casual. “Just me.”

Barty simply offered him a disbelieving hum. 

“So, Lupin,” Barty continued, chewing the vowels of Remus’ surname as if it tasted particularly rancid in his mouth. “See anything around here lately?”

Remus hummed as if pretending he was in thought. “No…nope, definitely haven’t seen anyo- anything.”

But it was too late.

“Haven’t seen anyone, hm?” Barty surmised with a wicked grin. “Not even…say…a certain witch who happens to be the object of my affections?”

You dejectedly thumped your forehead against Remus’ knee, hitting the nerve which caused his leg to kick out reflexively, thus pushing you over under the table.

“Merlin’s tits, Lupin, are you having a fit?”

“Oh my sodding Godric.” You finally grumbled from under the table, causing Barty’s face to brighten up astronomically. 

It took you far longer than Remus would have liked to be sitting in the awkward semi-company with Barty to extricate yourself from under the library table, and your efforts were accompanied by an awful lot of painful sounding bumps and cursing before your - albeit rather bedraggled - form materialized beside Remus. 

“There’s my girl.” Barty nearly sighed in relief; a dopey lovesick smile spreading across his face.

“Do you see it too?” You whispered to Remus conspiratorially.

“See what?”

“That look.” You whispered again, causing Remus to snort.

“The look of adoration currently decorating Junior’s face? Yeah, I see it.” 

You scoffed at him. “Barty doesn’t adore me.”

“Says who!?” Barty nearly screeched, causing Remus to look around nervously at the attention the trio was quickly gathering. “I’ll kill them.”

“What?”

“Can I be excused from this conversation?” Remus groaned as he returned to his seat.

Barty quickly agreed at the same moment that you hissed no!

“Listen - my darling angel - though I think you’re really great at just about everything you do, you are absolute pants at hiding.” Barty offered you solemnly as if he were gently giving you quite devastating news.

“Maybe you’re just too good at this finding thing.” You huffed as you crossed your arms; quite petulantly, in Remus’ opinion.

“At finding you?” Barty asked as his face broke out in a Cheshire cat grin. “Always.”

Remus was certain you were going to melt through the floor below you, and - quite frankly - if it got you two away from Remus’ library sanctuary, so be it.

[sttoru]

toji taking care of newborn megumi while reader sleeps?

⟣ tags. dad!toji x female reader. fluff. gumi isnt rlly a newborn but we ball. use of curse words teehee

“tch—i’m really regretting buyin’ this thing.” toji was running out of patience as he reads the instructions on the piece of paper in his hands. it was all so vague; he’s questioning himself for even trying to figure this stuff out in the first place.

the small coos and babbles coming from megumi sound throughout the living room, the baby sitting in the pillow fort that his dad made him. the correct name would actually be ‘pillow jail’, since the fort wasn’t built for megumi’s entertainment—it was mainly to keep the little boy confined so toji could peacefully work on setting up the playhouse.

your husband was so intensly focused on putting the playhouse together to the point that he didn’t even notice the little thief escaping his self-made jail.

megumi was crawling on his hands and knees, his palms making soft ‘pat’ sounds as they came in contact with the cold floor, pouty lips forming a smile as he crawled his way over to his dad. toji had his back facing megumi, giving the kid a good opportunity to sneak up on him.

“fuck.” toji curses idly as his hand slipped and his finger bumped against his own face. not thinking much about that slip-up, the man continues to put the parts together, until he feels something tugging at his shirt from behind.

toji glances down and spots his son trying to climb up on his back—the journey up to toji’s broad shoulders was like climbing a mountain for such a little thing.

“phack!” the cute voice from below repeats what it has heard with confidence. megumi used all of his strength to reach up to his dad’s shoulders, repeating the used swear word proudly, a series of ‘phack! phack! phack!’ echoing louder in toji’s ears with each movement upwards.

the kid eventually reaches his destination, head placed right next to toji’s, chubby arms circling around his dad’s neck—basically hanging on for dear life.

toji wasn’t even concerned about megumi repeating that bad word over and over. how his son had managed to break free from his confinement was of more importance. his green eyes land on the destroyed pillow fort behind his back and your husband couldn’t help but chuckle. almost proudly.

“i see y’re already outsmarting your dad, kiddo.” toji grins, one hand coming up to stabilise megumi on his back. the baby looks over his father’s shoulder, seemingly inspecting what he was building. toji sighs as his free hand holds onto the piece of paper that included the instructions; “maybe ya could’ve even helped me build this shitty thing if ya knew how to read.”

“sjiddy!”

it was as if megumi was purposely only picking out the curse words. toji chuckles at this and—unlike any other parent—encourages his child to continue for his own entertainment.

“mhm—tha’s right. repeat after me, son.” the dark-haired man nods with a smug grin and points at the half-built playhouse, making sure megumi knew what he was talking about, “that thing is shitty.”

“sjiddy! sjiddy!” the kid repeats loudly and giggles as his father ruffles his hair afterwards in a ‘job-well-done’ manner.

“good boy.” toji laughs softly, moving megumi over to his lap so it’d be more comfortable for the both of them, “y’r momma is gonna kill me if she hears you say such things, though.”

megumi tilts his head up until it rested against toji’s torso, big eyes glancing at the face hovering on top of his; “mama? mama ‘eepy.”

“no, mama isn’t.”

toji freezes in place, megumi gasps in delight. you had awoken from your nap and decided to check in on your husband and son whom you had left alone for a few hours.

and, apparently, you couldn’t leave toji and megumi alone without it ending in your kid picking up on his dad’s bad habits.

you put your hands on your hips and glared at toji. he knew what time it was and he was not about to sit through another lecture. the last time you gave him an earful, he had to sit and listen to you scold him for almost an hour.

“shit.. gotta run.” toji immediately grabs tightly onto megumi, gets up and prepares to flee—not even realising that he cursed. again.

“sjit!” megumi giggles happily, the boy just having fun as his dad runs around with him, unaware of the reason nor of the meaning behind the words he was repeating.

“mama shit!” toji’s eyes widened as he heard megumi combine the two words; mama—megumi’s favourite word—and shit, the bad word your son had just learnt.

your husband knew that that would only increase your fury more and thus shushes his kid while running around the house—your quick footsteps just meters behind them;

“crap. shut it, megumi.”

“crap! dada crap!”

“…”

guess he had it coming.

[mariacallous]

This is a gift article

In the final week of this election season, the Republican Party is running two different campaigns. One of them is an ugly and angry but conventional political enterprise. Donald Trump and other Republicans make speeches; party operatives seek to get out the vote; money is spent in swing states; television and radio advertisements proliferate. The people running that campaign are focused on winning the election.

Last night, in New York City’s Madison Square Garden, we caught a glimpse of the other campaign. This is the campaign that is psychologically preparing Americans for an assault on the electoral system, a second January 6, if Trump doesn’t win—or else an assault on the political system and the rule of law if he does. Listen carefully to the words of Tucker Carlson, the pundit fired from Fox News partly for his role in lying about the 2020 election. Warming up the crowd for Trump, he mocked the very idea that Kamala Harris could win: “It’s going to be pretty hard to look at us and say, ‘You know what? Kamala Harris, she got 85 million votes because she’s so impressive as the first Samoan Malaysian, low-I.Q., former California prosecutor ever to be elected president.”

“Samoan Malaysian” was Carlson’s way of mocking Harris’s mixed-race background, and “low-IQ” is self-explanatory—but “85 million” is a number of votes she could in fact win. And how, Carlson suggested, could there be such a “groundswell of popular support” for a person he demeaned as a mongrel, an incompetent, an idiot? The answer was clear: There can’t be, and if anyone says it happened, then we will contest it.

All of this is part of the game: the Trump campaign’s loud confidence, despite dead-even polls; its decision, in the final days, to take the candidate outside the swing states to New York, New Mexico, and Virginia, because we’ve got this in the bag (and not, say, because filling arenas in Pennsylvania is getting harder); the hyping of Republican-early-voter numbers, even though no evidence indicates that these are new voters, just people who are no longer being discouraged from voting early. Also the multiple attempts, across the country, to remove large numbers of people from the rolls; the many claims, with no justification, that “illegal immigrants” are voting or even, as Trump implied during the September debate, that illegal immigrants are being deliberately imported into the country in order to vote; Vance’s declaration that he will accept the election results as long as “only legal American citizens” vote.

At Madison Square Garden, Trump doubled down on that rhetoric. He repeated past claims about the “invasion” of immigrants; about “Venezuelan gangs” occupying American cities, even Times Square; and he offered an instant solution: “On day one, I will launch the largest deportation program in American history to get these criminals out. I will rescue every city and town that has been invaded and conquered, and we will put these vicious and bloodthirsty criminals in jail.” But he left open the question of who exactly all these “criminals” might be, because he seemed to be talking about not just immigrants but also his political opponents, “the enemy within.” The United States, he said, “is now an occupied country, but it will soon be an occupied country no longer … November 5, 2024, nine days from now, will be Liberation Day in America.”

The insults we heard from many speakers at Madison Square Garden, including the description of Puerto Rico as “garbage” or of Harris as “the anti-Christ” or of Hillary Clinton as a “sick son of a bitch”—insults that can also be heard in a thousand podcast episodes featuring Carlson, Elon Musk, J. D. Vance, and their ilk—are part of the same effort. Trump’s electorate is being primed to equate his political opposition with infection, pollution, and demonic power, and to accept violence and chaos as a legitimate, necessary response to these primal, lethal threats.

As I wrote earlier this month, this kind of language, imported from the 1930s, has never before been part of mainstream American presidential politics, because no other political candidate in modern history has used an election to undermine the legal basis of the American political system. But if we are an occupied country, then Joe Biden is not the legitimately elected president of the United States. If we are an occupied country, then the American government is not a set of institutions established over centuries by Congress, but rather a sinister cabal that must be dismantled at any price. If we are an occupied country, then of course the Trump administration can break the law, commit acts of violence, or even trash the Constitution in order to “liberate” Americans, either after Trump has lost the election or after he has won it.

This kind of language is not being used accidentally or incidentally. It is not a joke, even when used by professional comedians. These insults are central to Trump’s message, which is why they were featured at a venue he reveres. They are also classic authoritarian tactics that have worked before, not only in the 1930s but also in places such as modern Venezuela and modern Russia, countries where the public was also prepared over many years to accept lawlessness and violence from the state. The same tactics are working in the United States right now. Election workers, whose job is to carry out the will of the voters, are already the subject of violent threats and harassment. At least two ballot boxes have been attacked.

