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mind-empty-just-fictional-people · 1 year ago

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Comfort Crowd

main masterlist | supernatural masterlist

summary: dean just needs you next to him

pairing: (stanford era) dean winchester x female reader

rating: R for language

word count: 1.9k

warnings: hurt/sad dean, language, reader drives after drinking but she’s not drunk, that’s it i think

author’s note: i know this gif is of jason teague and not dean winchester but that’s literally samford era jackles so i think it fits perfectly <3

music: comfort crowd by conan gray — was listening to conan gray and bam! dean winchester fic idea! anyways…

When you saw who was calling your brows furrowed — Dean? You had talked to him earlier in the week, just a casual check-in to make sure you were both still alive. You and Dean had gotten into a fight about a month prior and you both decided to just take a break from each other. You had made it clear that you were not breaking up with him, you just needed a break.

Last time you talked he was working a case in Texas, something with ghouls and sororities. You had just finished up a werewolf hunt and he had voiced his jealousy. He hadn’t gotten to fight a werewolf in many, many moons (pun intended).

“Dean?” you answered the call, still holding your first beer of the night in your free hand. He didn’t say anything, there was only labored breathing on the other side and that worried you. “Dean? Honey, is everything okay?” He still said nothing. “Dean, what’s—”

“Where are you?” he asked. His voice was clearly on the verge of cracking. He’d been crying?

“Uh, Bakersfield California,” you told him. “Just finished another case, simple ghost hunt. What’s wrong, Dean?” He again went back to just breathing. “Dean, where are you?”

“I’m in Palo Alto,” he said. “You—Could you get up here, p-please? I need you, hun. I just—I need you here.”

“I’ll be right there Dean, four hours tops,” you told him. You stood up off your chair and paid your tab. “Talk to me, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t…fuck, I just wanna see you…please?”

“Of course, Dean, I’ll be there soon,” you reminded him. “What motel are you staying at?”

“I can text you the address just please…please hurry.”

With that, he hung up.

Please don’t be dying, you thought to yourself.

After several traffic violations and broken speed limits, you were finally knocking on his door.

“Dean!” you called out, not caring if it was now nearly three in the morning and there were definitely other people staying at the motel. “For the love of god Dean, open the fucking door!”

He unlocked and opened the door, rubbing his tired eyes. “Hey, you made it.” He smiled a little…smiled?

“Dean what the hell is going on?” you asked, trying to stay calm as you walked into the room. “You—That call? What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” he shrugged, “I’m fine.”

“Fine?” You furrowed your brows. “Dean you called me in tears and asked me to race over here as if you were dying?”

“I…I wasn’t in tears,” he mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Hang on…how do I know you’re you?” you asked.

He smiled and rolled his eyes a little before you both did the usual tests.

“See, sweetheart? All me!” He smiled again.

“Dean,” you said softly, “what’s going on? Are you…Are you dying?”

“No!” he scoffed, not calming your nerves in the slightest. “I’m sorry I scared you I just…needed you here. With me, next to me. I—Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Dean,” you shook your head, “I get it.”

You walked over to him and pulled him down into a hug; your right hand went to the back of his head as your fingers combed through his hair.

“I’m here Dean, you’re okay,” you told him. His grip tightened around you, as if he was scared you’d break off the hug. “I’m right here.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice cracking again. “Thank you.”

The two of you stayed like that for what felt like an eternity. You were on your tiptoes, which was kind of uncomfortable, but your love for the man in your arms outweighed any discomfort. You felt Dean’s tears begin to dampen your neck and your eyes grew cloudy at the thought of him in pain. He truly mastered the art of silent crying, he must’ve had to hide his tears from that bastard father of his growing up, and that thought only made your heart break more. Your grip tightened around his shoulders and you turned your head so you could place a soft kiss on his temple. You made a trail of kisses down to his jawline then left your lips there against his skin.

“Thank you,” he pulled away, “just…thanks.”

“Do you wanna lay down, Dean?” you asked. “We could cuddle up and maybe watch a movie? Or we could listen to music? I’ve got my iPod and we could share my earbuds?”

A soft smile returned to his tear-stained face and he nodded; “Music sounds perfect.”

“Mkay,” you replied. “Now, I have to admit I don’t have many Zeppelin songs downloaded—”

“It’s okay,” he shook his head, “I don’t care what song we play, as long…as long as you’re here. Just need your company.”

