#jj come back be here!!! you’re still alive in my head!!!!

[l0vergirlwrites]

obx4 spoilers below the cut

bruh….

what a massive let down

i thought the writers making luke maybank not jj’s biological father/family was the dumbest decision ever… but oh boy… was i wrong

killing him is the franchise’s ultimate fail

can’t wait to have to spend the rest of my life in shambles over this!!!

[goofygubegubler]

𝑺𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒐𝒃𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅

Spencer throws out a comment so uncharacteristically bold that even Morgan is speechless.

wc: 768 | F!Reader (established relationship) | cw: VERY suggestive

A/N: I’m honestly blown away by all the love on my first fic—thank you so much! I’ve got more in the works, including blurbs and maybe even a few one-shots. My asks are open, so feel free to send requests or just chat! Hope you enjoy this one—it's short and oh so sweet <3

Your desk was a mess—files spread out, coffee half-drunk, and a notepad filled with half-legible scribbles. Across from you, Spencer was deep in his own pile of paperwork, meticulously writing everything out by hand, as usual. Despite having access to every digital tool imaginable, he still swore by pen and paper, claiming it helped him retain information better. It was kinda endearing, in a stubborn, old-man way.

You were in the middle of reviewing a case file, flipping through pages while absentmindedly tapping your pen against your desk, when you heard Morgan stroll over to Spencer’s desk.

“Come on, pretty boy,” Morgan said, dropping his coffee onto Spencer's desk with a thud. “You mean to tell me you, the guy who once used the word ‘cloacal kiss’ in casual conversation, has nothing to say about his own mating habits?”

Your fingers hovered over your mouse as you scrolled through your playlist on your monitor, hesitating between switching to something instrumental or letting the indie rock keep playing. Oh boy. Here we go.

Spencer barely looked up, flipping a page in his file. “Because, unlike you, I don’t feel the need to turn my personal life into locker room talk.”

Morgan grinned. "I’m just saying, man, if all that reading has you treating sex like a final exam, I got some study guides for you."

Spencer finally lifted his head, blinking at him like he was the dumbest person alive. “Morgan, your definition of 'expertise' is having a lot of experience. Mine is actually understanding the mechanics of what you’re talking about.”

Morgan scoffed. “That’s not even—listen, Savannah and I are solid, okay? And I’m just saying, for a guy who overexplains everything, you sure get real quiet about this topic.”

Spencer gave him a flat look, putting his pen down. "Morgan, sex isn’t complicated. It’s just applied physics with a little bit of chemistry—and if done correctly, some very impressive biology."

JJ, who had apparently been listening in, snorted. "That might be the nerdiest thing you’ve ever said—and that’s saying something."

Morgan threw up his hands. "See? This is what I’m talking about! The man could turn seduction into a science fair project."

Morgan pointed at Spencer, then at you, then back at Spencer, clearly trying to form a comeback. Before he could, Spencer sighed and said, "Morgan, what do you want me to say? Yes, I have sex. Yes, I enjoy it. No, I’m not about to give you a play-by-play."

Morgan opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, searching for something—anything—that wouldn't result in him taking yet another loss. Finally, he let out a deep sigh, grabbed his coffee, and pointed a finger at Spencer. "We're not done."

Spencer just smiled, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Morgan, I hate to break it to you, but we were done the moment you started this conversation."

You were still working, or at least making a half-hearted attempt at it, but you weren’t exactly subtle. Your grip on the pen had tightened, your page-flipping slowed, and the barely-contained smirk on your face was giving you away completely. Spencer noticed—of course, he did. His sharp eyes flicked toward you, and the way his lips curled just slightly told you he knew you were listening.

He tilted his head, eyebrows raised in amusement. "Don’t act like you didn’t hear that."

You huffed, shaking your head as you clicked play on your music.

The first few soft notes of "Juno" by Sabrina Carpenter filtered through your headphones.

But your mind was already elsewhere—lingering on the way Spencer had leaned back so casually, how he hadn’t hesitated once, how damn sure of himself he had been. You bit your lip, heat crawling up your spine. You liked the way he’d said it—like he knew exactly what effect he had on you, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. Like he enjoyed it. Like he was claiming something, not just stating a fact. And that was the part that really got to you. You liked being seen, being wanted, being talked about like you were something worth studying, something worth knowing inside and out.

But you were at work. And work meant focus, control, and professionalism. You exhaled, straightening in your chair and forcing your attention back to the case file in front of you. Even as you tried to push it aside, the heat still curled in your stomach, his voice replaying in your head like a song you couldn’t shake.

And then, as if on cue, Sabrina Carpenter’s voice cut through the moment:

 "Sorry if you feel objectified."

[greengoblinswifey]

Dark Paradise—JJ Maybank x Pogue!Reader

summary— in a foreign land far from home, you’re forced to say goodbye to your love. as grief consumes you, you cling to the hope that your souls will find each other again, no matter the distance, no matter the life.

warnings— season 4 part 2 spoilers, death, angst.

a/n— still not over JJ’s death, won’t ever be.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿

The world around you felt suffocating. The distant sound of the strange land and faint sobs from the others faded into nothingness. All you could hear was your own ragged breathing, choked sobs breaking through as you cradled JJ's lifeless body in your arms.

“JJ, no,” you whispered, voice trembling as your fingers brushed against his face. His skin, once warm and full of life, was cold under your touch. His golden hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead in messy strands that you once loved to push back with teasing affection. “Please, wake up. You always wake up.”

But he didn’t.

You leaned over him, your tears falling onto his face like raindrops. His chest, which had always risen and fallen so rhythmically, stayed still. You couldn’t stop your hands from shaking as you pressed them to his heart. Nothing.

“No, no, no. JJ, you don’t get to do this,” you said, voice cracking, desperation clawing at your throat. You shook him lightly, as though you could jolt him back to life. “You don’t get to leave me. You promised me, JJ. You promised we'd always make it back home.”

But there was no home without him.

The memories came flooding back, crashing into you with the force of a tidal wave. His wild laughter as he leaned against his bike, the wind whipping through his hair as he drove you both down the Cut. The way his lips would curl into a cocky grin whenever he caught you staring at him for too long. The way he always had your back, no matter what chaos surrounded you.

And his hands — oh, God, his hands. They had always been there to catch you, to hold you steady when the world felt too heavy. Now, those same hands lay limp and lifeless.

You curled into him, your forehead pressing against his. “You always said you’d wipe my tears, JJ,”’you whispered. “So why aren’t you here now? Why aren’t you wiping them away?”

Your mind played cruel tricks, replaying all the times you’d fought together, laughed together, survived together. All the times you made it back safely to the Cut, bruised and battered but alive. This time was different. You couldn’t wrap your head around it. He wasn’t coming back.

Sarah’s muffled sobs reached your ears, and you vaguely felt John B’s hand on your shoulder, trying to pull you away. “We have to go,” he said softly, his voice thick with grief.

"I’m not leaving him!" you screamed, your voice echoing into the endless dark of the night.

“You’re going to have to,” John B said, tears streaming down his face as he pulled harder. “He’s gone.” His own voice was laced with disbelief.

The words cut through you like a knife. He’s gone.

“No!” you screamed, your voice raw. “He’s not gone! He’s just—just hurt. He’ll be okay. He always is!”

But even as you said the words, you knew they weren’t true. He wasn’t coming back. You pressed your forehead against his one last time, your tears soaking his hair.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I love you, JJ. And I don’t know how to do this without you.”

You sobbed harder, clutching onto JJ as though holding him tighter could somehow pull him back to you. But deep down, you knew. No amount of crying, no amount of screaming, would bring him back. He wasn’t going to open those bright blue eyes and crack some stupid joke to lighten the mood. He wasn’t going to smirk and tell you to stop crying because, “Tears don’t look good on you, baby.”

It was over.

JJ had been your paradise, your home, your light in the dark. And now, he was gone.

Forever.

You wanted to believe you’d see him again, that somehow, somewhere, he’d still be waiting for you with that crooked smile and those bright blue eyes. But for now, all you had was the ache in your chest and the memories that refused to fade.

JJ Maybank was gone.

And so was a piece of you.

The grave was small, shallow, hastily dug in the foreign soil. A makeshift wooden cross stood at the head of it, his name carved into the wood by John B’s trembling hands. The cross looked crude, unfinished, like it didn’t belong to someone as full of life as JJ.

You stood frozen, your feet anchored in the sand as if any step closer would make this all too real. The wind kicked up grains of sand around you, stinging your cheeks, but you didn’t care. Your gaze was fixed on the dirt they were about to pile over his body, the final separation between you and him.

The others stood nearby, their faces tear-streaked and hollow. John B was clinging to Sarah, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Pope had his arm around Cleo and Kiara had tears streaming down her face, her hand covering her mouth to stifle the sobs.

“JJ always said he wasn’t afraid of anything,” Pope said, his voice hoarse and cracking as he tried to find the words. “He was fearless. And I guess, in a way, he still is. Wherever he is now, I know he’s—I know he’s free.”

Kie stepped forward, her voice trembling as she said, “You were our brother, JJ. Our family. And I promise we’ll keep fighting for you, no matter what. You’d hate it if we gave up now.”

You couldn’t move. The lump in your throat was too big, the weight in your chest unbearable. How could they talk about him in past tense like this? How could they just accept it?

Your knees buckled, and you fell to the ground in front of his grave, your fingers digging into the dirt as if you could pull him back up, as if he were just a little too far beneath the surface.

“This isn’t real,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “This can’t be real. JJ, you, you’re supposed to be here. With me. With us.”

Your hands trembled as you pressed your palms to the ground, trying to feel something, anything. “You said we’d always make it back, remember? You promised!”

But the sand beneath your hands was silent.

John B knelt beside you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “We have to let him go,” he said softly, his own voice raw with grief.

You shook your head violently, tears streaming down your face. “No! I’m not letting him go. I can’t.”

The others watched as your sobs filled the air, a sound so broken it made Cleo turn away, unable to bear it.

As the first handful of dirt hit the grave, something inside you shattered. You collapsed to the ground, your cheek pressing against the warm sand as you screamed his name, screamed until your voice gave out.

“Every time I close my eyes, it’s like a dark paradise.” The song’s lyrics echoed in your head, mocking you with their cruel truth. JJ was your paradise, your light in all the chaos, and now, without him, everything was dark.

The desert wind carried your cries, blending them with the grief of your friends as they said goodbye to the boy who had kept them laughing, kept them fighting, kept them alive.

The grave stood lonely and out of place in the arid Moroccan desert, so far from the marshy shores of the Cut that had shaped him, nurtured him, and kept him tethered to his home. This wasn’t Poguelandia. This wasn’t the dock where he used to sit for hours, feet dangling off the edge, or the familiar roads he sped down with reckless abandon on that beat-up bike. It wasn’t even near his house, if you could call it that, where the broken windows and peeling paint still held memories of the boy who made the most of nothing.

He didn’t belong here, buried in foreign soil so far away.

“How will your soul find me, J?” you whispered, voice trembling as your knees sank into the sand beside his grave. “How am I supposed to leave you here?”

The wind carried your words into the vast expanse, your grief disappearing into the endless sky. The thought crushed you, his body trapped in this foreign land, while you would have to carry his memory back without him. You hated it. Hated that you couldn’t take him home.

Tears blurred your vision as you traced his name on the makeshift wooden cross. It didn’t seem fair, not for JJ. Not for someone who burned so brightly, who carried you all through your darkest moments. The boy who swore he’d never leave.

“I’ll find you, you know,” you said, your voice cracking. “Even if it’s not in this life, I’ll find you. You and me, we’re tethered. We always will be. No matter how far you are, I’ll wait for you.”

But the thought of waiting, of the long journey his soul would have to take to find yours again, made you sob even harder. The journey would be so long, so cruel. He deserved to rest somewhere familiar, somewhere safe. Somewhere he could always find his way home.

You pressed your hands into the warm sand, the heat burning into your skin. “I’m sorry I have to leave you here,” you choked out. “I hate it. I hate that you’re not buried on Poguelandia, where you belong. I hate that you’re not near the water, near your house, near us.”

The others stood quietly behind you, their grief palpable but unable to match the hollow ache inside your chest. No one knew JJ like you did. No one had seen him in those quiet moments when it was just the two of you, when he wiped your tears away and whispered that you’d always have him.

Now, your tears fell freely, soaking into the sand, and there was no one to wipe them away.

Your fingers dug into the dirt, desperate for something to hold onto. You didn’t want to leave him behind, but you had no choice. Morocco would keep him now, this strange and foreign land that didn’t know the sound of his laugh or the way his smile lit up a room.

“Promise me,” you whispered to the grave, the words catching in your throat. “Promise me you’ll find me J, even if it takes forever.”

The makeshift cross stood still in the desert wind, offering no answer.

You stayed on the ground for what felt like hours, forehead pressed against the sand, as if you could anchor yourself to him one last time. Somewhere in your heart, you knew you’d see him again. Whether it was in this life or the next, you and JJ were bound together, tethered by something even death couldn’t sever.

But as the others gently pulled you away, their hands guiding you back, you realized the weight of leaving him here would stay with you forever. JJ wasn’t just gone. He was gone from you.

And as you walked away from his grave, the distant hum of the wind in your ears, you whispered one last time:

“I’ll find you. No matter what.”

[bloodibambiidoll]

I'm asking waayyy too much BUT ITS THE LAST ONE I PINKY PROMISE( for today. . .)

Anyyywaayyssss, okay so what if weird girl!reader was hanging around n climbing trees or something (bc I do that-) and JJ sees her and he's like "girl wtf r u doing up there" and blah blah blah it's there first time meeting too (it would be fun if rafe sees this and they're not dating yet n he gets a lil jelly hehe)

VERY RANDOM BUT MY HEAD JUST WORKS LIKE THATTT

Ty bb🪽🫀

Omg yes!! This is such a cutie idea!! I actually had this pic saved on her Pinterest board bc she absolutely climbs trees. Sometimes she just climbs a little too high… Jealous!Rafe, fluff, lovesick!Rafe 18+MNDI!

(Also in another world Jj & Weird!girl would be so cute actually)

“What’re you doing up there?” The sound of someone’s voice nearly has you falling off the tree branch you’re perched on as your hand flies to chest and a surprised gasp leaves you. You look below you to see a head of messy blonde hair and ocean blue eyes squinting up at you through the sun. You’ve never met him, but recognize him of course, it’s not like the island is particularly big so you’ve seen everyone at least once. Jj Maybank, he’s from the cut so it makes sense that you’ve never really crossed paths. He’s cute though.

“Umm… I’m doing pretty much exactly what it looks like I’m doing, sitting in a tree.” You let out a little small chuckle as you look down at him. “What are you doing down there?”

“Well, I’m exactly what it looks like I’m doing, walking on the ground.” You snort at that, giving him a playful roll of your eyes. “I know, I’m hilarious. I was just makin’ sure you weren’t stuck up there or anything.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t say stuck. I’d say I may have flown too close to the sun climbing up this high.” You shrug as you kick your dangling feet back and forth.

“Soooo… you’re stuck then?” Jj smirks up at you as he adjusts the cap on his head so it’s facing backwards. It gives you a better view of his face, he’s cute. Maybe if you weren’t already so invested in Rafe you would definitely be interested in him.

“I mean, mentally? Yes. Physically? No. I could get down whenever I want, actually.” Your voice is sickly sweet and Jj wonders why he’s never talked to you before. He’s seen you around and he’s always thought you were hot. That whole semi creepy but still angelic vibe you give off really does it for him.

“Yeah? You need some help?” He chuckles and leans his hand against the trunk of the tree, out stretching his neck and accentuating his jaw. He looks like he’d be nice to bite.

“She’s good, Maybank.” Your head whips around to see Rafe walking down the dirt path with a stone cold look set on his face. “I can help my girl. You can fuck off now.”

“Rafey! Hi!” You smile wide as you wave down at him enthusiastically. You sent him a picture of you up in the tree telling him you might need a little help getting down and he immediately dropped everything to come to your rescue.

“Rafey, huh? That’s adorable, truly.” Jj smirks at Rafe and it has him breathing out hard through his nostrils. He’s been trying really hard not to beat every man who looks at you to a pulp but seeing fucking Jj Maybank smirking up at you while you giggle is making him see red.

“Shut the fuck up, Pogue. Didn’t I tell you to fuck off? I suggest you do before we have an actual problem.” Rafe takes a few steps towards him, his eyes are like blue fire as he glares at Jj like he wants to burn him alive. It’s kind of hot. If you’re being honest with yourself.

“Okaaaay, I think that’s enough. I’m good Jj, thank you for offering to help me, you’re sweet.” You give him a saccharine smile and it makes him swoon just a little. You are so cute that if he wasn’t trying to stay off the cops radar he would probably stand here and fuck with Rafe even more.

“Yeah, no problem, sweetheart. See ya around, let me know if pretty boy over here decides to fuck you over, I don’t mind being your rebound.” Jj bites his lip as he winks at you before turning to walk off. Rafe wants to chase after him and wipe that smug ass look off his face by shoving it into the dirt.

“Raaaafe.” You snap your fingers to get his attention and it pulls him out of his rage filled trance. He looks up at you, smiling down at him so sweetly and he almost forgets who Jj Maybank even is. Almost. He still wants to kick his fucking ass.

“Hmm? Yeah baby?”