The natural human instinct is to dismiss, ignore, or downplay these kinds of threats. But that’s the point: You are meant to accept this language and behavior, to consider this kind of rhetoric “baked in” to any Trump campaign. You are supposed to just get used to the idea that Trump wishes he had “Hitler’s generals” or that he uses the Stalinist phrase “enemies of the people” to describe his opponents. Because once you think that’s normal, then you’ll accept the next step. Even when that next step is an assault on democracy and the rule of law.

[helaintoloki]

Keep Your Enemies Closer

pairing: sparrow!ben x reader

warnings: language, angst, suggestive content, minor spoilers

notes: the new season has brought me back from the dead so pls send in any tua requests you have <3 also this technically could be read as a sequel to relenting

summary: attending Grace’s birthday party forces you to confront the man you’ve been trying your hardest to avoid

The scent of pizza and spilled soda invades your senses as you help continue to set up birthday decorations in Lila’s absence. You have no idea where she’s run off to now, but you hope that taking over the rest of the work load will ease some of the stress from the tired mother’s shoulders.

The party center is loud, shrill shrieks of kids and music blasting from the arcade games splitting your ears and giving you a headache, and you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else but in some children’s play place. But, you are Grace’s favorite aunt, and you firmly believed in always showing up for family, so here you are.

Just as you finish setting the last place mat on the kid’s table an overly excited voice calls your name from the back of the room. A smile creeps upon your lips at the familiarity, but it immediately drops when you see that it’s not just Luther heading your way but also the man you loathe with your entire being.

“Hey, you made it!” Luther cheers animatedly before pulling your tense body into a tight bear hug. “It’s so nice to see you, y/n.”

“It’s nice to see you too, big guy,” you agree with a dry laugh and awkward pat to his back. You can feel the daggers being burned into your skull, so you have no choice but to acknowledge Luther’s companion for the day. “But you do know you’re supposed to leave the trash outside, right?”

“Like I haven’t heard that one before,” Ben scoffs with an indignant roll of his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital ‘saving lives?’”

“Shouldn’t you still be in jail?” You fire back with ire, and if not for Luther keeping you both apart you’d probably be fist fighting in the middle of the ball pit right now.

“Uh, Ben got out early on probation for good behavior,” Luther explains with a nervous chuckle while attempting to keep the peace as best as he can without losing an eye in the process. “And now he’s here to spend time with us as a family.”

“Yeah, let’s see how long that lasts.”

“Hey, I technically am family,” the Sparrow boasts with a taunting smirk, formulating just the right insults to get under your skin. “You were a late addition added to the Umbrellas to pick up the slack Viktor left behind after Dad suppressed their powers. You’re not even a Hargreeves. Isn’t that right, Luther.”

“W-Well, I wouldn’t say that,” the man is quick to defend only for you to speak over him.

“Fuck. You,” you snarl through gritted teeth, palms clenched tightly at your sides as you adamantly work to not let him get the best of you. “Ben was family, and you’re not him. You’re just the shitty replacement we’re stuck with.”

“And yet when you thought the world was ending you still slept with me.”

The smug smile on Ben’s face is immediately wiped off by the impact of your open palm colliding with his cheek, and the sheer force of your hit as him tumbling back into Luther. Your assault earns a few bewildered gasps from a nearby table of parents, but you couldn’t care less about what a group of wine moms thought of you in that moment. Your chest is tight with rage, but you will yourself to walk away before the situation can escalate further and ruin the party.

“What did I miss?” A curious Five notes after arriving to the scene, but he soon finds himself forced to match your brisk pace as you grab him by the arm and drag him with you to the bar.