“Funnily enough, I do have some Bad Company songs,” you joked, causing his smile to grow.

“You’re the best company,” he countered.

“Why don’t you change into your PJs while I go get my bags from the car? We can get comfortable in the bed and maybe you’ll even get some sleep.”

Your fingers were once again tangled in Dean’s hair as his head lay on your chest, he was facing away from you but you knew he was still crying. You just didn’t know why.

“Is this Heuy Lewis?” Dean chuckled.

“Hey! No disrespecting Heuy!” you laughed, but Dean knew you were serious. “You want me to skip it?”

“Nah, I’ll live,” he joked. The joke made your heart clench a little though; your mind going back to the call he made to you a mere few hours ago. How scared he sounded. How scared you were as you raced to get to him. Dean must’ve sensed the change in the room because he made sure to remind you; “I’m fine.”

“You said that line already, Dean,” you said through a sigh. “I’m here if you wanna talk, okay?”

“I don’t wanna talk,” he mumbled. “I meant what I said—I just need you here with me, I just need you around.”

Your free hand (the one that wasn’t currently in Dean’s hair) went to rub comforting circles on his upper back. He let out a contented sigh which made you smile.

“I love you, Dean,” you told him. “I love you more than anything, you know that, right?”

“Thank you,” he mumbled. He buried his face against your chest, trying to hide the sheepish smile forcing its way onto his face before he lifted his head so he could look into your eyes. “I love you so much.”

He leaned over and kissed you softly, his smile connecting with yours. He pulled away after a moment, simply looking into your eyes. He kissed you once more before laying back down, this time resting his head next to yours so he could kiss you again.

“Sorry about your shirt,” he said, laughing awkwardly at the damp mess of spilled tears covering a fair portion of your tee.

“I don’t mind, kinda like my shirt soggy,” you shrugged with a smile, pulling him closer to you and tucking your head under his chin.

When you woke the next morning you did not expect Dean to be singing to himself while making breakfast.

“What time is it?” you asked with a yawn as you sat up in bed.

“About seven,” he replied. “Good morning, by the way.”

“Good morning.”

You hurried over to the small kitchen so you could wrap your arms around him from behind.

“What’s gotten into you?” he teased.

“Could ask you the same question, handsome,” you replied, not letting go. “The food smells amazing and all, but since when do you cook?”

“Remember that fight we had?”

“I vaguely recall,” you said, somewhat flatly.

“I’ve been working on my breakfast cooking so when I saw you again I could you know…woo you.”

“‘Woo me’?” You raised a brow, your smile growing. “You’re wooing me…with bacon?”

“Damn right!” he scoffed lightheartedly. “I know the way into your heart, and whether you admit it or not—it’s mother fuckin’ breakfast food.”

“You know me way too well,” you laughed. “I’m officially wooed.”

There was a comfortable silence before Dean answered the question he knew you were still wondering about; “Sam and I fought last night.”

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“I knew him going to a fancy college would put a bit of a rift between us…but fuck, sweetheart,” he said. He ran his hands down his face before he leaned against the counter and looked at you; “I think we…I don’t think Sammy and I will ever be as close as we were growin’ up ever again.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, Dean,” you assured him, placing a hand on his bicep and giving it a comforting squeeze. “Sammy just needs time, maybe a bit of space, but that’s only temporary, Dean.”

“Seems like everyone around me always needs space,” he chuckled humorously.

“If this is about what I said—”

“Nah, you don’t have to explain yourself, I get it!” He shook his head, faking a smile. “You couldn’t stand being around me all the time and hey, that’s okay.”

Your brows furrowed with slight anger; “That’s not what I said, Dean.”

“That’s what it sounded like,” he mumbled before he turned back to the stove to continue making breakfast.

“Dean I love you, you know I love you!” you said. “I raced here last night when you asked me to, doesn’t that prove I love you!?”

“And what happens when we get into another fight?” he exclaimed. “What happens when you decide that you need more space and you don’t bother coming back to me?”

“That’s not going to happen?” you countered.

“You can’t say that for sure,” Dean said.

“Yes I can, Dean!”

“What makes you think that, huh?” he replied loudly. “What makes you think you aren’t gonna run the second you realize that putting space between was the best decision of your fucking life!?”