“Can you help me get down now?” He giggle and Rafe swears it’s his favorite sound other than when you scream for him while you fall apart in his cock.

“Oh shit, yeah. C’mere.” Rafe moves so he’s directly under you with his arms outstretched. “Jump down, I’ll catch you.”

“I don’t know, Rafe. I’m pretty high up.” Your expression turns nervous so Rafe leans up so he can hit the bottom of your shoe with the tips of his fingers.

“You’re not even that high, see? Just fuckin’ jump. Promise I won’t let you fall.” He shakes his hands above his head and gives you that semi goofy, reassuring smile that’s reserved only for you.

“Okay. Fine.” You let out a dramatic sigh before bracing your hands on the branch so you can push yourself down into Rafe’s arms. A little squeal leaves you when he grips onto your hips and pulls you against his chest. You wrap your arms around his neck so you can plant a messy smooch on his lips. “My savior!! How will I ever repay you, fair knight?”

“Pft. You’re so fuckin’ dramatic.” Rafe snorts as he lightly sets you down on the ground.

“I’m dramatic? You were about to beat Jj’s ass for trying to help me!” You laugh, jokingly pushing your hand into his shoulder.

“Nah, he was doing more than just trynna help you.” Rafe grabs onto your hand so he can pull you closer against his chest. “He was fucking flirting with you and you’re mine.”

“Yours, huh? Guess I missed the letter in the mail that said we were official.”

“Oh my god, you’re so dumb.” Rafe throws his head back with a groan but you can see the smile painted across your lips. “I thought I made it pretty fuckin’ clear that you’re my girl.”

“Hmmm… I don’t know, might need you to spell it out for me.” Your giggle makes butterflies erupt in his stomach and Rafe never believed in that butterflies in your tummy bullshit until he met you.

“Ugh. You’re a brat, you know that?” You shrug, letting out a satisfied hum. “Fine. Be my girlfriend?”

“Uh, duh, I already am.” He rolls his eyes and you give him a satisfied smile. “Just wanted to hear you say it.”

“You’re sooo in for it when we get back to my place. Brat.” He grips onto your neck, pulling your lips against his in a rough kiss. “Car. Let’s go.”

“Okay, okay, sooo bosssy.” He smacks your ass and you yelp, running full speed toward his truck.

“Oh hell nah! Get your lil ass back here!!”

Taglist: @babygorewhore @strawberrydolly333 @starkeysprincess @sturnioloshacker @nemesyaaa @rafeinterlude @loserboysandlithium

All things Rafe & his weird!girl here

Divider is @strangergraphics

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter XI

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 8.885 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Unsurprisingly, I can't keep things sweet for too long, so here's a weird chapter again. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

Kareem’s eyes nearly pop out of his head as he sees you stepping in. – Holy shit! You’re alive!

– It seems so. – You chuckle, watching him almost run towards you like he’s watching a statue come to life before his eyes. 

– And you’re still employed?

– Mr. Cameron told me to come back, so I guess.

He laughs, a genuine blast of overjoyed disbelief. – I can’t believe it. – He takes your bag, setting it in the little locker where the kitchen staff is allowed to keep their things. – I was so sure that after that fight, they’d just kick you on the street, I was already mourning! Damn Routledge. 

– It was that lamb. – You laugh, folding your sleeves and washing your hands. – It must have really been good. 

– You bet your ass it was. – He’s already moving through the kitchen as you dry your hands, almost avoiding your gaze. – God, for your brother to punch Rafe right during family dinner and still somehow keep your job is crazy. – He hums, so casually, as if he was in the room when it happened. You raise an eyebrow.  – Told you you were gonna be good luck.

He winks, still smiling, but you can’t help the little doubt that swirls in your mind. – Kareem?

– Yup?

– Where were you when it happened? I came to get Rafe some ice, and you were gone.

Kareem doesn’t turn around to look at you as he hums, but you can see the blush creeping up his ears as he stands there. – I uhm, I— He clears his throat. – I went home early.

– Your things were still here, though. – He stays quiet. – Kareem. Were you hiding?

It comes off in a chuckle, soft and airy, as you step closer to him. And he stands there, his back still facing you, his hands moving thoughtlessly, wringing his fingers, pretending to be busy. – Kareem?

– Okay, I was hiding, I didn’t want to lose my job too, okay? I’m sorry. – The genuine shame in his voice brings a laugh to your lips, and he looks at you, almost bashfully, as you bring a hand to rest between his shoulder blades. – Aren’t you mad at me for being a coward?

You laugh even more at that.

The thought of a 6’5’’ overly tattooed Pakistani man with a beard and a man bun cowering in some pantry while you put ice on Rafe Cameron’s face is so delightfully ridiculous you can’t even help your amusement. – Of course I’m not mad at you. This is your job, I don’t blame you for not wanting to get fired. And these people really are crazy.

– Right? – He exhales, wide-eyed like a child on christmas morning. – You saw how Rafe talked to me, right? This kid hates me! I don’t even know why.

– Hate to break it to you, Kay, but he probably doesn’t have a reason. Rich kids don’t need reasons to be menaces. – You pause, looking up at him with a conspiratorial smile. – I’m sure you know that, though. Mr. Highland Park.

He looks away, expression taught as the blush on his face reddens even further. – You googled it. 

– Oh, I did. Richest suburb in the whole of Texas? That’s another level of blue blood.

He winces. – It’s not that bad.

– Oh, I’m sure it’s not bad at all. – You laugh, a twinge of guilt blooming in your chest as you realize just how much you’re enjoying this mockery. – You should see the dump I was born in. That's bad.

Kareem clears his throat, still a little pink around the ears, and turns back to the workstation like he can physically will the conversation away. – Look, can we— Let’s- Let’s talk about something else. Mr. Cameron’s breakfast.

You sigh, already rolling up your sleeves, but still laughing. – Of course. Can’t keep the king waiting.

Kareem narrows his eyes pointing at you with a cautious expression. – You’re laughing now, but you have no idea how specific this man is. –  He mutters, completely serious. 

– Of course, why wouldn’t someone micro-manage their breakfast, of all things?

– Focus! – He warns, ignoring your laughter. – One egg benedict.

Your eyes widen, all amusement going down the drain. – Jesus fucking Christ.

– I told you. Hollandaise. Bacon—crispy but not burnt, and just on one side, the fat can’t be too shriveled up either. Toast. Golden brown, but not too crunchy. He hates crumbs. – He rolls his eyes, already stressed. – And don’t even get me started on the—

The kitchen doors swing open before he can finish, and a sharp pair of heels clicks against the tile. Kareem’s face drops, rolling his eyes a second time, and he leans over the counter, almost hiding behind you as you stand there in awe. You barely have time to register the pinched look on the woman’s face before she snaps her fingers, walking around like she owns the place. – Kareem. Coffee. Now.

Kareem, who had been reaching for the eggs, stills mid-motion. His fingers flex slightly before he turns around, a forced politeness on his face that doesn’t even pretend to hide his irritation.. – Good morning to you too, Marion.

Marion.

Suddenly it’s clear— Kareem said it was a miracle that you managed to make it two hours in this kitchen before being assailed by the Wicked Witch (he did in fact call her that) and her powers of micro-management— Marion, the head housekeeper (or gate-keeper, as Kareem had also referred to her), stormed into the kitchen, 5’0” tall, and a force of nature all of her own.

You bite back a smile.

Marion doesn’t acknowledge him beyond a flick of her wrist, too preoccupied with shaking her head in exasperation. – You won’t believe the morning I’ve been having. – She doesn’t wait for an invitation before pulling out a chair and sitting, arms crossed over the marble like she’s just lifted the world with her bare hands. – Rafe refuses to get up. Again. Do you know how long his room has been a disaster? Since Wednesday. I sent the maids up, but he won’t let anyone in. The smell alone— She shudders. – I went in myself just now, and the brat nearly threw a pillow at me.

You reach for the coffee pot, taking a cup from the cabinet, but Kareem pulls it from your hand. – Don’t give her this. – He mumbles, frowning and huffing under his breath. – That’s much more than she deserves.

You chuckle, taking the acrylic cup he shoves into your hand with a smile.

Marion goes on. – Are you listening to me, boy?!

– Yes, Marion. – He groans. And then, lower, – I think the people on the other side of the island could listen. – You can’t even help the laughter as he goes on. – What I’m hearing is that you walked into his room uninvited, and you got mad when he reacted?

Marion gasps, scandalized. – Excuse me?

Kareem shrugs, playing innocent. – Just making sure I understand the situation.

Her lips press together into a thin, disapproving line. – He’s acting like a child, Kareem.

He looks over at you again. – Who’s gonna tell her?

You glance up briefly, watching as she smooths a perfectly manicured hand over her pristine blazer. It’s not lost on you that she sees herself as above everyone else here, despite technically being just another employee. It’s in the way she orders Kareem around like he’s a butler, the way she perches in that chair like she owns the kitchen.

– Mr. Cameron won’t be happy about this, – she continues, shaking her head. – Honestly, you should be grateful, you know. – She gestures vaguely at you, you’re almost surprised she’s even seeing you. – That Rafe hasn’t come after you. He always gets the pretty ones fired.

– Uhm, – Your brain almost short-circuits. Compliment? Insult? General comment? You’ll never know. – Thank… you?

Her eyes suddenly go wide, and she straightens up on the chair as you put the mug in front of her. – Are you the new chef?

– Yes. Uhm, Routledge, ma’am. 

She sighs with something like disappointment, but not quite.  For a moment she almost seems pleased, but then she starts frowning again. – Good. He was asking about you.

– Mr. Cameron? – She raises a brow, the corners of her lips downturned. – Ma’am. 

The woman relaxes the slightest bit as you refer to her by the proper title, and looks away, taking the coffee without even looking at you. – Well, of course. Rafe Cameron. He wants you to bring him a piece of pie, or some such thing.

Kareem looks at you, his brows knit together, his lips twisted into a strange grin.

 – Uhm, ok. Me? Specifically?

– Is your name Routledge?!

– Yes, ma’am.

– Obviously, then.

Your hands still, grip tightening just slightly on the handle.

Kareem chuckles, bitter and Marion sighs dramatically. – I swear, it’s like he’s punishing everyone. For what, I don’t even know. He just sulks in there all day. And do you know what’s worst of all?

You force your voice to stay steady. – No. What?

She leans forward, as if sharing some great, horrible secret. – He’s not even drinking.

That catches you off guard. You blink, lifting your gaze fully now. – What?

Marion nods gravely, like this is the biggest offense of all. – Not a sip. Not since Wednesday. Not even sneaking anything. He’s just lying there, doing absolutely nothing. It’s unnatural.

– Why would he be drinking? It’s nine AM.

Kareem and Marion both scoff at that, a sharp, short bout of genuinely mocking laughter. – You don’t come around here a lot, do you girl?

You don’t know what to make of that question. And they don’t clarify anything beyond that comment.

Kareem places a cup of coffee in your hand, that same strange smile on his face as he raises a brow, taking a sip of his own. – Tragic, huh?

Marion sighs, taking a delicate sip before clicking her tongue. – I don’t have time for this nonsense. Rose has a book club event, or some such thing she needs me to organize. – She stands, smoothing out invisible wrinkles on her blazer before giving you one last glance. – Good luck with this girl.

And with that, she’s gone, leaving only the sharp scent of her perfume behind.

The kitchen is silent for a beat.

Then Kareem lets out a long, slow breath, shaking his head. – Charming, right?

– I feel like a whirlwind just waltzed right over me.

– She has that gift. – He grumbles. 

You swallow, trying to blink whatever the hell that was away. You have work to do. – I should get started on that egg benedict.

– Oh no, no, no, my dear. You’re going up to Rafe’s and you're bringing him that pie. I don’t need him coming here and fucking up my schedule. 

– C’mon!

– Nope. Get to it.

You frown, lingering in the kitchen for a moment longer than necessary, wiping the counter and cutting the pie slowly, like you’re trying to delay your own execution. 

You stare at the plate. At the pie. That’s all this is. Just delivering a damn piece of pie. You don’t know why this feels like such a chore.

Kareem watches you, one brow raised, his grin teetering between amusement and sympathy. – I don’t wanna interrupt your lingering gaze or whatever, but you should go ahead.

– I’m just— You hesitate. – Should I even go up there?

Kareem snorts. – Didn’t you hear what I just told you? If you don’t, he’ll just come down here, and I don’t want him here.

– Thanks a lot, Kareem. Great camaraderie. What happened to “we average each other’s misery?” Isn’t that what partners are for?

– When it comes to Rafe, the misery is all yours. – He says, looking over his shoulder with a smile. – Don’t act like you’re walking to the gallows, Routledge. It’s not gonna be that bad, you know he likes you.

– Excuse me?

– Oh, come on. – He laughs. – Wasn’t he the one sitting on this counter asking you to kiss his little boo-boo better?

– You sneaky little bastard! – You gasp and narrow your eyes, bumping his shoulder as you take yet another cup from the cabinet, setting it under the espresso machine. 

– I didn’t mean to hear all of it, okay? I was having a hard enough time trying not to laugh. – Kareem only laughs, sipping from your cup, a smile still clear as day on his face. – He was pathetic. Ward was right, I don’t know how you didn’t punch him. God, I don’t think I ever heard Rafe say please. And I’ve worked here for years! 

– You’re hilarious.

– C’mon, that was a little funny.

You take the espresso and the pie, setting it on a tray. – I hope your eggs benedict break before you even take it out.

He bursts out laughing, holding the door open for you. – However will I recover from such cruelty? – You sigh, rolling your eyes at him. – If you don’t come back in ten minutes, I’m still not going to save you.

– I will literally kill you with my bare hands.

– Sure you will.

The walk to Rafe’s room is quieter than it should be. The house, for all its size and grandeur, seems eerily still. There’s no sound of maids bustling around, no chatter echoing down the halls—just the faintest murmur of waves in the distance, the occasional creak of old wood beneath your careful steps. The small tray feels heavier in your hands the closer you get.

But before you can even step foot on the second floor, a pair of cold blue eyes settle on you, squeezing slightly as that same strange smile you’ve come to know so well blooms on his face again. – Miss Routledge.

You swallow, nodding respectfully. – Good morning, Mr. Cameron.

– What are you doing? – He eyes the tray in your hands with a certain amusement, his low careful steps still creaking against the floorboards as he approaches. – Coffee?

– Yes, uhm, espresso, actually. Rafe asked me to bring the pie up for him, I thought he’d want something to drink too.

Ward laughs softly, taking the mug. – Attentive. – He grins, sipping carefully, his eyes boring into yours. – Rafe doesn’t appreciate a good cup of coffee. He only likes things sweet. 

The last words lands between you, much heavier than they should

You’re not sure what to make of that sentence. So you just nod, waiting for him to dismiss you. But he doesn’t, not just yet. – I’m surprised he’s even up this early. Rafe usually doesn’t get up until midday. He’s been changing a lot these last few days.

– Never too late for a change of habit, I guess.

– Damn right. – He sets the cup, half-drunk, on the tray again, his face unreadable. – That espresso was perfect. Kareem always makes it too strong.

– I’ll tell him that.

– No need. – He hums. – Maybe you can start bringing me my breakfast too.

– If you want to, sir. 

Ward smiles, taking a single step to the side to let you through.

You nod and smile, keeping your head down, but just as you’re a couple steps ahead, the tray balanced on your arm, hand hovering over Rafe’s door, he stops you again: – You and your brother had a talk after you got home?

You freeze for a moment, looking back to see him standing there, with that same look. You know that stance: Casual tone, detective eyes. He’s measuring you.

You breathe in deep, keeping your face still and your voice level. – Yes, sir.

– And what did you tell him?

– To stop meddling in my work life or get a job of his own.

He doesn’t allow much, but you can see his stance soften the slightest bit—You never got much approval as a kid, so you could always see it from a mile away— Ward nods, that same way he did when he was talking to you in the kitchen yesterday. – Good girl. – You bristle at the words, but don’t let it show. He makes a move to turn around, but his eyes remain on you. – Off you go.

You stop outside the door. Knocking once.

Silence.

A flicker of hesitation surges through you. You can feel Ward's eyes on your back, the way he lingers at the end of the hall, not even pretending to do something else.

It unnerves you.

You think about leaving the tray at the door and walking away, but you know how unprofessional that is, and you can’t afford to give bad impressions. Not with these people.

You don’t wait much longer before pushing the door open, stepping into a space that feels separate from the rest of the house, like it belongs to another world entirely. The air is heavy, stale, the curtains drawn, the light filtering in muted and dull. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, to pick out the details—clothes draped over furniture, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, the faint scent of salt and sweat and something unmistakably Rafe lingering in the air.

He lays at the edge of the bed, almost hanging off the corner, and though he breathes in and out heavily, nothing else escapes him as the bed creaks beneath his weight.

The sound sends you back to that phone call.

The sighing, the groans, the words.

You shudder, and swallow, approaching with quiet steps. Ward’s espresso trembles lightly but doesn’t spill as you lay the tray flat on your right hand, moving the things on his bedside with your left.

He shifts slightly at the sound of your footsteps, humming low in his throat. – Baby, – He whispers, content, a lazy smile on his face. – Knew you’d come.

You smile at him, setting the tray down on his nightstand. – You asked for pie. Marion said you threw a pillow at her.