“I need a drink.”

~~~

You do your best to avoid him for the rest of the night, but eventually Ben is able to corner you by the gift table where you sit nursing a spiked lemonade.

“Drinking at a kid’s party, huh?”

“Did you come here to get slapped again?” You retort with a wry chuckle before taking a quick swig of your drink.

“Actually,” he starts, hesitating as he struggles to get out the words, “I came to… apologize.”

“You? Apologize? What, is the world ending again?” You scoff in disbelief before finally settling your gaze on the shaggy haired man before you. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you think prison might have made him hotter, and the fact irks you to no end.

Obviously annoyed by your defensiveness, Ben shakes his head and says, “I don’t even know why I bother. I only came here for Luther’s sake because he wouldn’t shut up about making ‘positive changes’ now that I’m out of jail.”

“‘Don’t even know why I bother?!’” You repeat in indignant disbelief. “I gave you so many chances to prove that you weren’t a complete asshole and every time you screwed me over! You are not the victim in the situation.”

“Oh, spare me the sob story,” Ben remarks dismissively with a roll of his eyes. “I lost someone too, you’re not the only one that has to deal with the fact that you’re stuck with a completely different version of your dead partner. At least I’m trying to make the most of what the universe has given me.”

“By getting yourself thrown in jail over some stupid crypto scheme?”

“Jesus, by trying to make something with you!” Ben cries out in frustration. “You won’t even try to just play along!”

“I already told you, I’m not your y/n. She’s dead,” you remind him harshly. “Sleeping with you was just a moment of weakness and a mistake that shouldn’t have happened.”

“Really? Because if I remember correctly you seemed to really be enjoying yourself,” he taunts with a suggestive smirk that has your face immediately growing hot.

“God, you’re so insufferable! I could just-“

“Kiss me?”

“-choke you!”

A heavy silence falls between you both as you stare at each other in bewildered shock. It takes you a moment to recover from Ben’s words as you swallow harshly and ask, “What did you say?”

“What did… you say?” He retorts in an attempt to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The tension between you now is so thick you could cut it with the knife sitting by the birthday cake, but instead you just sit and stare at each other.

“Does your car have tinted windows?�� Ben asks suddenly, prompting you to raise a brow.

“Yeah, why?” You reply with an inquisitive raise of your brow, but when Ben gives you a pointed look you’re then quick to catch on. “If we go now we’ll be back in time for cake.”

“Let’s go,” he says, eagerly rising from his seat so fast it almost knocks over the presents. Anxiously taking your hand in his, you both scan the room to make sure no one’s eyes are on you before bolting towards the exit.

You know you’re going to regret this, but in the moment you couldn’t care less what consequences would come from your romp in the backseat of your car with Ben.

Because as much as you hate to admit it, you’ve really missed him.

[jhopezwrld]

can you do some nsfw five headcanons? thanksss

aw hell yea man. i want aidan gallagher so bad it’s criminal i need to be locked up in horny jail !! (surprise surprise i like another white man)

five hargreeves nsfw headcanons

tw: smut !! mdni plz xoxo 💋

ngl it took him a WHILE to stop cumming so quick after the two of u had sex for the first time. dude was alone for like 50 years with nothing but a mannequin and his left hand ok cut him some slack

but trust me when i say he always made up for it. if he’s cumming after 5 minutes he’s making u cum at LEAST two times that night (more for himself than for you bc busting so quick damaged his ego a bit)

had never eaten pussy before you so he was super hesitant going into it at first, even though he didn’t act like it

probably spent a few minutes exploring what you had down there before rlly going to town on you

picks up on things very quickly bc he’s so smart so it was easy for him to figure out what you liked and didn’t like

is able to make you cum the first time he goes down on you and will never forget it (huge ego boost)

blowjobs are one of his favorite things in the world, second only to actual sex with you

he’s heard his brothers talk about sex in passing but brushed it off as some stupid superficial thing they were obsessed with

but oh man after the first time you two do it he wants it all the time

for the first few months he’s practically insatiable, which is so far from his normally calm and collected persona

after a while, he’s able to control himself more. it becomes less of an addiction and more of a luxury to him

but don’t get me wrong, just because he doesn’t need it every day doesn’t mean he doesn’t need it often

he considers it the perfect way to unwind from a long and stressful day

or the best way to apologize after upsetting you

prefers using his fingers over his mouth on you because he gets a better view of your face and how good he’s making you feel

he gets super possessive sometimes (especially when he’s drunk) so he will occasionally leave dark bruises on your neck, just below your collar. easy enough to cover up but easy to show off as well

doesn’t like hickies on himself but appreciates scratches on his back from time to time

doesnt talk about your sex life with his siblings, but it’s clear by the way he relaxes around them more after the two of you get together that he’s getting that ‘good good’ (direct quote from diego said to a disgusted allison)

keeps his hair long because he likes when you tug it

favorite position is missionary bc he’s a classic man what can i say. he loves that he can see your entire body and your face all at the same time

however you on top is something he’ll never refuse

pls just top him every once and a while he’s so tired from saving the world thrice and taking care of his siblings and murdering people… he needs a break !

is always so hesitant to relinquish control to you but he knows he always enjoys himself in the end

doesn’t usually get into ‘roles’ during sex but he prefers being the one to call the shots

if ur able to get him to sub be prepared bc he’s a mouthy little brat

probably likes being slapped around a lil bit i can’t lie

is a secret sucker for soft romantic sex (but he saves that for special occasions like anniversaries and birthdays)

he’ll cradle your face and whisper how pretty you are and press gentle kisses to your cheeks. he’ll even hold ur hand the whole time!!

ok last addition but i feel like when he gets super drunk he’ll accidentally spill the beans about your sex life to klaus and ben and now ben can’t look at him or you the same without remembering that five told him you swallow LMAO

[nouearth]

“POLKA DOTS AND MOONBEAMS”

steve rogers x male reader.

𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅 & 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓—headcanon [ 4.1k ] 〳 part one

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒—male reader 〳 domestic!au 〳 mid-century!era 〳 'roommates' 〳established relationship 〳 secret husband!steve 〳 mentions of period-homophobia 〳 brief quarreling 〳 sexual content: top!steve, bottom!reader, love-making, breeding, milking, praising, verbal, dirty talk, body worshiping, guidance.

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑.

Secret Husband!Steve Rogers who coasted the city and was on a mission to find the best spaghetti and meatballs with you.

‣ "Verdict?"

‣ Steve's gaze looked right past the fork held before your lips, watching your mouth and expression twist and turn like the spaghetti noodles around the fork prongs prior.

‣ "It's good... not great. The sauce isn't as thick as I'd like for it to be... but it tastes fresh? Basil leaves adds a nice balance to the acidity... but the meatballs are a little overcooked. What do you think, Steve? I'm too picky, aren't I?"

‣ It was written all over your face. Satisfied, but not impressed.

‣ Unlike the last restaurant where you two had the misfortune of eating bloated pasta noodles and watery red sauce, this place was edible and especially generous with their serving.

‣ Decent, if Steve had the chance of writing a one-worded review for the paper.

‣ "You're not picky, just particular, but I agree. Red sauce is good—Padrino's still better. Meatballs are pretty tough, aren't they... but I do like the flavor of them. You can tell they used a fattier mixture compared to the rest. A lot of garlic too, which makes up for the lack of it in the sauce..."

‣ "Not as good as Mama's?"

‣ "The moment we find a spaghetti that's as good as your mother's, is the day we find a way to squeeze water from stone, (M/N)."

‣ "Don't mention that to her. I don't need her ego to be any more inflated than it already has been."

‣ Dates like these were never boring.

‣ No matter how many times Steve had watched your face wrench in disdain or light up in surprise, he always found it a joy to watch you participate in this arbitrary—now routinely—idea of critiquing spaghetti and meatballs so earnestly.

‣ To be fair, it wasn't like you two had a slew of options to make dates seem... more like dates.

‣ In fact, there shouldn't have been any options offered on the table in the first place.

‣ Any intimations that you and Steve were on a date would've been subject to a location change.

‣ Most likely, a candle-lit dinner in a jail-cell, dined over cold hard concrete, and Steve was sure the spaghetti and meatballs served there was going to clutch last place in his ranking.

‣ Though, Steve was hopeful that the romance would still be alive and well had it ever come to that point.

‣ You had a thing for restaurants with a gimmick.

‣ "Seven out of ten sounds about right?"

‣ "What about dessert? We can't leave without getting the tiramisu, Steve."

‣ "Since when did we factor in desserts for the scoring?"

‣ "What—since we started. Don't tell me you've been only ranking the spaghetti and meatballs... it's all about the experience, the... the je ne sais quoi—heard that on the radio once!"

‣ "The je ne sais quoi—this is why I wanted you to be the one logging everything down, (M/N)!"

‣ It took more of a toll on him than it did on you.

‣ Well, if it did, then you did a stunning job at maintaining your usual optimism.

‣ Whenever you two were out in public, Steve felt hammered by this distance pushing him apart.

‣ It was a conscious effort on both ends—a natural one that pertained to the business of being in a homosexual relationship

‣ Or just being a homosexual, period.

‣ Steve understood it. He abode it. And he hated it.

‣ Often, when the conversation between you and him would come to a slow, Steve would look right past your shoulder, right at the lucky couple who were in his sight-line—a gentleman with an impressive mustache and his lady—and simply stare.

‣ His thoughts wandered.

‣ The gentleman was unabashed in his public flirtations with the woman.

‣ Massaging her hands, tending to the aches in her knuckles with firm, but appeasing presses.

‣ The smell of his cigar was pervasive, but the lady didn't seem to mind. It seemed like she thought it was rather charming when he blew a smoke towards her face.

‣ One hand would run up her arms in several strokes, rough callous grinding down her goosebumps, and the man would compliment how soft and supple her skin was.

‣ The lady would bat her eyelashes, giggle at the man's public display of affection whilst also maintaining some sense of courtesy to halt his advances when a pair of curious eyes were enough to render her cheeks scarlet—like the lipstick she had worn for the evening.

‣ Steve hated this restraint. This lack of freedom that forced him to talk to you as if you were his co-worker.

‣ To look at you as if he had no affection for you whatsoever when that was further from the truth.

‣ To touch you as if you were an infection that could cost him his life, and him to yours.

‣ That wasn't completely off from what society thought of people like you and Steve, was it.

‣ "It's not nice to stare, Steve... quit it."

‣ "If I can't even look at my own lov—you, what else am I supposed to do?"

‣ "Steve—come on, not now. You know how it is. It's hard, I know. But... we can't just be cooped up in our pad and wear out its virtues. It's nice to go out every once in a while, even if—it has to be like this."

‣ "It's just not—fair. Maybe—maybe we can do something. It doesn't feel right if we're doing nothing about those bar raids too. They're increasing, you know? Becoming more violent and—"

‣ "Hush. People are staring to look."

‣ "Why do you seem completely fine with this? Hiding ourselves—"

‣ "Look, I don't like it as much as you do. Hell, it's killing me on the inside that I can't even smile at you like how it would naturally come. But I'm okay with hiding—because it's for my safety, and most importantly, for yours. I don't ask for much, but I've envisioned the near end of my life to be fulfilled and labored with no regrets. With a house where I can harvest my own apples from my own tree. With a lazy pup that knows better than to eat through my laces. All of that would be possible because I hid—no—because I endured. And I would heavily prefer it if you would join me in that life. Call me a coward, spineless, or selfish, but I don't want it to be our last, Steve. It's terrifying—to know that any day I could lose you to violence and persecution, myself included. So, please—just hold it out for longer—that's all I ask of you."

‣ Most of all, Steve hated that he was envious.

‣ He wished he could be the one wiping sauce stain off your lips.

‣ He wished that he could hold your hand over the table and stroke the ring on your finger that you could've kept on.

‣ He wished that he could stop the tears from welling in your eyes like he often did back at home.