“Because I love you, Dean!” you said, matching his tone. “Because no matter how far away I was from you the one thought running through my head was that I should call you. That I should stop being so stubborn and run back to you.” You sighed as he continued cooking and you went up to him again, leaning on his bicep and running your hands up and down his forearm. “Because when I got that call…all logic flew out the window and all that mattered to me was getting to you. When I thought you might be dying I didn’t care about anything else and I raced to you like a mad woman. Like a girl so lovestruck she’s practically crazy!”

Dean let out a chuckle which made you smile.

“So…you’re sayin’ you missed me?” he asked, a cocky smirk finding its way to his lips.

“Yes,” you sighed dramatically. “Okay? Yes, Dean, I missed you like fuckin’ crazy, and I’m sorry for ever suggesting we take a damn break. But… you know what this means now, right?”

He looked at you cautiously; “What?”

“You’re stuck with me, Winchester.” You grinned. “And I’m never letting you go again.”

“Sounds good to me,” he replied as he leaned down and kissed you.

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 2 months ago

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I fully will never understand the problem some people have with touching (or rather, not touching) black people's hair, like I might've done that as a kid (honestly don't remember), but then I also did stuff like trying to run into traffic and bringing worms into the house, because two-year-old me didn't know any better!

If you're old enough to have learned about things like 'we don't touch what isn't ours' then you're old enough to apply that to other people's bodies as well as their possessions and I have no sympathy for you if you get slapped for violating someone's boundaries like that!

(also genuinely what is the appeal? Is it just that it...looks different to white people's hair? I actually don't understand /gen)

if the history of the world has taught us one thing it's that white people have a difficult time keeping our hands off of things that don't belong to us

in terms of a serious answer while it varies from person to person I've noticed that this is especially likely to manifest in white women who find themselves in social or professional spaces with Black people, especially Black women, after not previously having had much contact with anyone Black. among white women I think there's this kind of vague awareness that Black hair is different than ours in terms of how it's cared for, maintained, and styled (which, you know, fair enough! that's true!) that manifests as. just fucking grabbing for it like a child at a petting zoo and acting like that's a compliment when they would never in a million years pull that shit on another white woman. whether we acknowledge it or not, it very much comes from a mindset where white hair is the default and people who have afro-textured hair and protective hairstyles should just expect to be treated like oddities.

additionally I think a lot of my fellow white women use their like half-formed understanding that many Black women art sporting "fake" hair - wigs, extensions, sewn-in braids, etc - and come to the conclusion that it's totally fine to get grabby, as if that's not still?? getting all up in someone's face touching them without their permission?

I also want to note that this is a form of anti-Blackness that's definitely not exclusive to white people; I once had a Vietnamese coworker who was an absolute fiend for trying to pet our Black coworkers no matter how many times they told her to cut it out.

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honeypiehotchner · 2 months ago

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The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part nine

Back on my bullshit of cranking these chapters out, so here's another one!

Warnings: Hotch being...kind?, oh no they're warming up to each other (kind of), just kidding they have their moments of arguing, dramaaaa

Hotch was in his early twenties when he first heard about The Strangler’s case. It made national news, after all, once a connection was established between the cases showing up in Georgia and California. Two opposite ends of the United States, and The Strangler struck in both for over a year — maybe longer, though it was never confirmed.

Hotch was still in law school, then. He remembers reading about the case, one of the first few times he had heard of the BAU. He never studied the case closely; he didn’t have the time. And, honestly, when it comes to the cases the BAU has handled over the years, Carson Adkins is not the strangest.

His is interesting to study because of how long he evaded the authorities. The women he strangled to death were not his only crimes. Numerous traffic violations, domestic disputes, mental distress calls, and even one illegal possession of a firearm littered his record in the midst of the strangulations. Yet none of those led to his capture like they should’ve.

Truthfully, none of the murders across Georgia and California were solidly connected before he turned himself in — only because he wanted to find you.

Hotch understands, to some degree. If anything ever happened to Jack, he’d do everything in his power to find him and make it right again. That’s exactly what Richard Monroe did for Lila, too.

What he can’t understand is why you wouldn’t disclose this to him. Him, of all people, your Unit Chief. Why couldn’t you tell him? Why did it have to come to this?

Hotch knew, deep down, that whatever was hidden in your file would have to be discussed once he found out what it was. He just wasn’t expecting it to be something like this. Something he has no idea how to go about bringing up to you.