He chuckles, nodding. – Mmm. – The sound stretches, and Rafe shifts again, finally turning his head to look at you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused in a way that makes you wonder if he’s half-asleep or just playing at it. – Had a dream about you.

– Did you? Was it a nightmare?

He laughs again, shaking his head, eyes drifting shut again as his hand trails down to his stomach, the motion lingering too long, too weirdly, that same strange smile on his face. – Was nice. Real nice.

There’s something vaguely suggestive in the way he says it, but it’s faint—just enough that your brain doesn’t fully process it before he’s tugging at your wrist, pulling you closer. – Sit.

You hesitate. – Rafe—

– I don’t feel so good. – His grip tightens just slightly, enough to make it clear he isn’t letting go until you comply. You sigh, lowering yourself onto the edge of the bed. He immediately leans into you, head pressing against your side, arms wrapping loosely around your waist. His body is warm—too warm. – Think I have a fever, – He mumbles, voice dipping into something almost pitiful. – Check for me?

He pulls you close before you can protest, pouting, almost pleading. You lift a hand to his forehead. His skin is warm, clammy, but not alarmingly so. He covers your hand with his own, holding it there before you can pull away.

– It's a good thing that the witch didn't send someone else. – He mutters, eyes flicking up to meet yours. – It'd be just like her to call Rose just to piss me off. – He groans, thumb stroking the back of your hand slowly. – Like she would do anything. I could be dying on this bed and it still wouldn't matter to them.

– Don't say that.

– It's the truth. – His eyes burn into yours. – These people don't care about me, baby.

– These people are your family, Rafe. Of course they care about you.

He scoffs, and his grip loosens just enough for him to shift again, this time sliding down until his head rests against your lap. 

– Rafe, I have to—

– Just for a minute, baby. Please. – His sigh is soft, almost content, and he takes your hand, guiding it into his hair before you can react. – Touch me, – He murmurs. – Brush your fingers through my hair like you do. My head hurts so bad, baby. I barely slept tonight.

Your chest tightens.

Sometimes you wish you weren’t such a softie.

Your fingers twitch against his scalp, hesitating. This isn’t new. Rafe is always too much—too sharp, too reckless, too angry. And the way he switches around you, like this, like he’s someone else entirely, will never cease to give you whiplash. But he looks at you so pleadingly, so softly, those big blue eyes of his so pitiful you almost want to hold him, and you can’t say no.

He pulls at your hand, like you're a doll, like you exist for no other reason than to serve him. Still, you brush your fingers through his hair. Just once.

His breath hitches, that lazy smile softening into something quieter, something almost innocent. He shifts again, curling up against you, his fingers wrapping around the hem of your shirt. – Don’t stop, – He murmurs.

You roll your eyes but keep running your fingers through his hair, slow, rhythmic. – You do feel a little warm. What else are you feeling?

He hums, eyes slipping shut, the tension in his body melting away bit by bit. – My throat is scratchy. My head is pounding. My whole body feels like cement.

– You poor thing.

Rafe hums at your words, a soft, indulgent sound that makes your stomach twist. He shifts again, pressing his face further into your stomach, like he’s trying to burrow into you.

– I hate being sick, – He murmurs, voice turning smaller, almost pitiful. – Feels like I can’t do anything. Like I’m useless.

You sigh, fingers still threading through his hair, and you know—you know—this is exactly what he wants. That little flicker of sympathy, the way your touch has softened, how you haven’t pushed him away yet. He’s milking it. But damn him, he’s good at it.

– You’re not useless, – You murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them. – You just need to rest.

Rafe makes another one of those pleased little sounds. His fingers curl around the hem of your shirt, barely gripping, just enough that you can feel the heat of them on your skin. – Stay a little longer?

You hesitate.

He tilts his head up slightly, blue eyes peering up at you, half-lidded and pleading, a perfect picture of vulnerability. – Just for a minute, baby, – He whispers. – Feels better when you’re here.

Your lips part, a retort forming on your tongue, but then he exhales, slow and steady, and you realize he’s not just playing anymore—he’s settling into you, like he could stay here forever.

You sigh, glancing at the untouched tray on his nightstand. – I’ll stay while you eat, – You say, keeping your voice firm. – But just for that. I have to work.

Rafe doesn’t argue. He just hums, pleased, nuzzling into you once more before finally —finally— pulling back. His movements are slow, languid, like he’s dragging himself out of some dream.

His eyes land on the tray, and the lazy smile flickers into something more satisfied. – You brought me coffee?

– You asked for pie. I figured you’d want something to go with it. – He smiles, reaching for the cup. – But, Rafe your—

He’s sipping before you can warn him, his eyes peeking at you from beyond the ceramic rim of the cup just like his dad did.

Rafe hums again, sitting up properly now. His hands find your waist for just a second as he puts the cup down, like he’s steadying himself—like he needs you to steady him—before he lets go, stretching with a groan. His shirt rides up slightly, the sharp lines of his stomach peeking out before he drops his arms and reaches for the tray. – It's still hot. – He smiles. You don’t let yourself linger on the irony. – You made this one, didn't you? Kareem always makes it way too strong. And he doesn’t put any sugar.

You can’t help the chuckle. – I’ll bring you some sugar next time.

He smiles, taking the plate and leaning it on his knee. You don’t miss the way his fingers tremble slightly as he picks up the fork. The way he glances at you, like he’s waiting for you to notice.

You sigh again, softer this time. – What?

– You could feed me. – He grins, almost hopeful.

You scoff. – You’re getting real spoiled, Rafe.

He laughs, all the happier as he watches you reach for the fork, slicing off a small piece of pie and holding it out. He just watches you, something unreadable in his gaze, before leaning forward and taking a bite.

Your breath catches for a second. 

You don’t know why.

It’s nothing. Just Rafe being Rafe.

But the way he hums, like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, the way he holds your hand as he leans in, his lips barely brushing against the utensil before he pulls back—it feels like something else entirely.

– Good? – You ask, keeping your voice level.

He grins, still chewing. – So good, baby.

Of course he says it like that. You shake your head, handing him the fork. – Eat.

Rafe chuckles, but does as he’s told. 

Your eyes catch his lips as he chews. His eyes are heavy, his smile is glad, but you see the familiar watercolor of black and blue forming on his skin, reaching for him before you can stop yourself.

Rafe doesn’t even flinch as your hands ghost over the bruise on his jaw. If anything, he leans into it. 

– Does it hurt?

– It'll hurt a lot less after you kiss it. – Your face drops. You try and pull back your hand, but he holds it in place, laughing with a delight you will never understand. – I don’t know why you even bother to pretend you don’t like it. You kiss me every time I ask.

You scoff. – I never said I don’t like kissing you, Rafe. I just don't like kissing you when I’m at work. Which reminds me—

He pulls your hand a little harder now as you stand. Eyes wide and pleading. – No, no. C’mon, I'm sorry, okay? Don't go, baby, please.

– You don’t need to apologize. I'm not going because of anything you did, I just have to go because Kareem needs my help.

Rafe scoffs, pulling you tighter, and closer, until you’re close enough that he can lean his head on your waist and squeeze you in his arms. – Kareem is a bitch. – You make a noise of protest, trying to pull away, but he keeps you in place. – And that’s rich coming from you. The apology thing. For every ten words you say one of them is an apology.

– One in every ten? – You chuckle. – Pulling out the statistics now, huh? I didn’t know you were a mathematician.

Rafe laughs, the sound resounding against your skin as he presses his face closer to you. – I’m nothing if not a man of the sciences, baby.

– Whatever you say, Norman Osborn. – You thread your fingers through his hair again, soft, slow, just enough that you can feel him relax under your touch.

You shouldn’t like it.

The way he melts at whatever crumb of affection you give him.

The way he clings and pulls and holds like he can’t bear for you not to be touching him.

The way he sighs at every touch.

Because you’ve been here before. And it never ends well for you.

But still you let him hold you, stroking his hair. And when he pulls away, looking at you with those big expectant eyes, the question already on his lips, you kiss him before he can beg. You revel in the way he clings to you as you move your lips against his, gently, barely a whisper of a touch, afraid you’ll hurt him.

And for a moment, Rafe matches you.

He sighs, and his lips part, but he kisses you back just as softly, moving against you almost temptatively. His hands stay still, barely resting on your waist, letting you set the pace. He exhales a slow, content sigh through his nose, his fingers pressing into your sides just slightly, like he’s savoring the moment.

It feels nice.

Not too much, not too fast, just nice.

And maybe that’s why you don’t stop him when his hands start moving.

It’s gradual—so gradual that you barely register the shift. The way his grip tightens, how his fingers start grasping at you instead of just resting against your skin. The way his breathing picks up, shallow, uneven. Then his lips part again, and suddenly the kiss isn’t soft anymore.

Rafe’s hands settle under your ribs, pressing against you so tightly you can barely breathe. His mouth moves over yours more hungrily now, lips parting, head tilting, like he’s trying to consume you. A low, satisfied hum escapes him, his fingers dragging up your spine, tangling into your hair like he’s claiming you.

And God, the way he clings to you—it’s like he’s starving, like he’s been deprived of something.

His hand slides down, over your sides, around your hips, fingers gripping at your thigh, trying to pull you onto his lap. 

So you pull away.

Rafe makes a wounded noise, low in his throat, chasing after your lips before his eyes even open. His hands won’t let go, his fingers flexing against you, as if he’s trying to coax you back into his arms.

– Rafe, – You breathe, voice steadier than you feel. – You're gonna hurt yourself.

His eyes blink open, already searching for another way to pull you back in. His lips are red parted, breath coming out fast, and the bruise looks darker, larger, enough that your heart skips a beat. 

– Shit. – Rafe lets your hands flutter towards the discolored skin, he lets you touch him softly, staring at the way you frown with a breathless smile. – Jesus. Look at you. I'm so sorry.

– There you go again. – He chuckles, hands back at your waist, pulling you in again. – I’m fine baby, I’m not made out of glass. – He murmurs with a smile, but when you stop him, he looks up at you like you’ve just taken something vital away from him.

You look at the door, counting how much time you’ve already wasted. Rafe groans, his fingers tightening around your chin and pulling you back, like a petulant child who can’t bear not to be paid attention to. You laugh, smoothing back his hair. – I have to go.

– No you don’t. Lay down with me for a minute, c’mon.  – He murmurs, his voice wrecked, like he’s the one suffering. – Kiss me again. Just—just one more time.

You shake your head, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. He just leans in again, lips barely ghosting over yours, voice dropping into something dangerously soft.

– Please?

– I’ll come back later.

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, but then he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow, lingering, his breath fanning against your skin. Another, just beneath your jaw. Then lower, nuzzling into the space where your neck meets your shoulder, lips barely brushing against the skin there.

You shudder, and he feels it. – Is this where you like it? – He murmurs, triumphant, like he finally got something he can use against you. He’s already leaning in to kiss you again when you push him away.

– You’ll have to find that out another time. – You exhale sharply, untangling his arms from around you before he can try to stop you, and taking the plate, the cup, the tray. – Try to sleep again, you’ll feel better.

– I’d feel a lot better if you weren’t abandoning me.

You laugh out loud, hiding behind your hand as you push him back down onto the pillow. – How could I be so cruel?

– This isn’t funny, okay? I’m being serious. I’m sick and you’re gonna leave me here, all alone? – He eyes you, disapproving. – What if I choke?

– You’re not gonna choke.

– You don’t know that.

– Yeah, I do. You’re not gonna choke, because, you’re gonna lay on your side— You pull at his shoulder softly, until he does as you say, watching you with that same disappointed look as you adjust his pillow. – there you go. Officially choke-proof. Get some sleep.

He’s quiet for a moment, letting you pat his shoulder and kiss his eye, letting you step away, but just as your hand hovers over the doorknob, he speaks again:

– Why were you with Barry earlier?

You don’t even know why you let yourself forget it. The way he looked at the two of you from his window, the way his eyes sharpened as you let Barry step away.

You knew he was gonna bring this up.

You knew he was gonna ambush you.

So you sigh, looking over your shoulder as your hand remains, steady, on the brass doorknob. – Can we talk about this later?

– I wanna talk about it now.

– Rafe—

– You slept at his place? – He cuts in, just the ghost of an edge on his voice. – Is that how much you hate your brother? That you would go to Barry's place just to avoid him? Even after what he did?

– I don’t hate my brother, and I didn’t sleep at Barry's place. He came to apologize, and he was too drunk to drive so he stayed over.

– He wasn’t too drunk to get over there. – He says, sharp, too sharp for someone who just a moment ago had been so drowsy. – He slept with you.

– He slept next to me. 

Rafe scoffs, looking away, smiling bitterly at the ceiling. – I bet he tried. – He mumbles. – Did he take you to that bar, the one in the Cut with all those weird irish people?

– What are you talking about?

– You know that's where he goes to pick up girls, right? He wanted to sleep with you!

– I didn't sleep with him, and we didn't go to any bars. He was drunk. We talked and fell asleep, that’s all. Why do you even care about this?

Rafe’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans back on his elbows, looking at you like he’s thinking way too hard about something that should be simple.

And something in him shifts.

Slowly, he sits up again, walking towards you. His hand finds your wrist—not grabbing, just tracing his fingers over your pulse like he’s absentminded, like he’s bored.

– You really spent the whole night with him? – His voice is light, almost playful, but you can hear the edge underneath it.

You sigh. – Rafe—

– No, I just… – He tilts his head, watching you. – I guess I don’t get it.

– Get what?

His lips twitch like he’s about to grin, but he doesn’t, he looks bothered, like he has something bitter in his mouth. – How you weren’t bored out of your mind.

– What? – You roll your eyes, but before you can speak, his fingers tighten slightly around your wrist—not hard, just enough to keep you here.

– I mean, really, baby, c’mon. – He exhales, shaking his head like he feels bad for you. – Barry? – His lips curl like the name itself tastes bitter. – You know he’s not half as fun as me.

You almost laugh, shaking your head. – What are you even talking about?

– No, it’s fine, – He cuts in, like he’s just thinking out loud now. – Maybe you like being bored. Maybe that’s the problem.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

You’re actually perplexed. 

There is no path in the road of rational thought that could ever lead to the conclusion he got to. You don’t know whether he’s mocking you or if the sickness actually got to his head.

Rafe sees it, feels it, and that’s when he really grins, but there’s no joy to it. He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Then he leans in, voice dropping lower. – That’s it, isn’t it? – His fingers trail up your arm now, slow, barely touching. – You're tired of me. That's it.

– What?

His face darkens, and he looks away, laughing bitterly. 

– Rafe, that’s not—

He exhales sharply, looking away like he’s already heard enough. His fingers slip from your wrist, dragging down your arm like he’s letting you go. Letting you leave.

– Never mind, – He mutters.

The change is instant. The teasing, the smugness—it’s gone. Now he just looks… defeated.

You hesitate, shifting on your feet. – Rafe.

He shakes his head. – No, I get it, – he says, voice quieter now. – You don’t have to explain.

Your stomach twists. – Where did you even get that from—

– I just thought you liked being around me, – He cuts in, and fuck, his voice wavers just slightly, just enough to make something inside you crack. – But if you need space you could’ve just said so.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Because what are you supposed to say to that?

Rafe sighs again, rubbing his jaw. His fingers graze the bruise there, and for the first time since you walked in, he actually looks as tired as he claimed to be.

And suddenly, you feel awful.

– I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I'm not tired of you, Rafe. – You say, soft, reassuring. – You know that.

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. – Do I?

You frown, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. – Rafe.

He looks up at you then, and God, his eyes—wide, glassy, wounded.

You hate it.

You hate that he looks at you like that, like you’ve hurt him, like you’ve done something wrong.

So you sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed again, and putting the things on the nightstand just like before. – Don’t do this. – You murmur, smoothing your hand over his hair. He almost pulls away, but then he leans in, exhaling, like he can’t stop himself. – I'm not tired of you. I could never get tired of you. You're a person, Rafe. Not a toy.

Rafe doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you, his eyes widening again. Then, just as quickly as he pulled away, he shifts closer, tucking his head against your chest, arms wrapping around your waist, clinging. – Really?

His eyes are glassy, his voice cracks.

– Don’t play around, you know I’m serious. I’m not tired of you.

He burrows in closer, grasping, heaving. – God, yeah. Yeah. – He nods, rapidly, incessantly, the movement rough against your skin, like he’s breaking down. – Sometimes I forget. I’m sorry, baby. I keep forgetting.

– What? What are you talking about?

– That you’re not like them. – He sighs, and there’s so much relief, like you've lifted a weight off his shoulders. Like he can finally breathe. – That you’re good. That you’re not cruel. That you actually care about me.

– Rafe—

– You care about me. – He repeats. You no longer know whether he’s speaking to you or to himself, trying to get it through his brain. – You do, and you would never abandon me. You wouldn’t. Right?

His grip tightens around you, fingers pressing into your back like he’s afraid you’ll slip through them.

You hesitate. Because this—all of this—feels eerily familiar. But the way he’s looking at you now, wide-eyed and raw, makes it impossible to leave.

He’s backed you into a corner, and you have no choice but to open your arms.

– Of course not. – You murmur, threading your fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him. – I wouldn’t, Rafe. We're in this together now, okay? You can't get rid of me now.

Rafe exhales, shuddering, pressing himself closer to you. Like you just saved him. Like you just fixed something inside him. – Yeah. – He nods again, rapidly, like he’s convincing himself now. – Yeah, I know, baby. I know you wouldn’t.