‣ He wished that he could tell you that he loved you, either with a mouthful of meatballs or none at all, because in the end—it would've felt better than communicating those three words with three taps of his foot to your shin.

‣ You nearly reached over for his hand to calm him down, but pulled your back straight upon the fright of a passing waiter and opted for the cipher that was could only be cracked between you and Steve.

‣ Three gentle kicks to his shin, once more to his other leg, and Steve sighed for pardon, returning the cipher gently to your own shin.

‣ He wished he could openly compliment how handsome his husband looked tonight, ramble how grateful he was to have you in his life, or complain about how you kicked him a little too hard, but that was all well and fine because it meant that you were still present.

‣ Freedom—All of it, the positives and negatives, without the looming threat of a policeman pummeling you and Steve with a nightstick afterwards—because that was normal.

‣ Because that was life.

‣ A life that will pay in the long run.

‣ "Check, please."

𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐃𝐄.

Secret Husband!Steve Rogers who ambled the misty street of Brooklyn Heights with you, the night dew giving everything a hazy look as you and Steve passed through moist air, side-by-side.

‣ "I was brash tonight, Steve. I apologize."

‣ "No, no... you were right. If anything, I was being a fat head. I was out-of-line. I'm sorry."

‣ "You were right too, you know. It's not fair. It's not that I don't want to do anything about it, I really do. I just—it can't be the two of us tackling something bigger than us. Everyone is petrified, Steve."

‣ "I know... but if we somehow all come together in some kind of union, then maybe—we can call for a difference. Show them that enough is enough. Show them that fear is no longer something they can instill in us."

‣ "Like a rebellion or something?"

‣ "Well, if it has to come to that, then so be it."

‣ "You know a guy, don't you..."

‣ "I know a guy."

‣ "Is it Bucky?"

‣ "What—how'd you know?"

‣ "Steve, you only know one guy."

Secret Husband!Steve Rogers who was detoured into a dark alleyway between business building blocks. There was the droning sound sound of night, the low and humming resonant as the city had fallen asleep, all but two guests.

‣ "(M/N), what are we—"

‣ "All that quarreling made me forget to tell you how dashing you looked tonight. You know I especially like your hair combed back like that, Steve-o."

‣ He didn't need much of a hint as to what you were getting at.

‣ Squeezing in between a narrow passageway that would luckily only admit two bodies at a time, you and Steve were obscured from any wandering eyes.

‣ From judgement of the world.

‣ "Steve, you ought-ta listen to me more. Blue polka dots look darling on you."

‣ "If I recall correctly, you were the one who wanted me to wear a pink tie, darling."

‣ "Pink would've made me sauced my pants..."

‣ "You. Are. So. Vulgar."

‣ Shadows cast over his squashed body against yours, the moonlight only lighting the parts that mattered the most right now.

‣ The laughter that left your mouth after each peck Steve would grace you with.

‣ The lips that had him feeling withdrawal symptoms after an unbearable few hours of watching you lick sauce off your lips.

‣ The hand that tug Steve closer by his tie.

‣ The eyes that drew Steve in closer, until the tip of his nose touched yours.

‣ "Have I told you how much I love my cologne on you, darling?"

‣ "Have I told you how much I prefer your cologne rubbing off on me, as opposed to me spraying it on directly?"

‣ Slowly, breathing, pacifying; Steve's invisible stubble made your mouth twitch with a scratch, one of your many quirks he found himself silently obsessing over.

‣ And that was enough to push him over the edge, and finally kiss you like he'd wanted to since the evening had started.

‣ It was slow, almost careful like Steve was afraid of breaking you.

‣ Steve wasn't expecting this self-restraint from you. He wasn't expecting your hands on his jaw, tenderly massaging at either sides to keep your hands preoccupied while he slid his tongue alongside yours.

‣ He wasn't expecting to hear his own pulse because you were so stubborn in maintaining this control—you refused to summon urgency by vaulting your moans into the back of your throat.

‣ But Steve knew you more than he knew himself. He knew how you liked your eggs in the morning. He knew the perfect temperature for your bath. He knew you from the mole on your back, to the stance when you were impatient.

‣ He knew that if he led one of your hands right here—feeling the cusp of his growing bulge—that you'd give Steve what he wanted, and fall completely apart.

‣ And Steve knew that—by the eager palm of your hand, shoving into his unbuckled pants and groping—he was right.

‣ "Steve—just fuck me right here, yeah? I can't take it anymore."

‣ "Honey, we don't have any slick..."

‣ "Then give it to me raw. Use your spit. The rain. I don't care, I need you—"

‣ Your lips were warm and soft when Steve kissed you from rambling into the void again. His hands were against your stomach and chest, and your moans sent shivers down his spine.

‣ "Christ—turn around."

‣ Against the brick wall, teeth sinking into your forearm, you took Steve in without any regrets. Cold sweat breaking over your skin like evening dew collecting on window sills.

‣ "O-oh, fuck—slowly, Steve—"

‣ You could feel Steve's heart beat against your back, pushing further into you, huffing into your neck.

‣ "I love you."

‣ "I love you."

‣ From then on, you and Steve lived without any regrets.

𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍.

Secret Husband!Steve Rogers who relished every inch of your body; with his eyes, with his mouth, with his hands, with his body, with his being—until you found yourself transported wholly to all different kinds of sensations, and he'd repeat to discover new ones for you.

‣ "You're good at this, you know."

‣ "Humor me?"

‣ Steve was mouthing at your inner thigh, one hand stroking your leaking cock, and the other pumping his Vaseline-slicked fingers into you.

‣ He looked up from his eyelashes, teasing your sack with a lick.

‣ Another lick, because he liked being distracted by your body arching off the bed, crinkling the sheets in the process.

‣ "Good at loving me. You know what I want, what I need—just like that. Putting another finger into me without asking of me if you can. Twisting—fuck—turning me out, all based on how my body responds to you."

‣ "Well, it's not difficult to gauge what you need. Your nails dig into the sheets when it's too much. Your fingers and toes curl when the pleasure's coming in. Your hips roll—when you need more, or a new fix. I'm no magician you're making me out to be, (M/N).

‣ "You notice all of that? That's embarrassing... and here I thought I was being alluring..."

‣ Steve layered his thick cock in slick, capping the tin and tossing it to the bedside counter after.

‣ He teased your prepped rim, observing how the ring of muscle would catch a string of his pre-cum and latch onto it with a clench.

‣ At the sound of your moan, at the sight of you toying with your nipples, at the torn decision between preening—you knew that he liked the sight of you biting your lips—and ceasing his taunts.

‣ Steve's cock veins pulsed, his cock pleading for him to fill that delicious hole before him, otherwise it would live in agony for as long as it could leak.

‣ "I do, and it's not embarrassing. I love how you—mm—like that. I love how you immediately wrap your arms and legs around me when I finally push my cock inside of you.

‣ "Oh, Steve—"

‣ "I love how you call my name, just like that. Say it again."

‣ "Steve..!"

‣ He pressed his forehead against yours and groaned with you. His hips racketed off your ass in a slow, but increasing rhythm.

‣ You held onto him, hands over his neck, anchoring him close until the only way you could have your fix of air was through Steve's lips.

‣ Steve's mind was empty, except for the thought of your hot tongue roaming into his mouth and the swelling grasp your walls had around his loving cock.

‣ "Like that... I love how I can decipher every meaning behind the way you call out to me."

‣ "Fill me up so well, Steve—baby. Can feel you deep inside of me. Ruining me with your cock. Your balls slapping against me, God—Steve!"

‣ Your moans tasted delicious on his tongue. If they were seeds, they'd bloom colorful hybrids of fruits because your love for him couldn't be defined by one singular hue.

‣ You were an array of colors—a prism conjured by the way Steve loved you.

‣ Red, because you were gritting your teeth as Steve had you taking him balls-deep, filling you up to the brim, and stretching you to the shape of his pistoning cock.

‣ "Fuck me harder, Steve—"

‣ "You're taking me so well, darling..."

‣ "When have I not?"

‣ Orange, because Steve rendered you speechless except for a few gasps, with his cock grazing your prostate and his hand over your cock, stroking while kissing at your neck.

‣ "O-oh, fuck—oh, fuck!"

‣ Yellow, because you were on top, straddling Steve's lap and yielding to the nearing high that you both had been gauging.

‣ You took your sweet time to make love to Steve with your body. Hands braced on his chest, combing your fingers through the light hairs, deeply rocking back and forth on his cock after a couple of lighthearted bounces.

‣ You marveled over his well-built body, following the contours of his muscles with one hand while silently admiring his broad chest, perky nipples, and wide shoulders with your tongue.

‣ The smell of aftershave on him was infectious when you came up for a brief kiss. You kissed at his lips, then his chin, licking at the short blades of stubble before pulling away to preen again.

‣ Your back straightened and you spread your thighs apart for Steve to get a good look at how hard he was making you.

‣ Your cock throbbed, swollen a pronounced shade at the tip, bouncing to the rhythm of your hips, all while you devoted your mouth and tongue to Steve's thick fingers, suckling and laving your tongue over every digit, every vein, every knuckle—thanking him for opening you up so well with the slick of your saliva.

‣ Steve was absolutely keen on watching you worship him with one hand tucked behind his head, the other stroking your cock when he would finish appraising your body with a couple of fond strokes.

‣ "God, look at you. You're so beautiful. I could do this all day, watching you ride every vein on my cock..."

‣ Green, because you built up enough energy to reverse your straddle and take the lead for once. You wanted Steve to see all parts of your body, especially the asset that had been drawing out those glorious moans deep from his gut.

‣ You knew it was a pretty sight that would teeter Steve closer to the edge.

‣ Sweat ran over the plump mounds of your ass as you were propped up on your forearms, slamming down onto his thick cock.

‣ Skin rippled when your ass repeatedly hit his groin, and then prickled, when Steve grabbed a handful of your sweaty flesh out of pure enchantment before swatting it as a stimulus to your slowing hips.

‣ "How's the view?"

‣ "Stunning..."

‣ Blue, because your body was covered in shivers from the way Steve had captured you into his arms and pummeled icicles into you from behind.

‣ Kneeling upright, Steve had embraced you tightly, supporting your core with a flat palm while simultaneously engaging his, thrusting into you.

‣ His hand was around your throat to feel every vibration that would squeeze from your throat and then pour into his mouth like a saucer of milk as he swallowed your sweet moans.

‣ Like Steve's cock, his other hand was equally uncompromising. He squeezed into the pulsating veins of your cock, stroked your shaft, and teased your glans with a thumb.

‣ When you sank back into the dip of his hips, Steve would propel you forward with a strong thrust, forcing you to fuck his closed fist in midst as he held you from ever retreating back on all fours.

‣ He loved that dazed look on your face. Wide-eyed like a deer in headlights. Flushed like how you were abashed by his compliments to your novice cooking, yet only a hundred times worse.

‣ He also loved the way he had fucked you into being inarticulate, muttering a slurry of words—warnings of you coming soon, Steve would later learn after turning his ears up.

‣ "Steve, stop, stop—I'm going to c-come—seriously—"

‣ "Come for me, (M/N). I want to see you stain the bed. Want to see you come because of me. Only me. Want you to drench my fist and—Christ, there we go..."

‣ Violet, because you were red, and Steve was blue.

‣ You spilled heavily over his fist, shooting large, thick ropes of cum over the bed sheets. The sound of the cum splatters making your cheeks run hotter than the warmth drawing out of you.

‣ Each spurt shot further and further the harder Steve pounded into you and milked your orgasm with unrelenting strokes to your shaft.

‣ His thighs slapped into yours, resonating the bedroom with a sharp thunder that was sure to wake up the tenants.

‣ His cock punctuated deep into your guts, hard and sweet against your prostate.

‣ You cried out as Steve battered your insides with his cock, with his undying love for you. Biting into your shoulder to contain his groans, but Steve had enough of this restraint, of constantly holding himself back.

‣ He growled behind your ear, filtering out the resentment society had instilled in his body as he let his grunts loose, replacing that bitter feeling with the antithesis of knowing that he wanted to live life to the fullest.

‣ With a house that grew oranges alongside your apples.

‣ Steve thrusted harder.

‣ With an indifferent cat that couldn't care less about your torn shoelaces.

‣ Your moans hitched at the sharp snap of his hips, his cock digging somehow deeper into your guts when he pushed you lower into his groin.

‣ With a fulfilling life that was lived without regret.