Because it does have to be discussed. Whether you like it or not— whether Hotch likes it or not because he knows it will only start a fight, it has to be discussed. At least so some common ground can be reached. A heart-to-heart doesn’t need to happen, but he needs to be aware of where your head is.

But it can’t happen now, while you’re on this case. The women and their families are suffering here, and that’s the top priority: catching whoever is doing this.

Once the unsub is caught and you’re all back in Quantico, Hotch will bring it up. Not because he wants to, but because he has to. He has no choice.

+++

After the wine with Rossi, you sleep probably the best you’ve ever slept on a case. You even wake up before your alarm, giving you time to shower and get dressed, and head downstairs to snag some breakfast before it’s time to meet the rest of the team.

You expect to be the first person downstairs, but you’re not. Hotch is there. And he looks like he’s been there for hours.

“Well,” you pull the chair out across from him, dropping into it with a huff. You cross your arms over your chest, all while Hotch is scowling at you. “You look like shit.”

He doesn’t even grace you with an answer.

You shrug your jacket off over the back of the chair, leaving him to go grab something to eat. You return with a muffin, fruit, and two coffees.

Hotch’s eyes snap to yours when you set the coffee down next to his half-empty one.

“You’re gonna need another one if you’re gonna get through today looking like that,” you answer, taking a sip of your own. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Hotch averts his eyes. “No.”

You watch him as he slowly chews the remaining bites of his fruit. “What’s wrong with you?”

His eyes flick back to yours, another glare settling in. “Nothing.”

“Okay,” you hold up your hands in surrender, unwrapping your muffin. “Just thought I’d ask.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he says. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” you shrug. “Why?”

“Just thought I’d ask.”

Now it’s your turn to glare. “Don’t hurt yourself,” you mock.

Slowly, the rest of the team filters downstairs to grab their own breakfast. You’re grateful for the extra company, especially Emily and JJ. You gladly leave the table with Hotch to join them at the next one over.

You can feel Hotch watching you, and he only stops when Rossi sits down across from him, asking him the same things you’ve already asked him. His answers stay the same, though less defensive, of course.

You turn your back to him, helping Prentiss figure out where she should go for her next Sin to Win Weekend. Your vote is on Miami, but she’s leaning toward Vegas for this one.

It’s almost time to leave when Hotch’s phone rings, and all conversations halt. Bad news, most likely.

Hotch’s face gives nothing away, but you know it won’t. It’s not in his face. It’s in his shoulders, and they tense when he hears the news. You know exactly what he’s going to say before he says it.

“They’ve found another body,” he says as the call ends. “Let’s go.”

Chairs screech as everyone stands and heads for the exit. Morgan leads, no doubt going to drive like he always does. You’re just a few steps away from the table when you hear Hotch call out your name.

You turn, preparing for a small lecture about how you should behave today in the field, only to find he’s standing there with your jacket in his hands.

“You left this,” he says quietly, passing it to you as he catches up.

Huh. You must’ve forgotten to grab it when you switched tables. You fall into step beside him. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t reply as he walks ahead, getting in the driver’s seat of the other car. In your confusion about his behavior, you slide into the passenger seat of Morgan’s.

You don’t bother asking Morgan if he thinks something is up with Hotch too, but the last thing you want to hear right now is how you and Hotch are warming up to one another.

Because you’re not.

You’re not warming up to him. He looked like shit, so you pointed it out. He doesn’t normally look like Death beat the shit out of him for fun overnight. How could you not say something?

Who knows what’s up with him. It’s not your business anyway.

Morgan’s phone rings and he digs it out, pressing to his ear. “Yeah.”

You don’t know why he doesn’t put it on speaker, but you make eye contact with Reid in the rearview and shrug.

“Alright, yeah,” Morgan says with a nod. “We’ll do that. Got it. Bye, Hotch.”

You figured it was him. “What’s up?”

“They’re going to the scene, he wants us to head to the precinct and call Garcia to see what she has,” Morgan explains, casting a quick glance at you.

You don’t miss the glance. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Morgan shrugs, turning toward the precinct while Hotch’s car goes straight ahead. “You two looked cozy this morning.”

You scoff. “Right.”

“It’s true,” Reid pipes up from the backseat.

“Hey!” You turn to look at him in pure betrayal. “Seriously?”

“What?” Reid looks just as perplexed.

You huff as you turn back around. “He was already downstairs when I got there, and I got there early. He looks like shit. Like he didn’t sleep.”