His fingers flex against your back, and for a second, he just holds you there, silent.

Then, quietly—soft, almost like he doesn’t want you to hear it—

– I don’t think I could take it.

Your stomach twists.

Because it’s too soon.

It's too much.

It's too fast.

But that’s normal, right? He's not used to it. To being cared for. To being looked after. To being heard. The way you met was so weird and intense and overwhelming for him. A brush against death, one that he's convinced himself you saved him from. How could he be anything other than too much? How could he feel ever “normal” about this?

You know you don’t.

You attached too fast, too deeply. You can’t even see him hurt without thinking he's dying all over again. So of course he's weird about it.

You're weird about it.

Right?

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because what do you say to that?

What do you say when he’s wrapped around you like this, when he’s breathing you in like you’re the only thing keeping him here?

You just let him hold you.

And when he sighs again, nuzzling deeper into your chest, you feel it—the way his body finally relaxes, the way his grip loosens just enough to let you breathe, the way he hums, content, satisfied.

Like he’s won.

Like he knew you’d stay all along.

You exhale, threading your fingers through his hair. – Just lay down, okay Rafe? Get some rest.

– I'm fine. – He sniffles, but he looks at you, and he looks shattered.

– Please. Lay down for me, can you do that?

He hums, already relaxing, already settling. But as you move to lay him down, adjusting him against the pillows, his arms only tighten around you. – Lay down with me.

He pleads.

Like he still thinks you might disappear.

Like he needs to hold you.

You sigh again, letting your hand run soothingly down his back. – Rafe.

– Just for a minute, baby. Then you can go. – Rafe whispers, pressing his face closer, his voice barely above a whisper when he finally speaks. – Just don’t get tired of me.

You swallow hard. – I won’t.

You lay down next to him, settling on the pillows.

His arms pull you closer.

Not gently, not like he’s worried about hurting you—desperately. Like he was just waiting for you to give in, like now that you have, he’s going to make sure you can’t take it back.

His face presses against your collarbone, breath warm against your skin. His hands—broad, steady, greedy—slide under your shirt, but it isn’t heated, like it was before, just needy. He spreads his palm flat against your back, holding you there like he needs to feel you.

Like he needs proof that you’re real.

And you exhale, letting your fingers drift through his hair again, slow, soothing.

Rafe hums, the sound low, content. Then—just barely, just enough for you to notice—this weird sound escapes him. A hum. Maybe a huff, maybe a sigh, but it sounds like a laugh.

Your fingers still for a second.

– …What?

– Nothing, baby. – He sniffs, his voice thick with exhaustion, but you feel his smile against your skin. – Just—you’re so fucking nice to me.

Rafe grins, you can feel his smile against the sliver of skin your shit allows, and his free hand comes up, to your collarbone, to your tattoo, burrowing closer. 

You don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

Slowly, his breathing evens out. His grip on you stays tight—like even in sleep, he doesn’t trust you not to leave—but you feel his body fully relax against yours, the tension melting out of him.

You should leave.

You should.

But you don’t.

Instead, you just lay there, fingers still threading through his hair, listening to his steady breathing, feeling the weight of him against you.

Because if he wakes up and you’re gone, what will he do?

Because if you leave, and he spirals again, and something happens—

No.

You don’t want to think about that.

So you stay.

Just for a little longer.

Just until you’re sure he’s really asleep.

You find yourself sneaking away from him as his breath weighs heavy. Taking the things from the nightstand like you're stealing. Fixing yourself in the mirror like you've done something wrong.

When you get to the door, you can’t help but look over your shoulder, making sure you’re safe, making sure he’s still asleep, like you used to do with your dad when he drank too much.

The thought sends a shiver down your spine, and you shake your head, as if to get the memory off of you, steps growing hasty as you climb down the steps, rushing to the kitchen. 

The tray knocks softly against the counter, and you take the plates out thoughtlessly, running them under the sink, washing them obsessively, the stains on the plate, on the cup, on you, too risky to leave unattended.

– Hey! – Kareem’s voice echoes from behind you. You look over your shoulder. He’s disheveled, voice breathy. Way too surprised to see you. – Took you a while.

You focus on scrubbing, the foam of the espresso lingering on the ceramic. – Yeah, uhm. Rafe’s sick.

– Jesus. He didn’t puke on you, did he?

You pause, the perfect lie having just fallen on your lap. You stare at the sponge on your hand, unable to look Kareem in the eye. – Not on me. He was really sick though. Took me a while to get him to eat after that. Took me even longer to get him to sleep.

He laughs, but the sound is rushed. He’s shifting around on his feet. – You’re too nice, Routledge. I would’ve left him there. He would’ve choked on his own sick if it were up to me.

You shudder, shaking your head.

You’re back at Barry’s, laying on the ground, Rafe wretching as you hold him steady. You keep shaking your head until the image goes away. – Why are you doing that? Just put it in the dishwasher.

– Oh. – You look beside you, a perfectly good washer merely feet away. – I always forget people have those. I’m already halfway done.

– It’s okay, just leave it there. – There’s a noise behind you, steps. You look over, but Kareem interrupts your train of thought. – So! Uhm, you’ll never guess.

– What?

– Mr. Cameron came down here, when I was already one with the egg benedict, halfway through the hollandaise, with the bacon already on the skillet, and he told me he’s not gonna have any breakfast.

You chuckle, trying to pull yourself into the conversation. – How considerate of him.

– Right? Such a sweet man. – He takes the plate from the counter behind him, still lingering too close, like he’s blocking you, trying to keep you from running. You shake your head again. You’re acting paranoid. Kareem’s just being sweet. – Here you go. Left some for you, you look hungry.

– Feeding the orphans? I didn’t know you were charitable like that. – He chuckles, almost fooled by your normalcy. – What else do we have to do now, what are these people’s ridiculously specific breakfast orders?

– Uhm, none. Rose doesn’t eat breakfast, Sarah’s not here, Rafe’s already been fed and the only thing Wheezie ever eats is cereal, so we’re off the hook. We can just hang around, plan out the other meals and eat scraps like the dogs we are.

– Scraps are for the strays, my friend. Purebreds like you get full meals, especially in houses like this.

He raises a brow, unimpressed, unamused. – Ha-ha. Very funny.

– Thank you, comedy is my passion.

He shakes his head, and reaches for some paper, already getting you started on the prep. You’re glad for his practicality.

You let yourself sink into the routine.

Anything to keep your mind busy.

The hours pass in a blur of tasks—chopping, prepping, cleaning, planning, moving like you’re on autopilot. Your hands work faster than your thoughts, you like it that way. Every time you stop for too long, something creeps back in—the weight of Rafe’s arms around you, the way he sighed into your skin, the way he smiled against you.

So you don’t stop.

You joke with Kareem, toss out your sarcastic remarks, keep up the easy banter like it’s just another day. And he laughs, calls you a saint for dealing with Rafe every time he calls you up for something menial, rolls his eyes when you dodge his questions about why you took so long.

And for the most part, it works.

It works when you’re plating dishes, when you’re folding napkins, when you’re bickering with Kareem over the right way to season something.

It only falters in the quiet moments.

When you wipe down the counters and catch yourself scrubbing too hard, like you’re trying to wash something invisible off your hands. When you zone out in the pantry, staring at the shelves but not really seeing them. When you hear the faintest creak from upstairs and your stomach flips before you even realize what you’re reacting to.

But you shake it off. You force yourself to.

Before you know it, the day is gone.

The kitchen is clean, tomorrow’s meals are planned, and the only thing left is the quiet hum of the fridge and the last few scraps Kareem keeps picking at.

You exhale, leaning against the counter, forcing yourself to feel normal.

Because everything’s fine.

Right?

You leave Kareem again as he puts away the last of the shopping in its right, labeled place, and you drift back up to Rafe’s room, standing at the door, listening to his steady breathing, forcing yourself to feel at ease.

But you’re not.

You’re not as you close the door. You’re not as you climb down the steps. You’re not as you stand in the driveway, calling Barry for the second time as you wave goodbye to Kareem.

You’re once again staring out into the street, pondering whether to walk or call someone else when you hear a familiar rumble. In the distance, in the surprisingly dim light of the suburbs, you glimpse the red and yellow paint job of Barry’s— actually Rafe’s— bike.

He pulls over slowly, coming to a stop on the asphalt right before you, wearing a jacket you’ve never seen before, and no shoes. 

– What’s up with you, Ghost Rider? Just come back from a rave or something? Whose clothes did you steal? – You’re chuckling to yourself, but your heart’s not in it, you’re still looking over your shoulder as you stand there, waiting for him to take off his helmet, for him to say something, do something. But he doesn’t. He stays there, hands clutching the handlebars, staring forward, without saying a word. – Bee? Jesus, what happened now? Are you okay?

You’re getting shifty. Something's wrong, you can feel it.

Your hand is shaking as you lay it on your best friend’s shoulder, silently pleading that he look at you, say something to you, just give you a sign that he’s alive. But he just turns away.

You hear a light scoff, the sound muddled under the heavy helmet.

– Barry, for fuck’s sakes, just say something, this ghostface act is freaking me out! – He laughs again, just as bitter. – Barry!

He flips the visor, looking back at you with nothing but scorn in his eyes. But these aren’t Barry’s eyes. These eyes are blue.

You step back, shaking more than you can hide. – Where—What— You keep mumbling, but the words don’t come out. You don’t even know what you want to say.

You want to run. You want to hide.

 But when you step away again, this person’s hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, and he wrings you closer, nails digging into your arms. – Get off of me. Get off— You want to scream, but it comes out as a whisper. You’re backing up, your voice hoarse in your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears, and then your eyes catch it.

Right under the collar of his shirt, just underneath the collarbone. The same letters that are engraved into your skin. The same words in the same place. 

He lets go of you, watching you stumble back so desperately you fall, seated, onto the grass, and only then does he take the helmet off. 

You see his hair before you see his face. The mess of blonde strands that spill out from under the cushioned helmet. But not the usual mess, the mess you’d expect from JJ, the mess he gets whenever he wears a helmet.

It’s a very specific chaos.  The sort he gets when he runs his hands through his hair so much he starts tearing it out.

– So it’s true, huh? – JJ’s voice is a blade, a blunt one, it beats you before it can cut. – When John B said it, I couldn’t believe it. I thought you’d never do that. You’d never be so fucking stupid.

– JJ—

– No. – He barely refrains from screaming it, looking away, his fingers clenched so tight around the plastic visor you see his knuckles pale. – You’re not gonna do this to me again! There’s nothing you can say to me right now. Nothing!

– Barry— Where— Your voice dies in your throat. You’re trembling. You don’t know why. You don’t know how, but you can’t stop it.

– Barry doesn’t fucking matter, get on the bike. – You try to swallow, you shake your head, but he doesn’t let you. He reaches forward, grabbing you by the arm again. – Get on the fucking bike right now!

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire

[reidsdimples]

Hi, love your work and i was thinking of a good story where it's "the reader and Spencer's wedding they are having a good time and Penelope wants to congratulate them but can't find them, she walks around and finally spots reader she is resting against the wall of a cleaning closet, they talk for a bit and she leaves, when Penelope leaves spencer comes from out of readers dress, and says that that was a close one"

Couldn’t Wait

18+❤️‍🔥MDNI‼️

My response to this lovely request 🥰

“You are insane! There has to be a hundred people out there!” You giggle at your new husband.

Spencer smiles at you, his cheeks staining red with pure adoration. He is overwhelmed by how gorgeous you look in your wedding dress. He wants nothing more than to rip it off of you and bury himself deep.

“It’ll be fine, no one is back here,” he shushes you and drops downs to his knees.

��Oh my god…” you look from side to side.

He had pulled you into a small closet with a curtain instead of a door. It was in the back hallway of the venue but you could still hear the music playing as the reception carried on.

“Spencer…” you warn. He nestles himself under your dress, and shoves you by your thighs against the wall. He spreads them wide and adjusts himself so his face is up against your cunt.

He is completely hidden under the massive gown of your white wedding dress but you can feel him. He starts kissing and nipping at your lace underwear. You want to smack him away but it feels so good when he presses his gorgeous face into your pussy.

He pulls your underwear to the side and sinfully dips his tongue between your folds for the first time as your husband.

“Oh…” you exhale at the warm welcoming feeling of his tongue. You wish you could run your hands through his hair but the dress is a barrier between you two.

It’s heady- not being able to see him but being able to feel him lap at your cunt like a man starved. You feel him humming and moaning into as his tongue swirls around your clit and he drags it back down into your entrance. Your entire body is on edge, alive, as he strokes you slowly.

His nails push into your soft thighs as he keeps your legs parted enough to keep tasting you. His head moves as he dives relentlessly into you and you start losing yourself in the sensation. The bass of the music beats in your chest and you throw your head back as you ride your grooms face.

“There you are!” Penelope appears in the doorway, slinging the flimsy curtain out of the way. “Why are you hiding in here?”

“I’m not hiding, just taking a moment,” you clear your throat and try to appear unfazed. Spencer has frozen between your legs.

“Where’s Spence?” She asks.

“Oh, I don’t know I thought he was with Ethan and Derek earlier,” you shrug.

“Well I just wanted to congratulate you personally…” she trails off when you startle in response to Spencer’s tongue on your clit again.

“T-thank you Penelope,” you huff a laugh. “It means the world to me that you’re here.”

You hope she doesn’t see your face turning red as your mans tongue teases you. You’re lucky Penelope isn’t a profiler. Emily or JJ would know what was going on immediately. You shift on your feet to try and get him to stop without being obvious.

“Are you okay?” She tilts her head.

“Yeah! I just get anxious at these things,” you lose your words for a moment when you feel his middle finger pushing at your entrance. “Social gatherings, I mean…”

“I understand. Especially because all the attention is essentially on you,” she smiles sincerely.

“And Spence,” you say his name as a half warning for him to hear because his entire middle finger is inside of you curling gently. You sputter out a cough to keep from moaning.

“Of course,” she beams. “I’ll see you back out there.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” you reassure her. When she’s out of view you drag the curtain shut.

“I will kill you. I just married you and I will kill you Spencer Reid. Do you understand me?” He laughs but then latches his mouth back onto you.

You’re sent back against the wall and resume riding his face as he sets a rhythm with his finger and tongue.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

“You taste so good Mrs. Reid,” he praises and he knows you’re getting close.

God this perfect man between your legs, licking and finger fucking you while he’s moaning like it pleasures him… it’s too much. Your legs go taught, stars explode in your vision and your orgasm crashes through you.

He pulls his finger out and pushes his mouth into your harder, greedily lapping at you to get everything you have to offer him. He takes extra time to clean you up with his tongue before replacing your underwear to their correct position.

“Well that was close,” he smiles mischievously up at you. He pops out from under your dress, with his messy hair, black tux, maroon tie, handsome as hell.

You wipe the edges of his face as he grins proudly. He kisses you hard, greedily as if you didn’t already know you were his.

“I love you,” he whispers and holds you close.

“I love you more,” you promise.

When you walk hand and hand back out the reception area, Derek and Penelope greet you first.

“So pretty boy, you just couldn’t wait for the honeymoon, huh?” Derek claps him on the shoulder. Spencer’s face to red but he follows Derek who has his arm around him.

“Oh my god,” you whisper yell in horror at Penelope for telling.

“I blab! I’m sorry. You guys are just so cute,” she stamps her heeled feet and hugs you.

“You know I love you anyway,” you laugh and hug her back.

She hands you a glass of champagne and clinks her to yours.

[goldfades]

Husband Joe burrow x wife reader blurb where Joe gets hurt at the game and she’s in the stands with their kids freaking out. Reader runs to locker room with kids and wait for hours awaiting news. Turns out to be a concussion and reader needs to take care of Joe.

so i just picked some random kids name but i hope yall like it anyway<3 this was a little quick blurb, if yall wanted me to go into detail lmk

the stadium feels alive in a way that almost makes your chest ache—electric lights cutting through the cold december night, the roar of the crowd washing over you in waves. jj’s got his little hands wrapped tight around your scarf, standing on the bench next to you, his cheeks flushed red from yelling. rosie’s curled into your side, clutching her stuffed tiger with all the fierce determination of a three-year-old who hasn’t quite learned to share her dad with the rest of the world.

and joe’s out there, as he always is, calm and unshaken in a sea of chaos. you watch him drop back, the ball slipping out of his hands like a whisper, and for a moment, it feels like time slows. you know the mechanics of it by heart now—the way his body turns, the way his head snaps up to track the pass.

except this time, something’s wrong.

you see it before anyone else does. before the crowd gasps, before the announcers scramble for words, before jj tugs at your sleeve and says, "mom, why isn’t daddy getting up?" your stomach drops, heavy and immediate, as joe stays on the turf, unmoving.

the medics rush out, and everything else—the noise, the lights, the game—it all fades to static. you’re hyper-aware of rosie, still tucked into you, and jj, now climbing off the bench to get a better view. you grab his arm, your voice sharp and shaking. "jj, stay here."

he looks up at you, wide-eyed. "is daddy okay?"

you don’t have an answer. you just know your legs are moving, somehow finding the stairs, the kids trailing after you like little shadows. the buzz of the crowd is deafening, but all you can hear is your pulse hammering in your ears, your breath coming short and uneven.

at some point, you find yourself at the tunnel, blocked by a security guard who’s trying his best to look apologetic. “ma’am, you can’t—”

“he’s my husband,” you cut him off, your voice shaking but firm, jj clinging to your side now, rosie tucked under your arm like a lifeline. “please, we need to see him.”

you don’t remember how you convince him, but the next thing you know, you’re in the hallway, the fluorescent lights glaring and cold, the echo of your kids’ sneakers on the floor making the silence feel heavier. no one’s telling you anything yet, and the minutes stretch into an eternity.

you drop to your knees, jj and rosie curling into you instinctively, and you press a kiss to the top of rosie's head like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. "it’s okay," you murmur, mostly for them, but maybe a little for yourself too. "he’s gonna be okay."

you don’t know that. but you have to say it anyway.

the doctor’s voice is steady, practiced—like he’s done this a hundred times before. “it’s a concussion,” he says, glancing up from his clipboard as if to gauge your reaction. "he’s stable, but we’ll need to monitor him closely for the next few days."