‣ Steve felt himself come undone upon the last thrust. Every fiber of his muscle unraveling like pointe shoes after intense wear.

‣ He held you tight as he shuddered against your, his pulse anchored and soothed by the palm of your head on his cheek, stroking him affectionately.

‣ Silken white, he spilled his hot seed deep inside of you, weakly propagating the warmth from the outer rim of your raw, swollen hole, then to the deep depth of your walls and prostate, milking himself until he was jelly in the legs, until you were creamed, from inside and out, with his thick cock.

‣ You and Steve shared one more kiss, another breath, heaving and panting like you two had never kissed before, before his stance eventually gave out and made him collapse over your body.

‣ "Think—I might bump the restaurant earlier up a few spots, (M/N)..."

‣ "Why's that?"

‣ "Must've put some kind of aphrodisiac in that spaghetti... I'm deeply spent."

‣ "I disagree. It must've been that couple! I told you it was all about the experience—that je ne sais quoi that I've been talking—"

‣ "You really aren't going to stop saying that, are you?"

‣ "Shouldn't have fixed my radio if you knew you were going to be disappointed, Steve."

‣ "That's where you're wrong. If you think anything about you is disappointing to me, then I'm not being a great husband, am I?"

‣ "Well, look at you being all sappy tonight."

‣ "Too much?"

‣ "Never too much. I'm far too gone to ever think otherwise, Steve-o."

‣ "Me too, darling. Me too."

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

imagine like reader being a detective or something, being on the case to catch Red Hood (while he’s still a crime boss)/ the Arkham Knight, but being in a relationship with Jason, unaware of his nightly business. And then boom, they find out one day and it’s all angsty 🤞🤞 love ur work btw hihi

Betrayal

Hi, nonnie! I thought I had this done earlier, but then I had to keep world building. Stuck with Red Hood on this one. Hurt/No comfort warning. Non-graphic, very minor character death. ~1.8k words

Gotham is cursed. That's what they told you when you transfered to the GCPD. Yeah, you've heard the stories, but they're just messing with you, right? Trying to scare the newest rookie cop.

Except they were telling the truth. A few years later, more cases than you can keep track of, enough masked rouges to fill arkham three times over, and a promotion to detective, you tell the rookies the same thing they told you. Gotham is cursed.

"Alright, Detective, this one is yours." You make a face at the case file the Commissioner drops on your desk.

"Sir, I took care of The Penguin robbery last week, isn't it someone elses turn to deal with the high profile cases?" You gingerly pick up the file, reading over the name Red Hood stamped on the front.

Gordan sighs at you, already turning away to move onto the next poor detective. "We cycled through everyone else after the Black Gate breakout. Anyone who didn't work on it has active cases. That makes this one yours."

You grumble reluctantly, cases like this lead to more press coverage than you want to deal with, but start flipping through the file, mentally noting down the sparse facts and theories about the up and coming crime lord.

That was four months ago. In such a short amount of time, Red Hood has taken over more territory in Gotham than any other crime lord and completely changed the game. No dealing to children, no human trafficking. You hate to acknowledge it, but crime technically has dropped since he took over the majority of gangs in Gotham under an iron fist.

The work is exhausting, he's always one– no, five steps ahead of you and your growing team of detectives and beat cops. You don't think you've even gotten a real glimpse at him that he didn't mean to let you have.

The closest you've gotten to Red Hood was out of uniform, weeks after you got the case, when he was still a new name on the streets.

It was a robbery, some desperate punk in a mask that didn't conceal anything, was dragging a little girl out of the store as a hostage.

"Take me instead, she's just a kid." You had protested, heart sinking at the terror in the little girls face.

"Not a chance." He barked back at you.

"Look, she's scared, she'll only slow you down."

The gunman stares at you, you see his fingers twitch. "Fuck it. Fine. Both of you are coming with me." That's how you ended up in some alley, familiar sirens wailing in the distance and your hand curled protectively with the child's.

"Shit. Man. Shit. The cops weren't supposed to be here. What am I gonna do? I can't go to jail." He's snapping. Rambling and desperate. Your eyes dart for some kind of plan, a way to help the little girl stay safe. But the alley is empty, not even a dumpster to seek shelter behind. "I just gotta get rid of the witnesses. Yeah. The witnesses."

Your eyes dart to him, he's lifting the gun. You don't hesitate to grab the little girl, wrapping your arms around her and turning your back to the man, tucking her to your chest to provide as much cover as you can provide.

A gun fires.

There's a thud.

You look over your shoulder, the girls face still hidden against you. He's not moving, gun unshot and laying next to him on the ground. There's a pool of dark liquid forming around him. You look up.

You manage to see a red glint, the shine of a gun, the eerie glow of a luminescent eyes. Red Hood.

That's all you manage to see before you're swarmed by cops, guiding you and the girl to safety.

It's a memory that plays in your mind sometimes, when you hear testimonies of how Red Hood saves people in crime alley, despite his crime lord status. It's confusing, exhausting even, to try and sort between the good and the bad, the duality of one man. At least you have your loving boyfriend to come home to.

Jason. He makes you feel like Gotham might not be so cursed. It's great, he gives you butterflies. He makes you happy. You cook meals together, and you both work the weird twilight/night shift hours. He holds you like you're precious under your shared comforter. You think you might love him. He whispers sweet nothings into your hair when he thinks you're sleeping. You kiss his palms when his eyes get that far away, haunted look he can’t seem to explain.

He's insisted on cooking dinner tonight as you watch him, a little starry eyed. You can't really blame yourself when he's shirtless and working over your favorite meal.

"Oh, Jason, I need to wash my clothes. Do you need anything done?" You ask, finally remembering that you do actually have a job and responsibilities and you can't stare at your handsome boyfriend all day.

"No, I'm good, baby. Go ahead and do your thing. Dinner's almost done." He answers idly, shooting you a lazy grin as you stand.

You smile back before leaving the kitchen to gather your clothes. As you dump the dirty laundry in the washer, you realize you never refilled the detergent. Mumbling an annoyed curse, you head to the spare bedroom you rarely use. There should be some extra necessities stock piled in there. You know, for the next time a criminal messes with Gothams chain supply.

You're more focused on the delicious smells floating through the apartment as you open the closet door, idly looking around for the detergent. That's why it doesn't really click in your mind what you're looking at. Guns. Armor. Your thoughts freeze to a stop. Are you dating some kind of henchman? A bright red helmet takes up your vision. Nope. You're dating a crime boss.

The helmet is in your hands and you're fumbling your way to the kitchen before you even have your thoughts sorted. Should you call for back up? Shouldn't you try to catch him by surprise? Sure. But, you need answers. You want this to be a misunderstanding. You want Jason to be your partner– not– not what the evidence that's heavy in your hand says he is.

Statistics run through your mind. Stories of Red Hood saving working girls. Stories of him leaving bodies of dealers that sold to kids. Then, memories of your boyfriend. How he leans down to kiss your forehead. How runs his hand up and down your arm while you watch movies together. If there was a sign. If you were too blind and in love to realize.

He turns to look at you when you stalk in. You throw the helmet at him. The helmet you'd recognize anywhere, even if you've never gotten close enough to touch it before. He catches it with the grace of a predator. "The hell is this, Jason?"

"It's a helmet." He says evenly, turning off the stove and placing the helmet down on the counter.

"No, duh, it's a helmet, Jason. Don't patronize me. Is it yours?" You nearly hiss, hands curling in anger and frustration and heart break you're not ready to admit you're feeling.

He studies you, eyes dark and calculating. It makes you bite the inside of you cheek. His eyes never looked at you like that before. "It is."

You laugh out of disbelief, stepping back. "So you've been using me? Is that what all this was? Just a way to get information about the GCPD and what we had on you?"

"What? No." He says your name a little pleading, "it's not like that. Not anymore."

"But it was." You bite out, cursing yourself for the sting of tears in your eyes.

He steps closer, you step back, trying to keep your hands from shaking. He whispers your name, and you think you see hurt flash in his eyes before it disappears. His voice goes steady, even. "It was. But I haven't tried to get anything like that since–"

"Since when, Jason?" You cut off, anger and hurt clear in your voice, in your face. "Was it before we raided the warehouse at the docks? Is my computer bugged? Did you hack my phone?"

He winces. You don't need to be a detective to know he has. "I haven't used them since we started getting serious."

"And when was that, Jason?" You ask, voice breaking at his name. "Because it's been serious this entire time for me."

He doesn't answer at first, gaze leaving you to stare at his helmet. "Since I– I saw you save that kid. Instead of going after that shooter. When I realized you weren't just another one of the corrupted cops. That you care about this city. And the people. I realized I couldn't keep doing that to you."

You go quiet. What can you say to that? "Were you ever going to tell me?" You settle on.

"I don't know." He shrugs helplessly, eyes leaving the helmet to meet your teary gaze. "I didn't know how. I don't– think I wanted you to know. " He stutters over his last sentence, and then says your name, pleading coming back to his tone. "I can't lose you over this."

"You never had me!" Your voice raises, a shout in anger before you can bury it down. You shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself protectively and lowering your voice. "You never had me if everything this was was built on a lie."

"It's not a lie." He says firmly, snapping to attention and stepping towards you. He gestures between the two of you, says your name like he demands your attention. "This is not a lie."

"It is, Jason! You're only here to gain something from me! From my job!" You push back, throat tight and head spinning. Maybe you shouldn't be yelling at Gothams most dangerous and deadliest crime boss, but your heart is too broken for your head to think straight.

"No, pretty." You think he's pleading. You think his mouth might even be trembling as he speaks, but you can't make it out through the tears in your eyes. "No. It was like that at first. I know. I know that hurts you, but, it's not like that now. It's nowhere near that now."

"I don't care." You choke out.

"You don't mean that." Jason protests, but he doesn't sound certain.

"I don't want to see you anymore." You say the words before you're even sure you want that.

His face drops. "You don't mean that either."

"I do." It tastes like a lie. It sounds like the truth. You're turning and leaving before he can speak again, before you can unpack what you really want, locking yourself in the bathroom.

You fall asleep to the sound of your own tears, curled on the cold tile floor. You wake to silence. His helmet is gone from your counter when you enter the kitchen.

Your favorite dinner is wrapped in plastic when you open the fridge.

It makes the truth of it all worse. Gotham really is cursed.

Part Two

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 12

Or: a secret Admirer AU

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6 || PART 7 || PART 8 || PART 9 || PART 10 || PART 11

He’s got to be heading to the quarry, right? That’s where he goes on Wednesday’s after school to sell his stash, he’d told Steve so umpteen notes back. Steve’s poured over each one enough times to damn-near have the things memorized.

He’s in his car, speeding fast enough that if Hopper catches his ass, he’ll be hauled into a jail cell before he can even make it. Steve pushes his foot down on the pedal harder, trying to eke out any last bit of speed.

When he reaches his destination, Carver’s car is parked sideways across the dirt road that leads off to the quarry, blocking anyone else from entering. Steve slams on his breaks, kicking up dirt all around him, obscuring his view of the windshield.

He steps out into it, dust gritting up his eyes. The only way out is through, so he heads toward the sound of raised voices, stumbling over a raised root as he goes.

He can just barely make out the words now.

“—leave her alone, or you’re dead, do you hear me?” Carver’s not yelling, but when he comes into view, his eyes are hard, and he’s clutching at Eddie’s t-shirt with enough force that he’s holding his knees off the ground.

There’s blood on Eddie’s face, dripping down off it and staining the dirt beneath him.

Steve doesn’t think. “Hey!” he calls, rushing forward to insert himself between them, but before he can, Carver drops Eddie into an ungainly heap on the ground and spins around to face Steve.

Steve lets him; if his eyes are on him, then he’s not looking at Eddie.

“Harrington?” Carver asks, shoulders slumping like Steve’s a friendly, not one wrong move from popping him one in the nose. “What are you—”