“He looked fine to me,” Reid says, having no idea he’s just put another nail in your coffin.

Morgan grins.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

Morgan only raises one hand off the wheel. “I’m not.”

+++

If anyone asks, Hotch told you, Morgan, and Reid to go back to the precinct because it’s part of his usual divide-and-conquer method for cases.

It has nothing to do with the fact that the officer sounded shaken up on the phone, meaning this one must be bad — and after researching more of Carson Adkins’ crimes last night, Hotch doesn’t want you anywhere near this one, not if it’s as bad as the officer made it seem on the phone.

You’re liable to shut down again and that’s not what he needs. He needs you focused.

The area is crawling with police cars as some officers try to corral a growing crowd of locals. To make matters worse, Hotch sees a news truck pull in behind them.

JJ spots it too with a deep sigh. “Got it. No comment.”

“Thank you,” Hotch replies with a nod.

Hotch, Prentiss, and Rossi flash their badges at the officers holding the perimeter before they’re let underneath the crime scene tape. The unsub left the body outside the elementary school. Next to the playground, for god’s sake.

They have to find him.

“Do we know who she is?” Rossi asks an officer.

“No,” he shakes his head. “But the coroner took her prints, so hopefully we’ll find her in a database somewhere.”

“Time of death?” Prentiss asks.

“Said somewhere between three and five a.m.”

Deputy Harris is standing off to the side, staring at the children’s swings and slides with a set jaw. Hotch makes his way over silently, noting the redness in the deputy’s eyes.

“We’re going to find who did this,” Hotch assures him quietly.

“We better,” Harris says, voice hoarse. “Who dumps a body at an elementary school? What if someone hadn’t found her before the kids got here? I—” He shakes his head. “School is canceled for the day, I called the board a minute ago. I don’t want any kids here.”

“Understandable,” Hotch nods, and probably for the better. They’ll need to investigate the area and it’s best if there are no children even inside the school to witness the commotion. “That was the right call, Deputy.”

“Thank you,” he says, turning to shake Hotch’s hand. “You’ll find him?”

Hotch accepts the handshake with an even firmer nod. “We will.”

He leaves him to return to where Prentiss is kneeling next to the body, studying the strangulation marks on her neck.

“It looks almost like hands and something else were used,” Prentiss says quietly. “Almost like…”

“Like he wasn’t strong enough to do it on his own this time,” Hotch finishes. “Like she fought back.”

Hotch finds the coroner talking with Rossi, waving them both over.

“Did you swab under her fingernails?” Hotch asks.

“Not yet, but I can at the lab,” the coroner replies.

“What are you thinking?” Rossi asks.

“That she fought back,” Prentiss says, standing up and taking her gloves off. “There’s some bruising on her face as well, it looks to me like they got into it before he strangled her.”

“Alright, I’ll keep it in mind and I’ll call you when the results are ready,” the coroner says, turning to instruct his men to begin loading the body. “If her prints come up anywhere, they should be sent to you soon.”

“Thank you,” Hotch says to him, already digging his phone out of his pocket to call Morgan.

+++

When you get to the precinct and find out exactly where the unsub dropped this body, your heart plummets.

You don’t know if it was your dad’s preference to drop bodies outside of schools. All you know is that he did it often. If it wasn’t train tracks or behind a gas station, it was outside a school.

You have no clue why. There never seemed to be any rhyme or reason to it, just like this one. The others have been on back roads, dirt roads, or in the woods. Never outside an elementary school, next to the playground, for fuck’s sake.

Pictures slowly filter in as the detectives upload them. You, Reid, and Morgan stare at the laptop screen, three pictures of the woman’s body, all zoomed in.

You take a walk to refill your coffee, ignoring the way your knees feel shaky as you move.

You’re fine.

Just— First, a case where the daughter of a serial killer is kidnapped and her father willingly turns himself in to help find her, and now, a case where the unsub is strangling these women to death and dumps a body outside a school? You knew when you first got into this profession ten-odd years ago that you’d come across cases that bring up bad memories. It’s inevitable. You’ve long accepted the fact.

But two, back-to-back, with similarities that hit far too close to home… It’s putting a bad taste in your mouth, and you don’t know why.

It’s probably nothing.

It’s not like you can mention this to anyone. Maybe to Rossi, but you know what he’ll say. Either that you’re just feeling on edge with the similarities, or worse — he’ll tell you that you have to bring it up with Hotch.