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, the tightness in your chest finally starting to ease. a concussion. it’s not nothing, but it’s not everything you were afraid of, either. jj, sitting on the bench in the corner with rosie asleep in his lap, looks up at you. "is daddy gonna be okay now?"

you nod quickly, forcing a small smile even though your hands are still trembling. "yeah, buddy. he’s gonna be okay."

they let you see him after a while. joe’s lying on the padded table in the back room, his eyes closed, a bandage on his temple where he must’ve hit the turf. he stirs as you walk in, his gaze flickering up to meet yours, and even though he’s clearly disoriented, he smiles—a tired, lopsided grin that tugs at your heart.

"hey," he says, voice scratchy and quiet. "you okay?"

you laugh softly, shaking your head. "you’re asking me that? you’re the one who scared the hell out of us, joe."

his eyes drift to jj, who’s standing just inside the doorway, clutching his stuffed football like a lifeline. "hey, champ," joe says, his voice softening. "come here."

jj hesitates, looking at you for permission before running to his dad. he climbs up onto the table, careful not to jostle joe too much, and presses his tiny hand against joe’s chest like he’s checking to make sure he’s really there. "you scared us," jj says, his voice small. "mom was crying."

joe winces, his hand reaching up to ruffle jj’s hair. "i’m sorry, pal. didn’t mean to scare you."

the next morning, the house is unusually quiet. you wake up early, the soft gray light of dawn filtering through the curtains. joe’s still in bed, propped up against a stack of pillows, his eyes closed but his breathing steady. you can’t help but pause for a moment in the doorway, taking in the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair sticks out in every direction.

in the kitchen, jj is already awake, perched on a stool with his coloring book. he looks up as you walk in, his face lighting up. "morning, mom! can i make daddy breakfast?"

you smile, ruffling his messy bedhead. "what did you have in mind?"

“toast and eggs. that’s his favorite, right?”

together, you guide jj through the process—cracking eggs (with minimal shell casualties), buttering toast, arranging everything on a tray. jj insists on carrying it himself, even though it’s almost too big for his small arms. when you reach the bedroom, he marches in proudly, setting the tray on the bedside table with a dramatic flourish.

joe’s eyes flutter open at the sound, and he smiles groggily when he sees jj. "what’s all this, huh?"

"breakfast," jj declares, climbing up onto the bed next to him. "to make you feel better. you gotta eat, daddy, so you can get strong again."

joe chuckles, his voice still a little hoarse. "thanks, bud. this looks perfect."

you watch as jj chatters away, explaining every step of the breakfast-making process in excruciating detail. joe listens, his focus entirely on his son, even though you can tell he’s still not feeling great. it’s a small moment, but it feels like a balm—like the heavy weight of last night is finally starting to lift.

you sit on the edge of the bed, watching the two of them with a quiet sort of gratitude. jj has this way of lighting joe up, of breaking through whatever walls he’s put up, and it never fails to amaze you.

"you’re a good little nurse," joe says, ruffling jj’s hair. "best one i’ve ever had."

jj beams, and you catch joe’s eyes over his head. there’s something unspoken in his gaze—a thank you, maybe, or just a reminder of how much he loves this messy, chaotic little family of yours.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[moonstruckme]

Hi 💜

I sent a request a while ago about Spencer x reader academic stress. It was absolutely perfect. Thank you so much 💗

I just read the james one about reader skipping meals (it was so sweet and lovely) and I tend to do that myself sometimes not eating anything between dinner one day to the next simply because i got busy with classes and forgot until i get a migrane or get a bit dizzy. So, I was wondering if you could do a similar prompt with Spencer and reader being busy all day with work or classes or whatever and simply forgetting to eat until a migrane / dizzy spell occurs and he finds out.

I just feel like he'd be so kind and give facts about importance of not skipping meals for brain function, while coddling, feeding and spoiling reader, maybe cooking or handfeeding too I don't know whatever works for you. Thank you 💕🌸

Sorry if i wrote too much😅

Thank you for requesting lovely (and no sorries necessary) <3

cw: mention of skipping meals, dizziness/nausea

Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Spencer finds you sitting down in the stairwell. You recognize him by the sound of his footsteps, lighter than Morgan’s but less clicky than JJ’s heels. Neither of you typically use the stairs, so you can only imagine that he’s come looking for you. 

“Hi,” you say to let him know you’re alive inside the tiny cavern you’ve made of your own body. You’re bent over to rest your forehead on your knees, one hand on each of your temples as you breathe slowly to steady yourself. Overall, it’s a pretty dramatic pose. And you’re definitely getting the butt of your slacks dirty on these stairs. 

Spencer’s footsteps pass you, and for half a second you think he really is just using the stairs. He stops a few steps below you. You can feel him scrutinizing the top of your head. 

“Are you okay?” he asks in that soft, careful voice of his. “You just disappeared.” 

You had sort of fled the scene. You still feel too new to the team to feel fully comfortable, and with Strauss here for the case everyone is on their best behavior, so when you’d all been walking in the hallway and a dizzy spell had nearly collapsed you into the wall, you’d dropped back from the group and stepped into the first door you saw rather than risk bringing attention to yourself. 

“I’m fine,” you say through an exhale, lifting your head from your knees. “Sorry, I just got dizzy and didn’t want to cause problems.” 

Spencer’s eyebrows bunch. He lowers into a crouch in front of you, looking up into your face. “Dizzy—do you know what caused it? Is this something that happens often?” He bypasses your rudeness in abandoning the team immediately, and the questions come almost too fast for your addled brain to keep up with. You think you need protein. Or carbs, or something. 

“Yeah—I mean no, it doesn’t happen all the time,” you say. “I just forgot to eat lunch.” 

The notch between Spencer’s brows digs in and he brushes a piece of hair behind his ear. “What happened?” 

You shrug, embarrassed. “I packed a lunch so I wouldn’t have to take a break, and then I just forgot about it. I’ve been…” you glance up at Spencer, but his eyes are too safe and open to even contemplate deceiving. “I haven’t been keeping up with my work like I should. I didn’t want to take a break, and I didn’t even remember my lunch until now.” 

“It’s on your desk?” he asks. 

You blink. “My work?”

“Your lunch.” 

“Yeah,” you say. It comes out curved like a question. 

“Okay.” He straightens, lithe limbs extending until you’re craning your neck to look up at him. “Wait here.” 

You turn, starting to protest, but Spencer sets a pacifying hand on your head as he passes. Objections acknowledged, but ignored. Following him is out of the question; just pivoting sitting down had sent your head swimming again.��

The door bangs shut after him, and a minute later he returns with your sad paper bag and a bottle of gatorade. 

“I saw you have water in here,” he says, sitting back in his place a couple steps below you, “but I thought electrolytes might help more.” He twists the cap off and hands it to you. Rather than passing you your lunch bag, he sets it in his own lap to dig through the contents. “You want your sandwich first?” 

You lower the gatorade from your mouth, wiping self-consciously under your lower lip. “Yes, please,” you say, and Spencer hands it to you. You set the gatorade down beside you. “Do we keep these in the fridge?” 

“Morgan does.” You must look as horrified as you feel, because Spencer goes on quickly, “He won’t even notice it’s gone. He likes the blue ones the least anyway.” 

You nod hesitantly, raising the bottle to your lips for another sip. “I’ll get him a replacement in case.” 

His smile is understanding, and you’re reminded that before you, Spencer was the youngest on the team. You imagine he knows how it feels to be constantly wary of getting on someone’s bad side. 

“You really don’t have to,” he says anyway. 

You take a bite of your sandwich, shrugging. “Thanks a lot for this, but you don’t have to stay here with me. Won’t we get in some kind of trouble?” 

“I think we’ll be okay here for a little while,” Spencer says. “Actually, I don’t think most people on the team even know where this door goes. None of us ever use the stairs. And they might not have noticed we’re gone yet.” 

You give him a deadpan look. “They’ll notice you’re gone.” 

He shrugs. It’s not a denial. “I don’t mind waiting with you.” 

It means more to you than it reasonably should. “Thanks,” you say quietly, and take another bite of your sandwich as an excuse to look away. 

You haven’t even polished it off yet, and Spencer’s already dipping into your bag for more. He takes the cap of a container of grapes. 

“Here, have some of these.” He holds it out, and you shove the last bite of sandwich into your mouth to take it from him. “You probably need some vitamin C,” he muses. His eyes fall to the nearly full bottle at your side. “Don’t forget to drink.” 

You almost grin, covering your full mouth with a hand as you speak. “I can’t actually do all this at once.” 

“Oh, sorry.” He looks abashed. “Take your time.” You do, swallowing before lowering your hand to give him a small smile. It’s returned. “You know, skipping meals is actually pretty dangerous.” 

Your smile fades, but Spencer holds your gaze. His eyes are gentle. 

“I know you just forgot, but low blood sugar impedes brain function. We need to be able to think clearly and quickly to do our job. So, being nourished is really important to that.” 

You nod, chastised. He taps the container of grapes, and you pop one into your mouth. 

“Are you going to tell Hotch?” you ask him quietly. 

Spencer blinks, brows twitching together. “No,” he says. “It’s not really that big of a deal, and anyway I think Hotch would just tell you the same thing. I just think it’s important for you to know.” 

You rub your lips together, bobbing your head again. “Okay, thanks.” You look at him seriously, dropping your voice into a terrible imitation of Hotch’s deep timbre. “I won’t let it happen again.” 

Spencer grins, surprised by you, and you mirror him. You’re a bit surprised by yourself too. 

“Are you feeling any better?” he asks. 

You nod automatically, not taking even the barest inventory yourself to see whether that might be true, but Spencer can obviously tell. His brown eyes search yours, scientifically probing, like they might tell him something you won’t. You’re well aware that Spencer’s a certifiable genius, and yet you’re still learning not to underestimate him. 

“We can probably go back now,” you tell him. 

His stare holds yours a minute longer. You feel pleasurably crushed under the weight of his attention. 

After a few seconds, Spencer’s expression settles into decision. “Let’s sit here for a minute,” he says. “You should finish your food. You’re owed a lunch hour anyway, no one’s ever stipulated when or where you have to take it.” 

You crack a smile. “What about you?” 

“I’m staying with you,” he says matter-of-factly. Like it’s the only option even worth considering. “I don’t want to leave you here by yourself, and it’s probably best if I take the gatorade bottle back up with us. If Morgan sees, it’ll be easier for me to take credit if I’m holding it.”

[love-at-first-sight-23]

Nonsense Part 2 🌼✨

JJ Maybank x Fem!reader

Warnings: All smut, praise kink, fluff, dirty talk, mentions of masturbation, 18+

Plot: Continuation of part 1 here, you’re finally living out the scene you’ve always wanted with JJ…

“How quickly can you take your clothes off? Pop quiz”

Based on Nonsense by Sabrina Carpenter

“Hey… Don’t worry… I’ve got you.” JJ murmured as he gripped your waist, pummeling into you steadily.

“J— JJ—“ you gasped, whining and gripping at the bedsheets. You glanced at the closed door of the spare room, which you and JJ had stolen away into. You desperately hoped no one would find you here. Your mind was too foggy to think of the consequences.

JJ grabbed your chin between his thumb and forefinger so that you were facing him. “Keep your eyes on me, perfect.” You held his gaze, focused on his deep blue eyes, which were filled with affection for you as well as unrelenting lust.

All your life, you had dreamed of being with JJ Maybank. You had watched him from afar, only inching closer to him through conversations and mutual smiles. Now you were here on this bed, his cock thrusting in and out of you perfectly as tears streamed down your face and moans of his name came from your mouth.

You gripped the muscles of his exposed back, your hair tangled in a ruined state. “F— faster,” you gasped.

“Anything for you, baby. Fuck,” JJ gritted his teeth as he pumped more quickly, feeling your walls pulsating around his length. He had seen this before in his dreams, your pretty face flushed and your back arching beneath him, watching your eyes roll. How had he gotten here?

Your pussy spasmed full of his dick, bringing you closer to your orgasm. Shutters of pleasure traveled through your body. If you could stay in this moment forever, you would. Tangled up with the man you loved, all thoughts lost out the window.

“You know, I’ve wanted this for so long, princess,” JJ murmured to you. He threw his head back at the ecstasy coursing through his veins.

You blinked up at him. “R— really?” You thought you were the only one who held feelings for him in the beginning, who would envision just how good his skin, his hands, his body would feel.

“Really. Not a night gone by when I wasn’t thinkin’ of this very scene,” his voice was low, like a purr.

“Oh? And what exactly were you doing, on those nights?” Your voice picked up a tone of mischief, the corners of your mouth twitching up into a smirk even as sweat dripped down your neck.

JJ leaned closer, his hands wrapping around your shoulders. “I would jack off at the thought of you, pumpin’ my dick,” he said hoarsely. “Coming in my room, imagining it was for you, where no one could hear me.”

You groaned, your nails driving deeper into his back, driven crazy at the image of JJ getting off because of you. You arrived at your orgasm, your liquids spilling out of you and onto the blankets below. You had never felt so heavenly and alive at the same time.

JJ came as soon as you did, his hot seed decorating your front and your face. He placed a kiss on your lips, which were swollen and pink from his previous kisses. His breathing was ragged, and scratches ran down his back from your fingers. But he didn’t care. He liked the fact that he was marked by you, and would likely wear his shirt off the next day to show them off to his friends.

A few minutes later, you were lying on top of each other on the bed. “You were s’good for me,” he praised you, tucking your hair behind your ear.

You smiled in response, but you were still panting. You looked perfect to JJ. Your mussed hair looked angelic, and your naked body smeared with his cum was a picture he wanted to hang on his wall.

He gently helped you to redress, sliding your bra over your arms and re-clipping it with precision. Being the courteous boy he was, he walked you home, where he kissed you fervently at your front door. “Want to meet up again tomorrow?” He asked you, casually like he hadn’t just spent the night buried inside you.

“Why not,” you answered with a smile, your past shyness forgotten. Of course you would see each other again the next day. And the next day, and the next. You belonged to each other now. And you weren’t getting away from each other anytime soon. 

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[llamaqueenprompt]

Not Today

Characters: JJ Maybank, Reader

Not Requested

Word Count: 0.8k

Inspiration: “You’re not dying on me. Not today.”

Spoilers for season 4 finale

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One second JJ was standing in front of her, the next he was falling backwards holding his side.

It happened so fast.

One blink, one breath, and JJ was no longer on his feet, but on the ground, gasping and crumpling into the rocks with a soft, broken groan.

Y/n’s scream cut through the air like a blade. “JJ!”

She ran the short distance to him, dropping to her knees so hard ir hurt. But she didn’t care. Her fingers flew to his side before she could think, already soaked with warmth. Blood.

No, no, no, no.

His face was twisted in pain, lips parted, eyes bazed. “Hey, babe…” he murmured, almost casual. “It’s not that bad…”

“You’re bleeding, JJ!” she cried, pressing both hands over the wound, ignoring how slick and sticky everything already felt. Her voice cracked. “You’re… Oh my god, JJ, look at me.”

He blinked up at her, like he was trying to focus, like her face was the only thing keeping him anchored. “You’re here.”

“Of course I’m here.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, broken and frantic. She ripped off part of her shirt and pressed it against his wound. “You think I’d leave you? You idiot.”

He smiled, a weak, crooked thing. “That’s why I love you.”

Tears tung her eyes. “Don’t say that like it’s a goodbye.”

JJ grimaced, trying to breathe, trying to stay with her. For her. “Not saying goodbye. Just… in case I pass out.. Wanted to make sure you knew.

“I do know,” she whispered, her forehead pressing against his as she held the makeshift bandage tighter to his side. “I’ve always known. And you’re not dying on me. Not today. Not ever.”

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

He trusted her like that. So completely. It made her heart hurt in a way that had nothing to do with dear and everything to do with how much she loved him.

And just when it all felt too much, the panic, the pain, the weight of what she could lose, Pope’s voice broke through the rocks.

“Y/n? JJ?”

She screamed their names back, relief hitting her like a wave. “Over here! He’s hurt!”

Seconds later, the other appeared, their faces exhausted, and Y/n let them take over only when she was sure JJ was breathing. His hand remained wrapped in hers, none of them letting go.

Later that night

The room smelled faintly of ocean dalt and antiseptic. The onld twin bead creaked under JJ’s weight, and he looked more like himself again, color back in his cheeks, blue eyes a little less glassy. Still banged up, still bandagded, but alive.