“Why don’t you get the hell out of here before the cops show?” Steve asks, using his Team Captain voice.

Steve watches it land. Carver’s shoulder slump, and he looks over Steve’s shoulder at where he’d abandoned his car. But then Eddie spits a glob of blood onto the ground, and Carver’s face shores up into something vicious.

“He was going to ask your girlfriend out, I heard all about it from his little friend!” Carver spits, like the words hurt as they come out of his mouth. “You should thank me on hands and knees!”

“I bet you’d love him on his knees,” Eddie cuts in, words slurring worryingly together.

Carver turns back toward Eddie, face gone almost translucent in the light of the afternoon sun. “Why, you—“

“Shut up, man,” Steve says, finally looking away from Carver to where Eddie’s on his knees, partially obscured by Carver’s body.

Eddie looks up at Steve, defiant as he spits a glob of saliva and blood into the dirt again then wipes his mouth with a shaking hand.

Steve stares down at him, stomach twisting in on itself as Eddie’s glare only intensifies. There hadn’t been much in his eyes when he’d been looking at Carver, but when he’s looking at Steve? That’s rage, barely banked by what must be a killer concussion. Steve turns away from it, unable to bear it a moment longer.

“What’s the point of this?” Steve asks Carver, the exhaustion he’s starting to feel leaking into his voice.

“Chrissy doesn’t need—”

“Chrissy is an adult who doesn’t need either of us fighting her battles for her,” Steve cuts in. “Besides, they’re friends.”

Carver’s mouth curls in on itself. “She would never be friends with this f—”

“She’d kick your ass herself if she heard you talking about Munson like that.”

Carver turns his back on Eddie entirely, glaring at Steve like they’re in some sort of quick-draw stand-off in a stupid Western. Steve’s tired of this guy and all his hate, he’s tired of people he loves being hurt, tired of having to be Chrissy’s shield against the asshole in front of him, and Robin’s shoulder to cry on, and going home to an empty fucking house.

He’s just tired.

It’s a relief when Eddie stands on his own two feet, legs visibly shaking but holding his weight. Because nothing will ever stop Eddie from being Eddie, he claps like Steve and Jason are kindergartners and he’s their beleaguered teacher sent to corral them.

“Well, this has been fun,” Eddie says, grinning around the blood in his teeth. “But there’s only so much jock on jock violence I can take before I break out in hives. So, can I go?”

He throws a taunting thumb over his shoulder where his van’s parked closer to the cliff’s edge, turning to stumble toward it without another word. Carver and Steve both rush to stop him for opposing reasons.

“I’m not done with you,” Carver hisses.

Steve grabs his shoulder, yanking him hard enough to send him stumbling back a few steps. “Leave it, Carver, or I’ll ruin you.”

“What the hell could you even do?” Carver demands.

Steve stares him down, dead-eyed and entirely fed up. “I can tell Chrissy what you did, and she’ll lose what little respect she had for you. Then? I’ll have a meeting with Coach and get you kicked off the team. Then, who knows, maybe I’ll plant drugs in your locker, shave your head while you’re sleeping, vandalize school property in your name. Do you really want to stick around and find out what else I can think of?”

Carver holds his gaze for another, endless second before turning away and slinking back the way he came. Steve watches until Carver starts his own car, swerved recklessly close to Steve’s own parked car, and sped away.

When he turns back, Eddie’s nowhere to be seen. He slinks toward his van, unwilling to spook the guy further if he doesn’t need to.

He’s in the driver’s seat of his van, cursing as his shaking hands fumble with the keys, missing again and again as he tries to jam it into the keyhole.

“You can’t drive,” Steve says quietly.

Eddie still jumps, dropping the keys into the well beneath his feet as he snaps his head up, eyes wide and pupils eating up his face. There’s a bruise already swelling up his eyes, and blood caked beneath his nose. He looks a downright mess.

“Here to finish what your buddy started?” Eddie asks, showing off his bloody teeth again in a grin, as if Steve can’t see him shaking.

Steve shakes his head, throat clogged with too many words to name. What comes out is, “you’re not supposed to drive with a concussion.”

Eddie, tellingly, does not argue the concussion, but his bared teeth are starting to look more like a snarl as he replies, “I’m not leaving my van here.”

Steve stares at him. He’s sweating, with injury or panic, Steve’s not sure. There’s dirt in his hair, like before Steve had arrived, Jason had him on the ground, glossy curls pressed into the dirt. Steve clenches his hands into fists the more he sees. His t-shirt is black, but there’s a rip at its hem that Steve doesn’t think was there before.

He aches to reach through the open window and touch that busted face, find the split in his lip, clear the blood from beneath his nose.

Instead, he opens the driver’s side door, feeling like absolute scum as Eddie shuffles away, eyes wide as he presses himself as far away as possible as Steve climbs in.

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks, voice all wobbly.

Steve bends down to pick up the keys where Eddie had dropped them. He slides the key home and Eddie’s van tick tick ticks itself to life. When Eddie’s music blares, Steve reaches across to turn the dial down, ignoring Eddie’s flinch at his movement.

“Taking you home.”

Eddie’s van is bigger then he’s used to driving, the ride bumpier as he turns around and slides carefully past his own car, his keys probably still abandoned in the driver’s seat somewhere.

Hopefully it’ll still be there when he comes back for it.

*** 

“Did Chrissy put you up to this?” Eddie asks, voice small, small, small.

Harrington’s shoulders slump, clenched fingers loosening on the steering wheel. He sighs, long and loud, perfect hair rustling with the movement.

“Robin, actually,” he replies, lips tucked up into a facsimile of a smile.

Robin, Robin, Robin, does he know a Robin? His brain’s not working, too scrambled up inside. Eddie’s entire face aches as he scrunches it up in thought before cutting that shit out. No thinking for him until some of this heals. Still, he worries against the name, until, “Buckley?” comes out of his mouth.

Harrington smiles, warmer this time. “Yeah, she saw Carver following you.”

“And went to you?” Eddie asks, voice squeaking embarrassingly on the last word.

Harrington doesn’t answer, but his hands clench tight enough against the steering wheel that his knuckles turn white.

Eddie resolves himself to shutting the fuck up for the rest of the drive.

“How do you know where I live?”

“You’re…loud, dude,” Harrington says, pulling into Eddie’s empty driveway. Harrington’s right, he is loud. It still sounds like a lie. “Is your uncle home?”

Eddie squints, busted eye bursting with pain as he asks, “how do you know I live with my uncle?”

Harrington raises his eyebrow, clearly saying “you’re loud, dude,” again without even needing to open his mouth. Eddie kind of hates him for it.

“He’s on a fishing trip,” Eddie sighs.

Without another word, Harrington turns off the engine and slides out of the van, shutting the door gently behind himself. He rounds the front of the van and Eddie sits, stupefied in his seat as Harrington pulls open the passenger side door and holds his hand out like Eddie’s some swooning maiden. Feeling flustered and frustrated in turns, Eddie slaps his hand away and steps out of his van on his own two feet, slamming the door closed behind him.

Harrington doesn’t move out of the way as Eddie storms past, their shoulders banging into each other makes Eddie’s teeth rattle painfully in his bruised skull. He only remembers he doesn’t have his keys when he’s standing in front of his front door, hand empty.

He stares down at it, betrayed.

His house keys jingle in Harrington’s hand as he steps up beside him. Without even a by your leave, he inserts the key into the hole and twists, inexplicably choosing the right key on the first try. Is Steve Harrington a mind reader?

Harrington pushes the door open and holds it open for Eddie, as if it’s not his house they’re walking into.

“What the hell are you doing?” Eddie demands, standing on his own front porch like a loser as Harrington bends down and takes his sneakers off.

He lines them up neatly by the wall like he’s staying in The Ritz or something and doesn’t want to stain the dingy carpet.

“Taking my shoes off?”

“No!” Eddie wails, clutching handfuls of his hair, beyond frustration and into something that feels a lot like hysteria. “What are you doing here?”

Straightening up, Harrington stares down at Eddie where he’s still standing on his own porch. He looks incredulous, as if Eddie’s the one who’d saved him from getting killed by some jock, and Eddie’s the one who followed him home after like a lost puppy.

Like Eddie’s the one that doesn’t quite fit in the trailer park, and not Steve Harrington with his squeaky white shoes and ironed polo, and luscious hair, and skin that’s all sun-kissed even as summer’s barely a memory in a little girl’s eye.

“Your uncle’s not home.”

Eddie stares, gobsmacked. What the fuck are they putting in the water in Loch Nora, Jesus Christ! “So?!”

Harrington squints at him again, his aloof cool-guy shtick finally breaking to show the judgmental mean girl barely hidden beneath. “You’re totally concussed, dude,” Steve replies, a King handing down a decree to his loyal subjects. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t like, die.”

Eddie, never one to follow anyone’s decrees but his own, immediately starts bitching. “So, what? You’re playing home invader until someone comes to relieve you?”

He nods, smiling down at Eddie like he’s a puppy who finally learned not to piss on the carpet. Fed up with being a rung lower, Eddie takes that last step up onto the stoop and brushes past Harrington into his own goddamn house.

Harrington shuts and locks the door behind him.

Deciding that discretion is the better part of valor for the first time in his life, Eddie continues further into the trailer without turning around, not stopping until he’s got the bathroom door as a barrier between his vulnerable back and the latest interloper.

The light hurts his eyes as he flicks it on. His face hurts worse, and he can see why, now. One of his eyes is well on its way to swelling shut, a deep red bleeding into purples the farther out it goes. There’s blood beneath his nose, and it’s ballooning out making him look like some old lady’s prized pug. There’s a split going straight through his lip from Carver’s class ring.

He looks like an extra in a horror movie; the guy who’s about to make the sacrifice play because he’s not going to make it. And yeah, maybe there’s a little melodrama in the thought, but Eddie’s pretty sure he deserves it at this point.

God, what a day.

As punctuation to his own thoughts, someone knocks quietly on the door. Eddie’s ribs ache as his shoulders slump, head hanging damn-near into the dirty sink.

“Eddie?” There’s a moment of silence where Eddie’s response is supposed to be. He doesn’t heed it. “Can I come in?”

Eddie groans, loud enough that it’s gotta be audible through the tissue-paper door between them. “Why?” he says–whines pitifully, really.

“I want to check your injuries.”

Eddie, against his better judgment, cracks the door open wide enough to peer through. “What’s it to you, Dr. Harrington?” he asks, that same question wrapped up in a new package. Why are you here, why do you care, what do you want from me?

Harrington just smiles, and pushes at the door with just enough force that Eddie has no choice but to back up and let his unwanted guest in.

He takes Eddie’s face in his hands, rubbing gentle fingers against each wound, murmuring soothing placations. It works enough that Eddie stands still as Harrington sanitizes and bandages each of his wounds.

“You should ice them after this, okay?”

Eddie nods dumbly because Harrington’s moved on from painfully prodding his face to running his fingers through his hair, checking every inch of his skull for bumps and bruises.

“Does it hurt anywhere else?” he asks.

Eddie hums, relaxing against his will, body slumping into the cupboard behind him as those nimble fingers have their way with him.

“My ribs, maybe,” Eddie murmurs, eyes closing as Harrington’s fingernails scrape against his scalp before he withdraws his fingers.

His eyes snap back open a second later when those same fingers yank his shirt up without asking, warm palms chasing away the chill on his skin as they skirt over his ribcage, applying gentle pressure to whatever Harrington finds. Eddie shivers involuntarily as Harrington bends down, breath puffing against his stomach.

“Wh—what are you doing?” Eddie asks, stuttering over every other word.

He’s clenched up tight enough that his whole body aches with it—spine, jaw, wrists. But then Harrington looks up at him, usually impeccable hair softened by the day and flopping gently into his face. Eddie always assumed his eyes were brown, but they look sort of gold in the shitty fluorescent light of the bathroom.

He’s never been this close to Harrington before.

“Checking your ribs,” he replies, breath puffing against Eddie’s uncovered skin with every word. “Does that hurt?”

And then he just dismisses Eddie in favor of palpitating what must be a nasty bruise. Eddie whines, inexplicably, embarrassingly, before squeaking out a tiny, “no,” when Harrington looks back up at him with his big, worried, puppy-dog eyes.

Eddie’s own words to Carver make a reappearance, flashing red in neon lights inside his empty skull—I bet you’d love him on his knees. He’s on them now, between Eddie’s spread thighs, looking at Eddie’s body with an intensity that’s skinning him alive.