And you are not doing that. Not over some irrational, sour taste in your mouth that you have no backing for. Reid said it himself, this isn’t a true copycat. It’s just another unsub who strangles women to death. Unfortunately, there are plenty of them out there.

It doesn’t mean anything.

You return to the conference room with fresh coffee and a somewhat calmer head (fake it ‘til you make it, right?). Morgan gives you a questioning look, but you ignore him.

Garcia’s voice comes through the speaker of the laptop as she tells Reid she’s just waiting for the identity to come through from the fingerprints before she can start digging.

Morgan’s phone starts ringing in his hand. This time he puts it on speaker. “What’ve you got, Hotch?”

“We think our unsub used something in addition to his hands this time,” Hotch says.

“The girl fought back,” Morgan replies absently, his eyes flicking over to the now-printed pictures from the scene.

“What are you thinking?” you ask in general, sliding one of the photos over.

“Not sure yet,” Hotch says. “The coroner just loaded the body, so hopefully in a few hours we’ll have some answers.”

“He might’ve used a wire of some sort,” Reid starts to ramble. “It’s common for—”

But you don’t hear him, your fingertips tracing the bruises in the picture. “He used a belt,” you say without meaning to, pressing your fingers into the picture, as if you can feel her neck.

“A belt?” Hotch inquires. “What makes you so certain?”

“The bruises,” you say quietly. Morgan won’t stop looking at you.

“The bruises are too faint to tell,” Hotch says tiredly. “The coroner—”

“It was just an idea,” you snap, pushing the picture away and glaring at the phone, hoping Hotch can feel it through the device. “It’s not like I was there to see him do it.”

Everyone goes quiet. You ignore Morgan’s watchful gaze and turn toward the whiteboard, deciding to review the other information.

Why did the unsub need help with this victim? Was he tired? Was he caught off guard? Was she stronger than the others he preyed on and he didn’t anticipate that?

You don’t hear the rest of Morgan and Hotch’s conversation as Morgan takes him off speaker after your little spat. Probably for the better.

You have got to come down from whatever edge you’re on before Hotch gets back here. You’re practically begging him to ask prying questions when you’re acting like this.

Thankfully, neither Morgan or Reid bother with asking if you’re okay.

Unfortunately, Rossi doesn’t get the same memo when he returns with everyone else.

“Anything standing out?” Rossi asks as he comes to stand next to you, facing the board. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, relaxed.

Your arms are crossed over your chest. “No.”

He chuckles. “Wanna take a walk?”

“No,” you repeat, narrowing your eyes at the board. “Why did he need to use a bel— something to help him this time? What was different?”

Rossi shrugs. “Maybe she fought him and he wasn’t expecting it. Maybe he’s getting sloppy.”

You hum.

Rossi lowers his voice as he leans toward you. “You’re sure it was a belt?”

You remember being twelve years old, watching the same bruises form on your mother’s throat after your father had stormed out and took the belt with him. He didn’t kill her, no. Just came close. Would have if you hadn’t walked in.

“Yes,” you say back, just as quiet. “Only a belt bruises like that.”

Rossi nods slowly. You know he wants to mention that the bruises are too faint to fully tell. You know he wants to mention other things. But he won’t.

Just behind you, standing with his back facing the both of you, Hotch listens. You both lowered your voices, but not low enough.

You have insight into this case that could be valuable, and you aren’t sharing, not with everyone. Only with Rossi. Why him?

Hotch isn’t jealous; he’s curious.

And he can’t do a damn thing about it, at least not right now.

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #The Gambit #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #hotch x fem!reader #hotch x reader #hotch x you #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfic #hotch fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #angst angst angst

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starryevermore · 7 months ago

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my friends call me a loser (dumb love 2) ✧ ruhn danaan

angst city™ library | send in a request (consult request faqs first)

pairing: ruhn danaan x fem!reader

summary: ruhn wanted forever with you, but he got in his head and fucked it all up.

word count: 1,882

warnings?: angst city bitch, not proofread

PART ONE

Ruhn Danaan was, in a word, a massive fucking idiot, and Bryce had made it her mission to never let him forget it.