Y/n sat cross-legged next to him, one his hands holding her waist, while hers playing with her hoodie.

“You’re hovering,” he said with a lazy smile.

“I almost lost you,” she replied simply.

His smile softened. “But you didn’t.”

“No. Because you’re a stubborn pain in the ass.”

JJ chuckled. “Takes one to know one.”

They sat in silence for a moment, just the soft rhythm of the fan spinning above them and the occasional creak of the floorboards from the others moving around downstairs.

Then, JJ tugged lightly at her hand. “Come here.”

Y/n didn’t need to be asked twice. She climbed into the bed, careful of his injury, and curled up beside him. His arm wrapped protectively around her, despite the pain he was clearly still in.

“You scared me so bad,” she whispered into his chest, her fingers brushing along the hem of the gauze. “I didn’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

JJ kissed the top of her head. “I’m not going anywhere, babe. Not now. Not when I finally have something that’s good.”

“You have everything now,” she murmured. “You have me. Forever, if you want me.”

He tilted her chin up, eyes warm and soft and so unlike the reckless daredevil the rest of the world knew. “I’ve always wanted you.”

“JJ,” she caressed his cheek. “We need to talk about tonight. About Gerard…”

“I know, but not now. Now I need to love my girlfriend.” he kissed the tip of her nose before moving to her lips.

Their kiss was gentle, slow, just lips barely brushing, but it said more than any dramatic speech ever could. It was a promise. A quiet, desperate kind of love that clung on even in the middle of chaos.

When they pulled apart, JJ grinned. “So, does this mean I can milk this stab wound for at least a week of cuddles?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, cheeks flushed. “You can milk it for exactly one week. Then I start teasing you again.”

He laughed, winced, and held her tighter. “Deal.”

And for the first time in what felt like hours, she felt her heart settle.

He was okay. He was here.

And so was she.

Together. Always.

[imsojules]

After the tide turns – Part 1

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: Outbreak violence so, blood, death, swearing, military control, inspired by the last of us, established relationship, english is not my first language!

a/n: Here we go!! 🚨

Comments always make my day! 🖤

word count: 2.8k

The apartment is quiet.

The clock on the microwave blinks 1:42 AM in ghostly blue digits. It’s the only light in the room besides the soft flicker of the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. The apartment smells faintly like the candle you lit earlier, cheap vanilla, burnt halfway down and the leftover takeout JJ promised to throw away when he got back.

Somewhere outside, waves slap against the docks. A fan spins in the ceiling above you, clicking on every third turn like a broken clock. The TV’s gone dark, stuck on the menu screen of some half-watched show. You’re curled up sideways on the couch, one arm underneath your cheek, the other still loosely holding your phone.

It’s late. JJ should’ve been home hours ago. Always running into something dumb that turns into a story later. Something feels off all week, ever since the weird news starts leaking in from the mainland—food recalls, strange medical emergencies, radio silence from certain cities. Rumors on social media about tainted crops. You haven’t paid much attention, honestly.

But you must doze off waiting, because when your eyes snap open again, it’s not to JJ’s voice or the sound of the door.

Your phone comes to life with a faint buzz. A name flashes across the screen, it’s your mom.

You swipe to answer, breath catching.

“Mom? Hello?”

But there’s only static.

You press the phone harder to your ear, like that’ll force a connection through the storm of crackles.

“Mom, I can’t hear you—”

A faint breath. Maybe a syllable. Then nothing. The line drops. The screen reads Call Failed. You stare at it like maybe the phone will change its mind.

It doesn’t. You try calling back, but the screen blinks No Service. One bar flickers and vanishes.

You reach for the remote with a shaking hand. The screen comes alive with a quiet click, casting pale light across the room. You flip through the channels until one freezes— news. Not some talking head in New York or DC. This is close. Too close.

The anchorwoman sits stiffly at her desk, hair slightly out of place, makeup cracked under sweat. Her hands grip the table just out of frame, knuckles white. The studio behind her is dimmer than usual, and there's a buzzing hum in the background, like something’s malfunctioning. Her voice wavers, but she keeps reading.

“...the number of confirmed deaths has surpassed two hundred tonight. The Governor has declared a state of emergency across Dare, Hyde, and surrounding counties…”

She glances to the side—someone off-camera is clearly waving her along—but her voice catches in her throat.

The screen jolts, flickers once, then cuts to a shaky phone video. Someone’s filming from the sidewalk, and everything’s chaos. Emergency lights blur across the frame. A building burns behind the man speaking, his face sweaty, frantic, splashed with ash.

“They didn’t warn us,” he shouts into the lens. “There were hundreds. I swear to God hundreds of bodies just lying there. Like trash. Lined up on the sidewalks. Some of them were still moving. They just left them there.”

It cuts back to the anchor. She’s visibly shaken now, no longer trying to hide it. She swallows hard, eyes flicking to the teleprompter, voice barely above a whisper.

“North Carolina is the next state placed under federal martial law. All residents are required to report to their designated quarantine zones...”

She stops mid sentence. A crash echoes from offscreen. Something metallic falling. Then shouting.

Her head jerks toward the sound.

The studio lights flicker violently. The broadcast stutters, audio warping, and the screen cuts to black.

No more voices. Just dead air.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You start to move fast.

You throw on the hoodie JJ left on the counter, rip open the drawer for your charger, then yank open another and grab the biggest kitchen knife you own. You don’t stop to think, just stuff it into your backpack beside a water bottle and a flashlight.

The doorknob feels ice cold in your hand as you twist it.

— 

Outside, the island feels wrong.

The air is too still, too heavy, no wind through the trees. Not a single cicada hums.

Only silence.

Then far off a siren wails, long and piercing. Another joins it. Somewhere to the east, a car alarm hiccups into life, screeching until it cuts off like it was silenced. A few blocks down, tires screech. You hear something crash. Then a scream. Sharp, raw, human. The kind that cuts through bone.

The streetlights flicker above your head, stuttering like a dying heartbeat.

You step out slowly, kitchen knife clenched in your fist, your pulse thudding in your ears.

A shadow breaks across the end of the street.

“HEY!”

You spin, heart in your throat.

JJ barrels toward you at a dead sprint. Sweat beads down his temple, his blond curls stuck to his forehead, his chest heaving like he hasn’t stopped running in blocks. His T-shirt is ripped, shoulder bloodied, and there’s a bat strapped to his back.

"You're okay?" you ask loudly.

“Shit, Y/N,” he breathes, skidding to a stop in front of you. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“My mom called,” you say, breath catching. “They said they’re locking everything down—“

“I know. I know,” he says, already grabbing your arm, scanning the street behind you like something might crawl out of it. “They’re saying it’s a pandemic, but it’s way worse than that.”

“Worse how?”

“I don’t know. People are... sick. And violent. I saw one of the yacht guys bit someone at the marina. Didn’t stop.”

You stare at him.

“Bit them?”

“Yeah,” he says, low. “Didn’t stop until someone cracked his skull open.”

You try to process it, but it doesn’t stick. It doesn’t feel real.

“John B’s got a truck running—don’t ask. We’re getting off this island before they shut it down.”

You’re still frozen, knife in hand, mind racing to catch up. You feel sick.

JJ sees it in your face, the fear, the stall. He steps in close, cups your face in both hands like it’s the only thing that matters. “Hey. Look at me.”

His voice remains steady, but there's a fire beneath it, a sharp edge.

“We need to move. Now.” He laces his fingers with yours and pulls you forward. “It’s down by the marina,” JJ says under his breath, eyes cutting side to side. “John B said he ditched it behind the bait shack.”

The two of you move fast and low, ducking between hedges and shadows. The island feels like it’s holding its breath. You pass a front yard where someone’s porch light is still on, swinging gently in the breeze. The door’s wide open. Inside, it’s too quiet.

You keep going.

You’re half a block from the marina when you hear it. A wet, gurgling moan.

JJ freezes. Holds a hand out to stop you.

“Shhh...”

You strain to listen. Then you see it, stumbling into the middle of the road.

It used to be someone’s dad. He’s wearing cargo shorts, a fishing shirt, and one sandal. His face is slack, twitching. Mouth twitching like he’s trying to form words but only guttural clicks spill out. His neck is twisted too far to one side.

“What the hell...” you whisper.

“No fucking way” JJ mutters.

The man jerks his head at the sound. And then he runs.

Not stumbles… runs. Straight at you.

JJ reacts first.

“Back!”

He shoves you behind him and rips the bat off his back. The monster slams into him full force, and they crash onto the pavement. JJ rolls with him, shoving the handle of the bat between them as the man snaps his teeth inches from JJ’s face.

You don’t think. Instinct takes the wheel.

You surge forward, knife gripped so tight it carves into your palm. The blade sinks into the infected man's side, deep and fast but he doesn’t even blink. No scream. No hesitation. Just a low, sickening grunt as he whips around toward you, jaw unhinged.

“The head!” JJ yells, voice cracked with urgency.

Your hands shake as you yank the blade free. You aim higher.

You shove the knife straight into his throat and feel it grind against something solid. He gurgles, still moving. You rip it out and slam it forward again, this time just under his chin, until the resistance gives and he drops like a sack of wet meat.

It’s over.

But the silence afterward is louder than the fight.

Your chest heaves. Your arms are trembling, coated in blood, some of it yours, most of it not. The knife clatters to the pavement, slick and red.

JJ pushes himself up from the ground, sweat pouring off him, chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon. His shirt’s soaked, splattered with dark streaks.

“You okay?” he asks, voice raw, eyes locked on yours.

“Are you?”

JJ drags in a breath, shoulders tight, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything at once.

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice cracks around it. “I’m fine. Fucking hell...”

He grabs your hand, not waiting for you to find your balance. He hooks his arm behind your head and buries your face into his neck, the sound he makes is like a half-groan, half-sigh, torn from something deeper than relief.

“Don’t stop now.” he mutters.

And you run again, blood on your hands, shadows at your heels. JJ doesn’t let go of your hand as you cut through backyards and over fences, dodging overturned trash bins and shattered glass.

You spot the truck before you see them. The engine growls low as it idles by the curb, headlights off. A shape leans out the passenger side window and waves both arms.

“There!” JJ yells, tugging you forward.

You sprint the last block, lungs on fire, your shoes slamming the pavement with each step. Pope jumps out and yanks the door open before you even reach them.

“Where the hell have you been?” he shouts. “We heard screaming, I thought you were dead!”

“We almost were,” JJ snaps, climbing in behind you. “One of those things came at us.”

John B leans forward over the steering wheel, face grim under the red dashboard lights. “We’re out of time. They’re shutting everything down. Bridge is already crawling with military trucks.”

You slam the door just as the engine revs.

The tires screech. John B jerks the wheel, pulling away from the curb so hard you feel your body lurch sideways. He doesn’t slow down. The street blurs past—yards, fences, blown-out porch lights. You see fires in the distance, smoke bleeding into the sky.

“Is it true?” Pope asks from the front seat. “That it’s everywhere?”

“Yeah,” JJ says. “It’s not just the island. They’ve got martial law orders all over. We have to make it off before they barricade everything.”

John B kept the truck low and fast, weaving between abandoned cars, fences, and bodies. Real ones. Not just the infected.

“Where’s that quarantine zone?” Pope finally asked, breaking the silence. His voice cracked. “The emergency one they’re setting up. It’s even real?”

JJ answered before John B could.

“It’s real. I heard guys at the marina talking about it. FEMA and FEDRA are setting up temporary holding zones like processing centers before they move people to the inland.”

“Where?” you asked.

JJ glanced at you, eyes dark in the dim light. “Mainland. By the old ferry terminal.”

You sat back, feeling the hum of the tires beneath you. Processing centers. Like livestock.

When you arrive at the bridge, it’s loomed ahead lined with military vehicles, barricades, men with rifles and stiff jaws.

John B slowed as he pulled onto the shoulder behind a row of silent, idle cars. A single checkpoint light flickered weakly in the dark, casting shadows against chain-link fences. A soldier stepped out. He raised one hand.

“Stop the vehicle! Keep your hands visible!”

John B’s fingers tightened around the wheel. “Everybody, don’t move.”

Another soldier moved along the side of the truck, rifle aimed low but ready.

“What’s your status?” the man barked.

JJ muttered under his breath, “What the hell does that even mean?”

Pope answered fast, “We’re healthy. No bites. We’re just trying to get out.”

The soldier’s light cut across JJ’s face. “ID?”

“We’re local,” John B said, and that clearly wasn’t the right answer. The soldier turned his head, muttering something into a radio clipped to his vest.

JJ shifted. You reached across and grabbed his wrist under the bat.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

“Step out of the vehicle. One at a time. Hands up.”

You all moved, slowly, carefully. JJ was the last to exit. The four of you stood in the orange glow of floodlights as the soldier swept a scanner over each of your arms. A cold beep followed each one.

“Looks clear” the man muttered.

But he didn’t lower his weapon. A second soldier approached with a clipboard. “Group of four, unregistered. No assigned housing, no prior QZ status. They go into temporary hold.”

“Where?” Pope asked.

The man didn’t answer. He just motioned toward a fenced-off zone across the bridge. You could see other groups there huddled, cold, some with children, others coughing into their sleeves. Canvas tents stood crooked under floodlights. Men in hazmat suits moved like ghosts between them.

JJ stared, jaw clenched. “You said this was just a checkpoint.”

“This is the checkpoint,” the soldier replied. “That’s where you wait.”

He shoved open the gate.

— 

The temporary quarantine zone smells like sweat, bleach, and dirt. It’s sterile, metallic. Like biting a battery.

Canvas walls flap weakly in the wind, barely held by aluminum rods hammered into cracked pavement. The floodlights above burn too bright, bleaching everything in cold white. The kind of light that makes shadows too sharp and the air too thin.

A steady line of people winds toward a folding table where two soldiers stand beside a man in scrubs holding a clipboard. The stench of antiseptic clings to everything. You feel exposed. Like the light’s stripping you down, inch by inch, peeling the skin off everyone. Every breath feels too loud. Too desperate.

The line crawls forward. The murmurs around you are like a low hum, a desperate need to be anywhere but here. Sniffling kids, a father hissing at his son to sit still, a woman rocking back and forth, whispering prayers to no one. Someone coughs behind you, a wet, raw sound that causes everyone to stiffen, but no one dares to turn around.

You don’t remember when your legs started shaking. It’s like your body knew before your brain did.

This place isn’t for keeping people safe. It’s for sorting them. And you’re not sure what category you belong to.

The hum of the floodlights burrows into your skull. It’s not just a sound anymore, it’s a thought like a high-pitched idea that echoes through your teeth.

Obey. Obey. Obey.

The line shifts again, and Pope is gone. No time for goodbyes, just a sharp glance, a silent command “stay sane” but it’s hard to imagine that’s even possible. Then John B follows.

And then it’s just you and JJ. The silence between you two feels heavier, thicker. Like the air’s curdled around you, pressing down.

JJ’s breathing is too fast. You feel it before you hear it—the twitch of his hand at his side, the nervous tapping of his foot against the cracked pavement, like a countdown to something he dreads but can't stop. He glances around like he wants to bolt, but doesn’t know where to run or how to start. He looks at you, his mouth a tight line, and you feel the weight of the moment hanging in the air while he fidgets, his hand jerking toward his pocket before he stops himself.

The soldiers close in. The one who steps toward you is nothing but cold eyes and rubber gloves, moving with a precision that feels practiced. The soldier who points to you might as well be death itself.

Her voice is soft. Too soft. “You. Next.”

JJ’s hand shoots out before you even realize it, gripping your arm like he’s already losing you. His voice raw and desperate. “Just a second—”

They move toward him, and it’s like the world shifts. His grip tightens around your arm, but it’s not enough to keep you grounded. His face is strained, his eyes wild with something you can’t name, but the words die in his throat before he can say anything more.

And then they drag him away.

You don’t have time to say anything. There’s no chance to reach for him, to stop them. They take him, just like that, like it’s nothing more than routine and all that’s left is the cold light and the echo of his name still hanging in the air.

You feel like you can't move. The soldier’s eyes are cold, uninterested. She’s already moving you forward.

You can still feel JJ’s grip. Like a phantom pulse in your skin.

[gh0stsp1d3r]

ℳ𝒶𝓎𝒷𝒶𝓃𝓀𝓈 𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇- PT.2 C.4-forget her

Taglist: @cassie0sstuff @rafesgiirl @fals3-g0d @tiaamberxx @callsignwidow

Previous part, Series masterlist

The silence was awkward, the tension between the two of you obvious. Kiara couldn’t wait to get off this damn truck.

Once the truck stopped at its destination, the three of you all hopped out. You looked around.

“Come on. My boats down here.” He said, you and Kiara followed him down to the dock.

“Make sure your shoes are off.” He said when he jumped in.

You and Kiara were still on the dock, hesitant.

“Okay, we should have enough juice to get us to Saint Lucia, no problem.”

“Hey, get in the boat.” He grunted out to Kiara and you, looking at you now.

“You’re not gonna pull anything if we get in?” You asked him, your arms crossed.

“No, I’m not gonna pull anything, okay? I’m trying to do you guys a solid here. You really wanna be back there with Singh or do you wanna be somewhere safe?”

Neither of you answered.

“Now can one of you please help me with the bowline?” He asked her.

You followed her into the boat, and you went over to the bowline. You began to undo the knot when Kiara tapped your shoulder.