His skull’s not empty now; it’s bursting with half-formed thoughts, and panicked wheezing he hopes is just internal, and through it all, the words run rampant—on his knees, on his knees, on his knees.

Steve Harrington stands up, takes a step back, and smiles at Eddie. “I think they’re just bruised,” he says, seeming not to notice Eddie’s ragged breathing. “We should ice them, too.”

And then he just…walks out of the bathroom like Eddie’s not full to bursting with thoughts and feelings he doesn’t understand. Like it wasn’t Harrington that had dropped them at his feet—on his knees.

*** 

Steve sticks his head into Eddie’s freezer and resists the urge to scream. It’s just—Eddie had been blushing when Steve had looked up from checking his ribs for cracks. Steve’s never seen him blush before, and it’s seared into his brain (the way it’d started from his ears and meandered across his cheeks before slowly spreading its splotchy hue down his neck).

For a second, it was almost like Eddie didn’t hate him.

Steve suppresses the thought. Boys shouldn’t have crushes on straight boys who hate their guts, and letting even the tiniest flutter of hope touch his heart would be stupider still. There’s his silly little notes, and there’s his pining little glances.

He doesn’t need anything else.

“Are…you okay?” Eddie’s hesitant voice comes from behind him.

Abruptly remembering his position, Steve pulls his head out of the freezer and grabs the first bag he sees: a half-full package of frozen peas. He turns to Eddie with the best smile he can manage, holding them up as explanation for the unasked What the hell are you doing? hidden beneath the bemused smile on Eddie’s lips.

“Just finding you some ice, dude,” Steve replies breezily, walking over to drop the bag into Eddie’s hand.

“Uh, thanks?” he replies, walking past Steve to close the freezer he’d left open. Steve winces. “You can like, go now.”

It’s a demand hidden beneath a polite question. Steve’s feet start moving toward the door before he remembers the lump he’d felt on the back of Eddie’s head, and the way his eyes had gone all glassy and dazed in the bathroom as Steve had patched him up.

“Unless you want to call someone else, you’re stuck with me until your uncle gets here.” Eddie opens his mouth to protest, but Steve holds up his hands palm out, forestalling his complaints. “Possible concussion, dude.”

Eddie whines, actually stamping his foot squeakily against the linoleum of the kitchen floor. Steve smiles, helplessly endeared, and hates himself for it.

“Why is it your problem if I nod off in my sleep, you don’t even like me.”

The warm feelings flee like they’d never been there at all.

Steve turns his back on Eddie’s petulant frown and stomping feet, unwilling to look him in the eye as the emotions crash through him. Just for a second, he lets his face drop.

“I like you, just fine,” Steve replies, ignoring the little scoff from Eddie in reply.

The trailer’s small and crowded with things on damn-near every surface, but it’s cozy. Steve’s imagined this moment—getting through the Munson’s front door and finally seeing what’s inside. It’s warm, a hot cup of tea, a blanket on a cold night, somewhere to feel safe in.

All Steve feels is cold.

Instead of answering Eddie’s scoff, Steve lets his own little tantrum stomps lead him over to the ratty couch. He sinks down, crossing his legs as he leans back into the cushions, and finally, finally looks at Eddie. He’s still pouting, bottom lip having split open against the pressure of his frown. Steve raises a pointed eyebrow before turning back around to stare at the black of the TV screen.

Eddie groans again, and it takes all his willpower not to turn around, not to let his shoulders curl in as he hears footsteps coming closer. But, all Eddie does is settle onto the other side of the couch and grab the remote.

It’s going to be a long night. 

PART 13

[xneens]

mine, mine, mine

rafe tries to steal you back after you befriend the pogues.

You were his friend first, before those Pogues stole you from him, even before Sarah met you in that sandbox at five years old. He had laid eyes on you first and had been the one to help you when you scraped your elbow on the concrete, giving you a bandaid for it. He was the one you hugged and thanked before skipping away.

You used to party with him, used to spend Sundays at Tanneyhill, used to comfort him after a fight with Ward, used to sleep in his arms on his bed almost every night. Now, he'd be lucky to get a single text back or catch a glimpse of you in public. After you followed his sister into the group of Pogues, you spent a total of two nights in his arms, the last time more than a week ago. Whenever he checks your location, he can't help but get irritated when he sees you at any of the Pogue's places.

When Wheezie tells him she saw you with JJ Maybanks, he breaks, leaving his sister in an empty house, scouting your location as he gets on his bike. He's on your trail as you sprint towards where his sister and John B. faces off his father, running right into Sarah's arms.

He witnesses Sheriff Peterkins arrest his dad, watching John B pull you behind him. He can't take it anymore, even now that John B keeps you from watching the man you once respected get handcuffed.

Everything happens at once. He blinks and Peterkins lays on the ground in a pool of her own blood. His blue eyes meet yours, shock and fear swimming in yours as you stare back at him. A part of him breaks because never in his life have you stared at him with such fright. Not that he could blame you, he'd never shot anyone before. But he could blame John B.

He aims the gun at the Pogue and his blood boils with anger as you put yourself in front of him. The gun drops from his hand immediately, tears welling up in his eyes. He lost you.

He's pulling you to his truck, forcing you to sit in the passenger seat as his sister yells, crying her eyes out. His words are rushed as he tries to comfort you, avoiding your gaze, not wanting to look into your eyes and see how much you fear him.

He drives you to Tanneyhill, locking you in his room. Rafe tries to comfort you, letting you cry it out and shout at him. He allows you to throw a book at him, taking it all in because he'd rather you hate him for a moment than the rest of your life. Hatred for the Pogues builds when you don't let him touch you, pulling away from his attempts to hug you, to take you into his arms. The same hands that used to caress your face in your sleep now were the ones that murdered someone.

You slip his grip when he leaves the room briefly, running back to John B's and meeting with the rest of the crew. Rafe tweaks out even more after finding out you've turned off your location, throwing his phone on the ground.

He's at the tent when Shoupe tells you and your group of friends that Sarah and John B are presumed dead. Ward has to pull him away when you seek out comfort in JJ's arms instead of his.

After his trip to the Bahamas, he tries to reconcile with you, climbing up to your balcony on the verge of a panic attack. You lock your balcony doors, shutting the curtains and blocking out his pleas. That night, he tries to shoot up the Chateau, not aware you were hiding in the trees with JJ.

After John B's arrested and thrown in jail awaiting sentencing, you show up to his house. He's unaware of the phone in your back pocket, recording everything he's saying. He doesn't care that you're angry with him because, for the first time in months, you're willing to hear him out, willing to let him hold your hands and hold your face in his hands.

"You shot her, Rafe!" you yell out, not caring if Rose or Ward heard. "You killed someone."

Rafe whispers out your name, hands shaking as he holds your face in his hands. "You know I would never hurt you, right? I care about you. I love you. I love you more than those Pogues ever could."

Shaking your head, you pull his hands away from your face, pacing around his room. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. "That's not what I'm trying to—"

"But I need you to know that!" Rafe shouts, tapping his fingers against his temples. He walks towards you, panting. "They don't care about you like I do! They put you in constant danger. I never would do that to you. They can't take care of you like I have. You know that. Deep down you know that."

"Rafe." you try to interrupt. This was so not how this was supposed to go.

He takes your face between his hands again, a little too roughly. His lips were barely a foot away. "You were mine first. You still are. No matter what you call yourself, you always will be mine. I'll take care of you. I fucking love you."

Even as you run away from him, hope grows in his heart. Delusion or maybe he knew you better than you knew yourself, but he knew you still cared for him. Even after he killed Peterkins. Or so that's what he tells himself when he's sitting in a holding cell.

After his father's death, he tries even harder to convince you he is still the same Rafe you grew up with. After stealing the cross from Carla Limbrey, he shows up at your place under the pretense of giving it back to Pope. In the midst of your surprise, you hadn't thought to be suspicious about the tea he gave you. As soon as you felt dizzy, you pointed your finger at him. He apologizes, carrying you in his arms to the truck.

When you wake, he's there on the bed, holding your hand. He can't help but find it hot when you slap him across the face, leaving a red mark on his cheek. Rafe holds you down as you scream profanities at him, trying to break free of his grip, doing anything to get away from his presence.

He locks you in the room, promising to make everything better, professing his love for you over and over before leaving to deal with business. The next time he sees you, you're stopping him from bashing John B's skull in. The red light flickers against your face and for the second time, you stopped him from killing John B.

Rafe races after you, begging you to stay with him, his grip on your wrist leaving a bruise. "Stay with me. Please.”

He sees the slight hesitation, even if it's less than a second. His hand on your wrist loosens and you take off running, jumping off the ship and onto the little lifeboat driven by your Pogue friends. The cross drops into the ocean and he manages to save it last minute.

He raises a gun towards the stalled boat, aiming at his sister, the one who was responsible for bringing you with her as she befriended the Pogues. His finger twitches as he goes to pull the trigger, only to freeze when you stand up, blocking Sarah from his view.

You look back at the large ship, noticing Rafe with a gun in his hands. And for the second time, he drops the gun, staring as the lifeboat propels you out of his eyesight.

After a month, he sees you wearing a red dress in Carlos Singh's mansion. Both of you get locked up and you allow him to comfort you after seeing the man you rescued getting executed.

Swallowing his pride, he apologizes again, this time, you listen, because, after all, he's the only one that can help you. He apologizes for everything he's done, getting on his knees, eyes pleasing you to forgive him. When you don't say anything in return, his arms circle your waist, pressing his cheek to your torso.

Your name escapes his lips like a prayer. "Please. You're the only thing in this world I care about."

Working together, you both get out of Singh's property, catching a ride on the back of a truck. You looked away as Rafe threw a man off the truck, unable to watch your former best friend hurt another person.

As you both sail off on his boat, gunshots are heard across the dock as Singh's men try to stop you. Rafe has you steer the wheel, placing himself behind you, protecting you from any bullets that come close to hitting you. A bullet grazes his arm, red staining his white button-up.

You steer the boat into the ocean, texting your friends where to meet you before grabbing a kit and tending to Rafe's wound.

He watches as you clean his wound, eyes following your every movement. "Just like old times, huh? When you used to patch me up after a fight."

You scoff, unable to fight the small smile that danced on your lips. "Some things just don't change."

"I haven't seen you smile in so long." the words escape Rafe's lips before he can stop them, immediately regretting them when you stop smiling. He looks down, sighing. "Sorry."

You stay silent, patching him up. After putting on a bandage on his cut, you stand up, making your way back to the wheel.

Rafe stands, walking towards you slowly. He runs a hand down his face, frowning as you dock. "Is there any chance you'll forgive me?"

"I ... I don't think you're past unredeemable," you whisper, avoiding his gaze.

The Pogues board the boat, and you can't stop JJ from landing a right hook on Rafe's jaw. He puts distance between him and your friends, watching you play the mediator, defending him, even if it was half-ass. Rafe can't help but smirk slightly at JJ's disgruntled expression because despite what he's done, you've chosen him over them.

Though, when you return back to Kildare, Rafe's met with the version of you he's known for the past summer. You've chosen your pathetic group of friends, leaving his side the second the boat touched Kildare soil.

He tries to be better, tries to win you back. But when you leave his calls unanswered and texts unread, he goes crazy, seeking Barry's help to steal the cross from his own father. Before melting the cross, he calls you one more time, in hopes you'd stop him from making another mistake you'd have to forgive him for. He reaches your voicemail for the hundredth time.

The gold is sold off to his father's business partners and investors, the number in his bank account increasing with each passing day. He tells himself the more money he makes, the more he'll be able to provide for you and your future family, and the more he can spoil you with. Because if he can't have you, then no one can.

You show up at his door injured, shot in the stomach by one of Singh's men. Blood ran down your legs, staining your clothes. Rafe catches you as you collapse, pulling out his phone to call 911 only for you to stop him.

Anxious, he carefully carries you to his bed, helping you take off your top to examine the wound. He swallows, a part of him awakening at the sight of you wearing the bra he claimed as his favorite. Even as you bleed out, you still manage to look sexy.

He slows down the bleeding, cleansing the wound with a bottle of vodka, and muttering apologies as you swore at him for the pain. Stitching up the wound, he watches as your breathing slows down, your grip on his arm loosening. Fearing you'd die in your sleep, he keeps you awake by asking trivia questions, your annoyance groaning with every question.

Your eyes follow him as he gets on the bed with you, smoothly wrapping an arm around you and ignoring your judgment. The half-empty bottle of vodka rests in between the two of you; more often than not you take a sip from it, dulling the pain.

Rafe allows you to close your eyes, rubbing small circles on your shoulder with his thumb, his eyes observing the droplet of vodka resting on your lips for a second before your tongue licks it off. For the first time in a while, you relax in his presence, muscles slack as you let him comfort you.

"Do you still mean it? What you said on the boat," he murmurs, staring as your fingers absentmindedly played with his gold signet ring.

You nod lazily, humming in response. "I do."

"I melted the cross."

A pause. "That was a dick move, but you're not unredeemable. You've done a lot of shitty things, Rafe. Maybe I'm fucking stupid but I'm hoping the person who used to be my best friend is still there underneath the constant need for your dad's approval."

"It's not his approval I need," he whispers into your hair, his ring spun around his finger by yours.

Your eyes drift open, staring at him. The familiarity of your eyes, now no longer filled with contempt or unease, almost breaks him because he has you back again. "I still care for you. And I know you'll fix this.”

He's thankful you close your eyes again, not wanting you to witness a tear running down his face. He wipes it off in your hair, kissing your forehead as you sleep.

You'll fix this.

Rafe stops the hitman from killing Ward.

You'll fix this.

Rafe drives him to the private jet, heart beating out of his chest as he sees you standing next to his sister.

He gets his father on the jet, telling you the cliff notes of what happened. With bloody hands, he holds your face in his hands as if you were the most delicate thing on Earth.

"I—I'm fixing it." he manages to get out, fingers trembling. Rafe tries to give you a smile but it's shaky.

Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Rafe, what—"

"Look, I know there's nothing I can say that can stop you from getting on that plane, so, please be careful, okay?" he whispers. Rafe doesn't wait for an answer, taking off his ring and putting it on your ring finger, never mind that it's far too big.

You stare at the ring for a moment before glancing back at him. "I can't—"

"I've fucked up a lot of things. But I'll fix it, all of it," he promises, bringing your hands to his lips, and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

"I know," you reply, heart clenching at the broken man in front of you.

"But come back to me, okay? You are the one thing I can't lose. I love you. Come back to me, baby." Rafe chokes out, eyes watering while he pleads.

Without thinking about it, you press your lips to his, not caring about the audience behind you. It's urgent and intense, his lips almost punishing. You taste blood, and he tastes a bit of heaven.

His heart breaks in two when you get on the plane, knowing you've taken it with you.

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 So Long, Quantico.

Prison Reid x Fem!reader

Read part two here!

Summary: Your best friend asks you for a favor and you must defend the innocence of the man you were in love with, the same man for whom you left the FBI and moved to another country years ago.

Words: 1,6k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of murder, trauma, death, jail. angst without happy ending. miscommunication. right person, wrong time. reid's time in jail. spoilers for season 13 and all the ones before that. english is not my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: First of all I want to thank you for all the support in my first post because the truth is that I didn't expect (if you haven't read it yet, I already have my masterlist). I still can't believe I reached 1000 notes, it makes me very happy.

And secondly, I apologize in advance for this, but I love drama and being a little cliche sometimes. I promise to write a nice, comfortable, less dramatic Spencer story in the future (I hope so) but ttpd is my everything lately.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The constant pounding of your right leg against the table was beginning to make you desperate and to dwarf the room. You didn't know what to do to stop and think for a few seconds, you had even lost count of all the times you had tried to fix your already perfect and ironed clothes that you had spent hours choosing and modeling in front of your hotel mirror.

It felt like hours had passed since you arrived at the prison, though it was probably only a few minutes. Part of you wanted to run out of there and avoid a dangerous reunion at all costs. The other part was anchored to the chair and would not move until you found a way to get Spencer out of there and fulfill the favor Emily had asked of you.

You couldn't let your best friend down, especially when her job could be in jeopardy if Reid was still in prison. You wanted to make sure she was okay, and repay her for all the favors she had done for you during the years you had lived together in London. Without her, you probably would not have survived or become the successful and respected lawyer you were now. She helped you heal when you needed it, now it was your turn to help.

Before you could think, grab your things and maybe even leave the room to catch your breath, a guard abruptly opened the door. Your eyes immediately fell on the handcuffed man the guard had practically thrown into the chair in front of you.

You blinked several times, trying to process that you were actually standing in front of him. He looked so different from the way you remembered him from the occasional picture Prentiss showed you. The years hadn't gone by for nothing, you knew that, but Spencer looked like someone else. It was more than the messy hair, the beard, or the numerous bruises on his face that made you wince. It was that his eyes no longer sparkled, and he himself looked dull.

The guard came out after warning them that they only had fifteen minutes, and the cameras pointed directly at you two.

“Hey.” That was all you could say, biting your inner cheek at how stupid it sounded.

At first he didn't react and hardly seemed to breathe. His expression was like seeing a ghost, and you couldn't blame him after so many years of not hearing from you. You knew you looked different from the last time you saw each other because you had tried too hard to look like someone else. You wore your hair shorter and a different color, even the way you dressed was other. You looked more serious and grown up.

“What are you doing here?” He asked dryly after scanning you with his eyes for a few seconds.

You froze when you heard him speak and his voice, once music to your ears, was like a kick in the stomach.

“I came to help. I thought Emily told you...”

“She told me that she wanted to call you but I told her not to.” Spencer cut you off before you could continue speaking. “That you weren't going to help me.”

You frowned as your brain processed those words.

“Why not? You...you are my friend.” You said, trying to hide the tremor in your voice.

He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, trying to look away from you because it hurt. You could feel the tension multiply, making it almost impossible to breathe in the small room.

“Friends don't stop talking for six years and pretend the other doesn't exist.”

Oh, that had hurt.

It was true that you had disappeared from his life six years ago, and you had not made the slightest effort to return, even leaving the country with the excuse of looking for a better future. But you had your hidden reasons, you wanted to forget Spencer Reid and your intensely ridiculous and unrequited love.

From the first time you heard him talk about statistics and smile at you like a child, realizing that you listened to him like no one else, you fell madly in love with him for years. Always hoping that one day he would stop thinking of you as his friend and realize how much he deserved to be loved and that you would be happy to do so, that you could give him the whole world without hesitation if he asked you to.

At first you thought he wasn't that interested in love, that he was too smart and focused to lose his mind like you did for him. However, then you saw him several times interested and pining for other girls: the movie actress, JJ, the girl at the bar and Maeve...she was very different and painful for you.

You couldn't stand his strong love for her, at least not being so close to him and having to play the role of the best friend who always listened to him repeat how wonderful she was. Knowing that he could fall in love with someone he didn't even know personally instead of you, whom he saw every day and had known for years, changed you and made you run away to save your heart.

You got a new job far from the United States, thanks to Agent Hotchner and his glowing letter of recommendation. And so you went back to being an ordinary lawyer, no longer chasing serial killers or a boy genius who never loved you as you would have liked.

“Spence, I...” You tried to speak softly, almost having the urge to take his hand to make the situation better, but you didn't. “I'm sorry.”

He was obviously tense, he wouldn't even look you in the eye and you could swear his eyes were a little crystallized. He barely glanced at you for a second before speaking again.

“You don't have to say it if it's not true.”

“It's true.”

You stopped yourself for a second, sighing and centering yourself again.

“But I'm here for the case, to help you with that...and I'm sorry for everything that happened to you.” You said more calmly and with an almost sweet tone.

You both knew it was more than just the prison issue and the current situation. It was a sorry for Maeve's death, Alex, Morgan and Hotch's resignation, his mother's problems, Cat's damn appearance, and most of all for not being there to support him in all.

“You should have called and said so.” He finally responded after letting out a snort and tensing his jaw more.

“Yeah...I should have.” You admitted, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

You thought silence would take over the room again, but instead he spoke again.

“You can go now.”

“I'm not going anywhere unless you're free.” You pointed out with determination.

“You don't have a problem with go before.” He said in the same indifferent tone that was beginning to irritate you.

You should have frozen, kept quiet and focused on the case to get him out of there. But you couldn't do that and act professional when your insides were burning with the memory of the past.

“Don't give me that, you know why I did.” You blurt out, frowning and instinctively pushing the chair away from the table that separates you from him.

“You never said anything to me.” He replied, running a hand through his hair in frustration before speaking again. “You just disappeared like everyone else I've ever loved because you got bored with me.”

“You know I left for the opposite reason, because I...” You tried to say, but your voice cracked and your hands shook in an awkward attempt to touch his. “I loved you the way that you were and...”

The sudden sound of the door opening made you gasp and immediately shut up. The presence of a grim-faced guard made you realize it was all over, and you pulled your hand away from Spencer's again.

“Time's up.” The guard reported and you signaled him to have at least more minutes.

Fortunately, the guard nodded and gave you only five more minutes. You looked at your client again, trying to get into the professional role and discuss his case, but he seemed to be in another world after your half sentences.

There was no room in Reid's mind for your words, after feeling guilty for so long for not doing enough to be a good friend to you, for scaring you away with his problems, for not being one you wanted to keep over time and return his calls. But now, did you really say what you thought? Did you really love and care for him?

Everything was tearing his word apart in that moment.

“You won't have to see me if you don't want to, but I'll get you out of here soon, Spencer. I swear.” You promised and you could see in his face the surprise at your honest tone.

Maybe he expected a different attitude from you, maybe he thought you were still so obsessed with him that you would insist on seeing him and kill yourself to make him laugh again. But you had matured, or so you thought. You were no longer the young woman who hugged him every time he felt far away and was content to be the one who was left over. Now, you were the brave woman who left the ship before it sank completely.

As you watched the guard check the handcuffs and lift Spencer out of the seat to take him away, something inside you reacted. You called out his name before you could react and quickly had his desperate eyes on you.

“You don't have to worry about the past...I'm over you.” You said confidently before nodding goodbye and walking out with one less burden.

He remained anchored to the ground, trying to process your words with his racing mind as he watched you leave him again.

You...you had been in love with him?