“Let me do it.” Kiara whispered, glancing at Rafe and back to you.

“What? Okay…” you shrugged, ignoring it for now. You stood behind her as she went over.

“I can’t get it!” She yelled.

“What?” He asked, looking at her now.

“I need some help!”

“Goddamn, do I have to do everything?” He hopped down, over to the cleat

When he undid it, you didn’t see Kiara behind you now, she ran into you, pushing you off instead of Rafe.

Rafe looked at her, confused. Before he even had a chance, she was pushing him off as well.

You and Rafe fell down into the water, gasping for air. She shouted your name.

“Go, Kie! Go!” You motioned, the water splashing as your hands hit it.

“I’m sorry, y/n!”

“Kie! Hey! Kie, where are you going?” Rafe shouted.

“I’ve gotta help my friends!” She shouted back, driving the boat away from the two of you as Rafe shouted at her.

After his tantrum, you swam to the dock, your once white shirt now see through.

“Oh. My. God.” You grumbled, looking down at yourself, putting your arms over your chest.

Could this day seriously get any worse?

Rafe swam soon after, his fist clenched and his head pounding.

He looked you up and down, before walking away. You followed behind.

—————-

“Wait, where’s my sister?” Jj asked Kiara when he pulled away.

She grimaced, her face falling.

“Kie. Where is she?” His smile was gone now, his confusion and anxiety replacing it.

“I… we ran into Rafe. I didn’t trust him, but she was in my way… she’s alive. But…” Kiara admitted, looking shamefully at the ground.

“You mean she’s with that fucking psychopath right now?”

“I wanted to go back to her, Jj, I would have but… she told me to go.”

“We’re not leaving this island until we find her.”

—————

“This is exactly why I always fuckin’ say never trust them.” He mumbled mostly to himself.

“She doesn’t trust you, obviously.” You told him. Your arms were crossed over your body, trying to shield it.

“After I helped you both escape?”

“I can barely trust you.”

“Seriously? Are you still mad about-“

“Don’t even, Rafe.” You warned.

“I apologized, I’m sorry, I don’t know what else you want me to do!” He exclaimed.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m an asshole? I was gonna save your ass until she pushed us off-“

“I can’t believe I’m stuck with you again.” You told him, a small frown on your face as you walked off the dock.

He rolled his eyes at your complaining, turning to you suddenly and putting his hands on your shoulders, his eyes boring into yours. “I’m sorry. Okay? Now could you please, just bear with me for a second?”

“No.”

“I’m being serious, y/n. I’m your only hope at getting back to Kildare.” He pointed to himself, taking one hand off of you.

“I have a plan but you have to listen to me.” He continued. You sighed.

“Fine. But as soon as we get back-“

“You’ll never have to talk to me again.” He said. But the thought of it had him reeling. He would make you fall in love with him again, no matter what it would cost.

He took his hands off your shoulders. Looking behind you, he noticed a man staring at your wet shirt, your bra visible under it.

“You got a staring problem?” Rafe barked at him quickly, you turning around to the man now as well. The man quickly turned around, and Rafe shook his head.

“C’mon.” He told you. He ended up buying, or rather stealing a jacket for you, putting it over the cold, wet shirt you had on.

You both walked in silence through the island, Rafes hands shoved into his pockets.

He looked at a man, stopping in his tracks. You furrowed your eyebrows and Rafe just gave you that ‘trust me’ look.

“Hey, man.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry. Sorry to bother you. Um.. I have the perfect gift for your wife. It’s like a great price too.”

“Yeah?”

“So this, all through here is where all the tourists shop, but the real deal is like right back here.” He pointed to an alleyway, you quickly catching onto his idea.

“It’s a great local spot.” You chimed into the conversation, a small sweet smile on your face as you looked at the man.

“I don’t know..” he hesitated.

“Just trying to help you out.” Just real quick, you wanna..?”

“Okay.” He agreed, you followed him.

“It’s got like some of the best custom jewelry on the island. It’s incredible.” Rafe told the man, leading him to the alley.

“Uh, just right back here.” You followed them.

You held the man back, putting him in a chokehold against the wall.

“Do we have to?” You asked Rafe, looking at the petrified man and back at Rafe.

“It’s not that hard.” Rafe groaned, punching the man in the face, knocking him out. He cracked his knuckles, watching you set the man gently onto the ground.

Rafe grabbed his hat, and you dug into his pockets, grabbing his wallet.

“So sorry, so sorry.” You mumbled as if he could hear, walking away from the body.

“Where are we going now?” You asked Rafe.

He nodded to a boat in the distance.

“All right, all aboard to Guadeloupe.”

“How you doing, boss?” Rafe asked, you following behind.

“Good. How are you?”

“Living the dream. You got some sun since you took this photo, man.”

You handed the man your fake id, it checked out.

“Enjoy Guadeloupe.” He told the both of you. You gave the man a smile and walked next to Rafe.

“What the hell are we gonna do in Guadeloupe?”

——

“Fuck no, Rafe! He- he-“ you pointed to the man sitting outside.

“I know, I know what happened, but you gotta listen. This is the only place we have to go right now, and- and I can’t have either of you freaking out on each other- ‘aight?”

“I’m out of here, Rafe. I’m done with this shit.” You told him, turning around but he grabbed your wrist.

“You have nowhere to go. Please. It will only be for a little, then I can find you a way back to the outer banks.”

You groaned, looking at the man outside and back at Rafe.

“Fine. But is there like a phone I can borrow, because-“

“I’ll get you a phone. Just please, stay here for a little.”

Rafe went outside to Ward, Ward nodded over to you, standing inside, running a hand over your face.

“What’s she doing here?”

“Long story. I just- she has no where to go and-“

“Do you trust her?” Ward asked him suddenly.

Rafe furrowed his eyebrows.

“Do you trust her?”

“I- I don’t know- I-“

“Do you or do you not, Rafe?”

“I.. I do. She’s not gonna do anything, she has nowhere else to stay and it’s too dangerous here for her to. Please. Just let her stay.”

Ward sighed. “She can stay, but the second I see her try anything-“

“She won’t.”

They talked for a while, Rafe sitting down next to him.

“Theres something I need you to do for me right now, okay?”

“Name it.”

“I need you to go back to the Outer Banks. Kildare.”

“Why?” Rafe asked, swallowing a lump in his throat.

“There’s nothing there for us, not anymore. I need you to wrap everything up for me, all right? I need you to see the businesses, sell the rental properties.” He paused. “I need you to sell Tannyhill.”

Rafe spluttered, looking at Ward in disbelief. “Wait, we’re selling Tannyhill? Is that what you said?”

Ward looked to him, nodding. “Yeah.”

“W-why? What are you talking about?”

“It’s not our home anymore. This is. This is our home now.” He leaned back in the chair. “And it’s a clean slate. It’s a new beginning, a new path. And I need to take a bigger role, all right? You can forget about her.” He nodded to you again. “Can I count on you for that?”

Rafe hung his head down, looking at you from the window. You stared back at him.

He can do everything else, he’s just not too sure he can just forget you though.

“Of course, yes. Of course, dad.” He said, looking back at his father.

“Yeah, all right, good. Listen, I got some papers inside. I’m gonna bring them. We’re gonna go over them. Tell you what to do, and while you’re gone, I am going to be taking that cross and looking into it.” He stood up, Rafe standing as well now.

“We have that cross because of you. You got it for us, and you saved it. I just need you to be careful. You get in there, handle this business, drop her off, and you get back here safely. All right? You’re a Cameron. That still means something.”

When his dad went into the house, he gave you a small nod and smile. You just kept looking at Rafe through the window, and he stared right back.

[rebelliousstories]

Would You Go With Me?

Relationship: Emily Prentiss x Reader

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Request: No

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Mentions of a Crime Scene, and Blood, Vague Mentions of a Serial Killer

Word Count: 1,196

Main Masterlist: Here

Criminal Minds Masterlist: Here

Summary: She’s come back. But people are never the same as when you leave them.

Part One: The One That Got Away

Consider Donating: Here

“‘Ya amar’? You haven’t called me that in a very long time, Em.” The woman stated with a tilt of her mouth, focusing her attention on the evidence board to their left in the conference room where the other profilers were.

Emily just stood there, floundering like a fish out of water. This was the first time in many years that she had set her eyes on her in person. While she still looked gorgeous, the closer she looked, the more she noticed; there was no doubt that the years of nightmares she undoubtedly had were not kind. There were small scars, and one large scar left over from the incident. Bags underneath her eyes that were nearly dark enough to be bruises. She wore no makeup which Emily knew meant that something was wrong.

“You… your house.” Prentiss inquired, her voice unsteady.

“Unfortunately, a necessary precaution.” She stated, drawing her attention back to the dark haired agent. “The blood is mine, so don’t waste time typing it. I’ve taken little by little over the years so that if I needed to, I could fake a crime scene easier.”

“You’re the point agent for The Mimic case?” Thankfully, Hotch swooped in which let Emily process her emotions.

“I was,” she sighed, leaning against the door frame.

“Why would you fake your death?” Liam asked, also dealing with the information.

In lieu of an answer, the former agent placed an envelope down on the table. There was a black heart with an arrow drawn through it. She had apparently already opened it, as the edges were torn, and in her hands, she held the contents. A single piece of paper with a legible, yet messy scrawl.

“That was left on my front porch.” She muttered, re-reading the letter. ”Don’t bother checking for prints either. Imitirovat never leaves any.”

“We should bag these for evidence still, and analyze the writing. It may be able to tell us something.” JJ stated, picking up the envelope and walking back into the conference room they had been given. Their unit chief left with the natural blonde, which left the three former partners in Liam’s office in silence.

“I am glad to see you alive, mon ami.” Shelby whispered, his face scrunched as he tried not to let his emotions take over.

“Good to see you too, Li.” She said, dropping her eyes to her hands, which still had the letter. Sensing the tension, the Frenchman left the two women be with just a pat to their shoulders.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. There was just too many things to say, and not enough words in any language that they knew. Combine that with the amount of time that has passed, and they were both struggling. However, she figured she would make the first move and come over to sit in the chair opposite Emily rather than just standing about the room.

“I thought you were dead.” Prentiss picked at her fingernails again, resisting the urge to bite at them.

“Sorry, Em. Honestly didn’t think that you would be the one to find that. Figured some beat cops would.” Running a hand through her hair, the woman took her time to focus on the other.

She looked amazing. The bangs were gone much to her dismay, but she could get used to this version of Emily. There were no bags under her eyes, and she looked well fed. Her clothes were tailored to complement her figure. All in all, she looked like the Emily she used to know.

“Have you lived here this whole time?” Emily asked, not really knowing how to speak with her.

“No,” she shook her head, “I’ve moved around every few months. Haven’t stayed anywhere longer than six months the entire time. Stayed in D.C. for a while.”

At that, Emily’s head shot up. “You were in D.C.?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Sergio’s cute.”

Prentiss chuckled. “Of course the best tracker Interpol ever had would be able to find me and my cat.”

She also let out a small chuckle at this. But another bout of silence passed between them. It was that awkward silence where you were terrified to say the wrong thing and make everything go sideways. A type that they never had before now.

“I’m sorry I never came back.”

“I’m sorry I never reached out.”

The women overlapped in a breath. Looking into each other’s eyes, they began to laugh at the absurdity of it all. She motioned for Emily to go first.

Taking a moment to catch her breath, Emily spoke. “I’m sorry I never reached out, or tried to find you. I just figured you needed some time to recover in the hospital alone because you wouldn’t let me touch you at one point. But when I came to collect you on the day you were to be released, you were already gone. The next day we got your badge and gun in at Interpol.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back.” She repeated softly. “I don’t really remember a lot from the hospital stay, so I’m sorry that I pushed you away. When I was released, and you weren’t there… I don’t know. I guess my brain ran straight to survival mode because it was all too much. The agents we lost at the safe house. I was terrified that he was going to find me so I ran, and I kept running.”

“Listen, it’s natural to go into that mode. I just wish we would’ve found each other earlier.” Emily leaned forward, and captured her hands in hers.

“Still, we’re here now. Hunting a serial killer just like old times.” The other woman teased, a genuine smile coming to her lips.

Prentiss chuckled, looking around for a brief moment to collect her thoughts. “Yeah. Yeah, we are. So, how about we get out there and get this guy one and for all? I want this case closed.”

Saying nothing, the woman stood, bringing Emily up with her as their hands were still connected. She gave a final squeeze before walking over to the door. However, as she hovered in the threshold, she turned to face the dark haired woman again.

“Maybe once this case is done, you wouldn’t mind letting me take you out for a drink?” She offered hesitantly, scared that all the time apart had changed them. But Emily, ever the confident and sure of herself woman, came to stand next to her. Placing a hand on her shoulder, she ducked in to press a kiss to her cheek, careful to wipe away the lipstick mark that was left.

“I’d like that.” And with that, Emily went to where her team and Liam stood near the evidence board. Reeling from being that close to her again, the woman sighed, and brushed her fingertips against where she had kissed her. With determination in her soul, the woman vowed two things as she went back out; she was going to catch this bastard, and she was getting that date with Emily.

“Every ending was a beginning in disguise, and I chose to begin again with you.” Unknown

[spencersbabymama]

Numbers l Chapter two

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Disabled OC

Content Warning: Talk about disability limitations, Brief mention of unsub being a serial r*pest, Reid staring (because hello his eyes could stare into your soul)

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: Brooke's first day day and she's already realizing none of this will be a cake walk.

Taglist: @just-call-me-by-yn @mggslover @spencerreidsrightsock @reidingandallthat

A/n: Shout out again to @just-call-me-by-yn for another awesome banner! And thank you all for the love on the first chapter!

Story:

Four simple words, that’s all it took for my new coworkers to change their demeanor.  The group became more rigid, serious.  Penelope disappears while Hotch hands out a copy of the same folder to everyone including me.  The folders were thick, which was probably a bad sign.  

I pulled my chair up to one of the tables just in time for Penelope to come back with a laptop and pull up a seat next to me.  “Normally we meet in a private room at a round table but we don’t have a way to get you in there…” Penelope whispers in almost a flat tone, before letting her sentence linger in the air for a moment, then proceeds to boot up her laptop.  

I wasn’t sure if that was a dig at me, like she was annoyed I was disrupting the way everyone operated.  The last thing I wanted was to derail everyone from doing their job.  I wanted to help, not hinder.

Apparently Penelope could tell what I was thinking because she let out a small horrified gasp, realizing what she just said, then quickly touched my arm in a reassuring manner “Oh my gosh, I meant to say yet, we don’t have a way to get you in there yet.”

My shoulders relaxed and I nodded in return with a small smile.  Good, I could still consider the girl a friend, an ally.

Hotch cleared his throat, pulling all the attention back to himself “Right here in Washington there’s been a series of abductions.  All young women ranging from 19 to 30 years of age.  The rate of these abductions seem to be escalating which is why local law enforcement has asked for our help.”

I knew what I was signing up for but something about hearing this stuff out loud did something to a person’s stomach.  The most human reaction was well why are we just sitting here?  These women need help and we’re just talking, but I knew there was a process and these people were the best for a reason.

“It looks like there haven't been any victims found yet so that could mean the women are still alive.” JJ said while flipping through the pages.

Everyone nodded before Derek, the one who looked like he was carved straight out of onyx stone, added “That could also mean the unsub has other plans with our victims, how were these women taken?”

Hotch folds his hands on the table “That’s the only thing we know that’s common between each victim.” He sighs “They all used a chat room for singles and were kidnapped exactly three days after logging on.”

I tried taking in all the information.  Hearing the mention of a chat room made my mind start to run with different ways to catch this guy.  There were plenty of ways they could track him.  Of course if he was remotely smart he probably covered his tracks at least on the surface.

“Since this unsub runs mostly online we’re gonna need you and Bevan’s expertise on this.” Hotch explains, addressing the both of us.  Penelope responded with an affirmative yes sir while I gave a small nod.  A weight seemed to build on my shoulders.  This was heck of a first case.

It was hard not to feel imposter syndrome when you’re surrounded by such talents in their field.  This group weren’t just agents.  They made it their job getting inside the mind of these insane criminals and it seemed to have results.  I don’t know if I could ever be their level, but I was ready to help.

Everyone’s eyes were on us but the only one that seemed to make me squirm in my wheelchair a little.  Chess Guy, also known as Spencer Reid.  Chess Guy just seemed so much more fun in my head.  I didn’t let myself notice in the moment but when I wasn’t thinking about these poor women, I could feel him glance over at me every now and then.  Not Penelope, me.  He was probably just trying to vet me but still, his glance was the only one that was distracting.

Hotch speaks up again, now addressing Spencer “Reid, I want you to stay here and help the girls.  I want you to look through all the message exchanges these women made and see what you can find.”

Spencer nodded before sitting up in his seat “We’re probably dealing with a serial rapist.  Most find their victims online and have no plans on stopping.”

If my stomach wasn’t in knots before, it sure was now.

Hotch nods in agreement while standing up “Which is why we can’t waste time.  JJ and David, I want you to track down the family and friends to see what else we can find out about these women.  Derek, I want you to help me set up with the local police department.”

With everyone’s new assignments, each split up except for myself, Penelope, and Spencer.

Penelope was the first one to say something “Well, I have a feeling this is going to be the new dream team.” She beams, which makes Spencer and I laugh.  It seemed wrong to laugh after a meeting like that but at the same time it felt good to cut the tension.

🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

“So this is the lair.” Penelope opened the door to reveal a windowless room covered almost top to bottom with countless amounts of tech and software.  It was a tech guru’s wet dream.  One wall was just dedicated to the software towers running the computers on the desk.  There probably wasn’t a need for the ceiling lights, the numerous buttons, and screens admitted enough light all together. 

I tried to act cool, like I saw things like this everyday, but my jaw betrayed me, hanging open and laying out all my inner thoughts.

Penelope giggled and nodded in agreement as if she read my mind “Yeah that was my reaction the first time too.” 

She shut the door behind us before giving a little tour.  From the computer monitors, to the bulletin wall, everything had a purpose amongst the wires and plugs.  Finally Penelope gestured to the chair-less section of the desk next to her seat “And this is your little corner.”

Resting on the desk was my own computer monitor, shiny, and new.  The corners of my mouth twisted up into a smile and I guided my chair over to get a closer look.  This was a nice jump from coding on my laptop.  “Wow… The government spares no expense does it?” I joke, still attempting not to look too much like a fan girl.  In reality I felt like crying.  I was almost in disbelief that I was trusted with my own system.  With this software I was going to have so much power to help people.  I wasn’t powerless in this wheelchair.  Inside this screen I could find and save as many people as possible.

Penelope giggled before gesturing to her portion of the desk “I recommend getting cute little creatures to spruce up your side.”  Her side was littered with all kinds of knickknacks and critters that could be sold at any Dollar Store.  If it was considered cute, it was there.  Her pens were even topped with those fluff balls.

The sight made me giggle this time before I looked at her “As much as I love your set up, I don’t know if it’s necessarily me…” My voice trails off as I slightly wince, hoping I didn’t suck the wind out of her very perky sails.  I didn’t consider myself a black cat kind of girl, but I definitely wasn’t that perky.  I was one of those girls who geeked out over movies, or the latest romance novel everyone was raving over.  Yes, even tech girls are into romance.  Not exactly unicorn vomit though.

Penelope snickers a little but I could tell there was something haunted in her eyes “Well…  Sometimes after looking at these screens long enough,” She picks up a little toy that looks like a hybrid of a cat and a unicorn “You need some cute things to look at.”

My face fell, realizing what she meant.  Even though I only knew this woman for less than a few hours, my heart hurt for her.  I knew this job took a toll and no one was immune to it, but on the outside it seemed like Penelope was maybe a rare bird that was too sunshine-like to be burdened by the horrors that come with looking at these screens.  I didn’t want to push so I just gave a small smile and spoke softly “I-I’ll think of something…  Maybe displaying some books or something might be fun.”  The gesture was more for my new friend rather than me, but maybe she was on to something.

That seemed to do the trick because Penelope took a deep breath as if to reboot herself, then let her smile return with a nod.  She put the toy back then grabbed an earpiece off the desk “So this is yours, can I put it on for you?” 

After giving a nod of consent, Penelope carefully leaned over and moved my brown hair so she could place the piece of tech in my ear.  Once it was secure, she steps back to look proudly at her work with her hands on her hips. “Well Newbie, we’ve just met but I don’t think you’ve ever looked better.” 

We both start laughing before the door swings open and Spencer steps inside with a folder in his hand.

He looks between Penelope and I before smiling at me softly “I see Penelope has already started to get you suited up.”

I giggle slightly and nod.

Penelope makes a slight crooked smirk towards him “I say she already looks like she fits the part.”

Maybe all the blue light was starting to get to my head already but I could have sworn this so-called genius blushed in my direction. I didn’t do anything to evoke such a reaction.  He just looked at me with another smile and his cheeks grew a pink tint.

Penelope glanced between the two of us and smirked again.  It looked like ideas were brewing in her head but I couldn’t begin to think of what they were.  “Should we get to work then?” She asked, almost suggesting.

Spencer and I quickly nodded in agreement, both ignoring the awkward exchange that just went down.

[criminally-chill]

What happens in vegas doesn’t stay in vegas.

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x reader

Category: Fluff

Trigger: Alcohol

—————————

Waking up to a pounding headache, dry mouth, and bleary eyes was hardly unusual after a night out with the team. But as you stirred, your senses came alive to an unexpected warmth beside you. Blinking in confusion, you turned to see Emily Prentiss, still asleep, her dark hair spread across the pillow, face tucked against your shoulder. You could feel her breath tickling your neck, and your mind raced to make sense of the situation.

For a moment, everything felt blissfully peaceful until your brain kicked in. Wait a minute. Why is Emily cuddling with me? And what’s that glint on my finger? Instinctively, you lifted your hand, squinting at the gold band resting there.

“Oh no,” you murmured, heart dropping as you turned to Emily, who stirred at your voice, blinking up at you with sleepy confusion.

She took a moment to process her surroundings, then her gaze flickered down to her own ring finger, widening as she registered the matching wedding band. “What the hell?” she muttered, voice thick with sleep.

“Uh… morning?” you said, trying to sound casual, but the panic in your voice betrayed you.

“Tell me this is just some weird Vegas souvenir and not…” she trailed off, her tone mixing disbelief with a hint of laughter.

“Yeah, I wish I could say that,” you mumbled, biting back a nervous laugh. “But I think we might’ve made some questionable life choices last night.”

Emily rubbed her temples, attempting to gather her thoughts. “So you’re telling me we’re… married? Is that the conclusion we’re reaching here?”

“Pretty sure,” you replied, feeling embarrassment creeping in. “Though I can’t recall much after the fifth round of tequila.”

She leaned back against the headboard, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Okay, but just to be clear, was I a willing participant in this marriage, or did I get dragged into it against my will?”

You chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, I can’t remember any kidnapping happening. But the last thing I recall was Morgan egging us on to take more shots and maybe something about karaoke.”

“Great,” Emily said, a smirk breaking through her surprise. “So we got drunk, sang poorly, and decided to get hitched. Classic.”

“Exactly. The perfect recipe for disaster,” you added, shaking your head in disbelief. “I’m sure this is going to make for a fun conversation with the team.”

“Fun? More like a complete train wreck,” she replied, her grin widening. “Garcia is going to lose her mind when she finds out.”

You exchanged incredulous looks, the absurdity of the situation settling in. “We should probably get ready for breakfast,” you suggested, still trying to process the reality of your actions.

“Ugh, do we have to?” she groaned, collapsing back against the pillows. “I feel like I was hit by a truck.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “If we skip, they’ll come looking for us. I’d rather face them now than let them find out later.”

“True,” Emily said reluctantly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and running a hand through her hair. “Let’s just get this over with. But I swear, if any of them make a joke about us being ‘Mr. and Mrs.,’ I might just cry.”

With a collective sigh, you both prepared for the day ahead, knowing that confronting your teammates would be just as chaotic as the night before.

Half an hour later, you made your way to the hotel restaurant, both of you wearing baseball caps and sunglasses to hide your faces. As you entered, you spotted Morgan, JJ, Reid, and Garcia already seated, looking just as rough around the edges as you felt.

“Good morning, sleepyheads!” Garcia chirped, her bright smile almost blinding. “Did you enjoy your night in Sin City?”

Emily shot you a glance, both of you trading knowing smirks. “You could say that,” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual.

Morgan raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You two look like you’ve seen better days. I bet you had a wild night, huh?”

“More like a wild disaster,” Emily said, her tone playful but edged with caution. “What’s the last thing you all remember?”

“Not much after the fifth round of tequila,” JJ admitted, her voice muffled as she buried her face in her hands. “I remember karaoke, though. Garcia, you were amazing.”

Garcia beamed, her pride shining through. “Of course I was! I nailed ‘I Will Survive.’ You all should’ve been my backup dancers!”

“Backup dancers?” Morgan laughed. “You were more like a one-woman show! I think you might have scared the bouncers.”

Reid, ever the curious one, leaned forward. “I recall something about pool games and a bouncer being involved. Did we end up having an actual competition?”

Morgan nodded. “Yeah, and you lost, buddy. The bouncer was way too serious for our antics.”

“Great,” you said, trying to remember how you’d contributed to the chaos. “So we were just a bunch of drunken fools?”

“Pretty much,” JJ replied, finally lifting her head. “But it sounds like we were all on the same page, right?”

“Right,” Emily said, her gaze flicking to you with a glimmer of mischief. “We just have to figure out how to explain this whole situation without embarrassing ourselves further.”

“Hey, whatever happened in Vegas stays in Vegas!” Garcia chimed in, grinning. “Unless it involves marriage. That’s a different story!”

You and Emily exchanged looks, hearts racing at the thought of how Garcia would react if she found out the truth. “I just hope they don’t dig too deep,” you said quietly, leaning in.

But before you could finish, Garcia pulled out her phone, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, you guys are going to love this! I may have recorded some of last night.”

“Wait, what?” you said, your heart sinking. “What do you mean?”

“Only the best parts!” Garcia said, practically vibrating with excitement. “Let’s see what we’ve got here!”

“No, no, no, please don’t!” you and Emily said in unison, but it was too late. Garcia was already pressing play, and the screen lit up.

The video showed a tipsy version of you and Emily stumbling into a wedding chapel, laughter filling the air. You could hear the cheers and jeers of the team in the background, egging you both on as you approached the officiant.

“Are you serious?” JJ gasped, her eyes wide. “You guys actually did it!”

The video continued, showing the officiant’s voice almost drowned out by the laughter of your teammates. You watched in horror as Emily playfully swayed, holding onto you for balance. Then you both exchanged vows, the most ridiculous promises you could think of, like sharing snacks and always picking the next action movie.

“Is this for real?” Morgan said, his mouth agape. “You guys actually went through with it?”

You could barely meet Emily’s gaze, the absurdity of the situation settling in as you both burst into laughter. “So much for a wild Vegas night staying just in Vegas,” you said, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Wow, this is priceless!” Reid said, chuckling. “I can’t believe you two managed to get married while drunk!”

“I know!” Emily added, still giggling. “I never thought I’d find myself in a wedding chapel while tipsy. That’s definitely a first.

Morgan couldn’t stop laughing, slapping the table with his hand. “What happens next? Are we going to get wedding invitations in the mail, or what?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I can’t even think about that right now.”

Garcia, still gleefully watching the video, turned to you both, eyes wide with excitement. “You know, this could be a romantic story if you decide to make it work!”

“Romantic? It’s a total disaster!” you protested, though you couldn’t help but feel a rush of warmth at the thought of being with Emily in a more serious way.

“Yeah, but look at it this way,” JJ chimed in. “You guys got married in Vegas! That’s got to count for something, right?”

Emily rolled her eyes but was smiling. “I mean, it does make for a hell of a story.”

“Can you imagine telling Hotch?” Reid said, his eyes wide with genuine excitement. “He’ll either think it’s a great idea or want to strangle you both.”

You and Emily laughed, picturing Hotch’s reaction. “You’re probably right,” you admitted, trying to picture the stern unit chief’s face as you explained the circumstances of your marriage.

The laughter continued as everyone joked about what your lives would look like as a married couple, the ridiculousness of the situation slowly easing the tension that had initially gripped you both. You could see how the lighthearted banter was bonding the team, the laughter helping to normalize the crazy turn of events.

As breakfast wrapped up, you could feel a sense of camaraderie building. “Well, I guess we should take this head-on,” Emily said, leaning back in her chair, her expression a mix of mischief and determination.

“Agreed,” you replied, feeling a surge of confidence. “Let’s just own it.”

As the team filed out of the restaurant, you and Emily lingered, your

[abigailovesz]

CHAPTER 3 A WAR WAKES QUIETLY

pairing: cowboy!jj x cowgirl!reader

summary: as pressure from Silas intensifies, you and jj ride out to meet elias hart, an old ally and respected local rancher, hoping to rally support. Elias agrees to help but warns that Silas is more dangerous than ever.

warnings: mentions of violence and land conflict, language and tension, discussions of betrayal, emotional stress and rise of a panic attack.

chapters - recent chapter - next chapter

TWO DAYS LATER.

the wind was thick with dust and silence.

It was early - barely past dawn - you sat on the porch steps with your knees pulled up, journal in lap. your thumb skimmed the edge of the leather cover, worn smooth by years of secrets. jj had left before sunrise, riding out toward the nolan ranch to speak with old friends who still owed his father favors. but you hadn’t gone back to bed.

your mind wouldn’t let you.

ever since Silas Thatcher had spoken your mother’s name, the past had sunk claws into your chest. you couldn’t shake it. couldn’t stop replaying the tone in his voice - the familiarity, the veiled threat in the way he’d looked at you like you belonged to something he remembered.

you opened the journal, flipping to the very back where a folded letter was tucked between the pages.

It was the only thing you had of your mother’s.

the paper was yellowing, written in a careful, feminine hand. you had read it hundreds of times before, but today, it felt heavier. each word tasted different now, as if hiding something you’d missed.

my darling girl, If you’re reading this, it means you made it out. That’s all I ever wanted for you - to be free. to ride your own horse. to choose your own love. don’t trust the name Thatcher. It’s poison. It ruined our land. It ruined us. Your grandfather tried to fight them and died in his field for it. If one of them ever finds you, you run. Or you fight. But never let them close. Never let them talk sweet. They only want what they can take. You come from fire. burn before you bend. Love you always, Mama

your fingers trembled as you folded the letter again. your throat felt tight, but your resolve was sharper than ever. Silas hadn’t just come for land. he’d come to rewrite history.

he was the reason your family's name had been buried.

and he was going to pay for that.

JJ'S HORSE kicked up gravel as he rode toward a long stretch of fencing. the nolan place sat near the edge of the ridge, high enough to see half the valley. Will Nolan had been a friend of his father’s since before either of them had wives. jj hadn’t seen him in over a year, but the minute he’d knocked, Will had welcomed him in without asking why.

now they walked side by side through the pasture, watching the cattle graze low and slow. "you know why I’m here,” jj said plainly.

will chewed on a blade of grass. “yep, figured it wasn’t for the view.”

jj stopped, boots crunching dry dirt. “thatcher’s laying claim to the north half of my land. brought fake papers and a deputy who’s too scared to blink unless Silas tells him to.”

will scratched his beard, humming. “sounds like the bastard.”

“I need allies. quiet ones.”

“you planning to fight this out in court?”

jj shook his head. “nah. I’m planning to win.”

will looked at him a long moment. then he nodded slowly. “you’ve got my cattle hands if you need ‘em. some of em' boys been itching for a good brawl anyway.”

jj clapped his shoulder. “appreciate' it.”

as he turned to leave, will called after him. “You might want to pay a visit to the old blackwell woman out near Dead Man’s Creek.”

jj frowned, eyebrows furrowing. “She still alive?”

will grinned. “old as god’s bones, but yeah. and she’s got stories. She knew your granddad. Knew your woman's folks too. might be she knows what Silas is really after.”

jj nodded once, already mounting up. “thanks, Will.”

the storm was coming, and he needed every edge he could get.

WHEN JJ RETURNED home, he found you in the barn, breaking in a young colt. your sleeves were rolled to the elbows, sweat glistening on your collarbone, a streak of dirt smudged across the skin of your cheek. you were singing under your breath - something soft and extra quiet.

jj leaned on the post and watched you for a moment before saying, “you always sing when you’re angry sweetheart?”

you didn’t stop moving. “keeps ma' hands from turning t' fists.”

he chuckled, stepping inside. “I talked to Will Nolan. he’s in.”

your eyes lit up for a second, then dimmed again. “that’s one ranch. we need more.”

jj nodded, clearing his throat. “I’m workin' on it. I’m goin' to see Blackwell tomorrow.”

you stopped brushing the colt and looked up, wary. “why?”

“she knew your family. might know more about Silas and what this fight’s really about.”

you swallowed. “he knew my mother, jj. He looked at me like… like he recognized me. And not in a good way.”

jj crossed the barn and crouched in front of you, the sun's color catching in his hair. “you don’t gotta to be afraid of him.”

“I’m not afraid,” you whispered, eyes locked on his “I’m angry.”

ONE HOUR LATER.

the smell hit both of you before the sound did.

burning hay.

jj was up first, rifle in hand, sprinting out the front door in bare feet. you were seconds behind him. the barn was ablaze - orange flames licking skyward, black smoke billowing out of the wooden structure.

“no, no, no..” you cried, running toward the doors. jj grabbed you, holding your whole body back. “ts' too late sweetheart! It’s gone..”

“the colts are in there-”

his teeth gritted and before you knew it he let go of you and charged toward the side of the barn. fire crackled, heat slamming into him like a wall. he kicked open the side door, disappearing into the smoke.

your heart stopped. like literally.

he came out thirty seconds later, coughing hard, shirt charred and arm bleeding - but leading two panicked, half-burnt colts.

you ran to him in seconds, eyes wet. “you motherfucker-.”

jj grinned, a breathy laugh leaving his throat. “told ya I was good for somethin.” as the fire raged behind them, you looked past the smoke to the far edge of the field. there, silhouetted on horseback at the top of the ridge, was a man.

watching.

SILAS POURED a glass of brandy and set the false deed on his desk, the edges still slightly singed. “they’ll burn,” he said gruffly, more to himself than anyone else. behind him, the deputy spoke from the shadows. “that was just a warning?”

silas nodded. “the next time, I won’t light a barn.”

he lifted the glass to his lips and smiled.

“I’ll light her.”

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