“What the hell do you mean that you said it was casual between you two?!” she shouted when she found out. Ruhn had holed himself up in his room, blowing through his supply of mirthroot in a vain attempt to dull the pain. But Bryce wasn’t going to let him be miserable without giving him a piece of her mind. “She fucking adored you, and I thought you did too! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

All Ruhn could manage was another long drag of his joint. Bryce snatched it out of his hands and set it in the ashtray on his nightstand. The most Ruhn could manage for a reaction was a groan and a half-assed attempt to snatch it back from her.

“Seriously Ruhn, what the fuck!?”

He shrugged. Honestly, he wasn’t sure why he did it. All Ruhn had to say was “fuck off” or, even better, that he truly liked you and he was fucking terrified of that, but all he could think to say was that it meant nothing even when it meant everything. Worse, he tried to prove to himself that he wasn’t emotionally attached to you.

It failed miserably, if anyone was wondering. When he sauntered up to the faun across the bar, all of his usual lines lacked any luster. They didn’t feel right when it wasn’t you he was saying them to. And when the faun suggested they go to her place, Ruhn was already searching for any way to get out of it. He was relieved when he saw Bryce and Hunt making their way to the bar, and he excused himself with hardly a word to the faun.

Ruhn had been delighted to hear that Bryce and Hunt had ran into you, and for Declan to confirm he saw you. He was ready to go find you, to finally have a nice evening. When Hunt said that you were actually on your way out, Ruhn couldn’t help but feel disappointed. And then a worse thought struck him—what if you had seen him with the faun? No, surely not. You weren’t the most confrontational person he knew, but you weren’t the type of person to stand for that sort of disrespect. If you had seen him, you would have said something. Besides, Bryce didn’t say anything that would indicate you were upset. Declan was oddly silent, but he also didn’t speak to you. Everything was fine. He hoped.

Yet when he went home, earlier than everyone else because he was most certainly not having a good time, he was surprised to find his room noticeably empty of anything belonging to you. The only thing that remained was your faintly fresh scent—like you had just been there. When he asked Flynn, he wanted to wring his friend’s neck for letting you walk off like that. Yes, you had seemed fine. Yes, you had been joking around with him. But no one, no one, ever just packed up all of their stuff and everything be a-okay.

Ruhn didn’t want to think about how many traffic violations he committed as he sped over to your apartment. All that he could focus on was seeing you, on hearing your voice, on making sure everything was still good. He never felt like a bigger idiot than when you forced him out, told him to lose your number, and cried on the other side of the door. Ruhn wasn’t sure how long he stood there, waiting for you to come out and say this was all a big joke or something, but he was gone before the sun came up.

Bryce’s hand balled up into a fist. “Fucking say something!” she snapped.

He wished she would just hit him and get it over with.

“Told you he’s like a ghost,” Declan said from the door, leaning against the threshold, arms crossed over his chest.

“Let him fucking rot,” Bryce said and stormed out. Declan followed, shutting the door behind him.

Ruhn picked the joint back up, shut his eyes, and pretended that you were lying beside him still.

Ruhn stood outside of the bookstore you worked at. He had no reason to be there. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever picked up a book. But you were inside, and he needed to see you just once. Needed to know that you were okay. Or, at least, as okay as you could be. Besides, it was almost the end of your shift, and someone should make sure you got home safe.

He hadn’t been around the store much before. Only really knew where it was because he picked you up there once before taking you to dinner with Bryce and Hunt. A double date, Bryce had insisted on it. She wanted to know what poor sucker had him so smitten. When Ruhn saw how well you meshed in with his life, it made him want to run for the hills and it made him want to ask you to marry him on the spot. You made his head spin. Ruhn was never sure how to make heads or tails of anything when you were involved.

And then you were coming around more often. You met Declan and Flynn. You went to their parties, outdrank all of them with ridiculous ease. It felt like you were always meant to be there. Like there was a hole in his life that he hadn’t realized existed until you were making him feel whole again.

Maybe that was what scared him. Ruhn wasn’t used to this kind of unfiltered, pure love. He never had a real relationship before. Any he had before were for the sole purpose of pissing his father off. He never cared about them, not really. But you? You made him feel the warm fuzzies the people in those shitty romance novels feel. When a person is unused to that sort of thing, it’s easy to feel ill about it. It was even easier to ruin it all before he got hurt.

He watched you through the window, chatting with a customer. You’ve been talking to them a while, actually. They’re a shifter he’s seen around before. Ruhn doesn’t know much, but he doesn’t like the way they’re leaning in across the counter, laughing at everything you say. What do they know about your jokes? They probably don’t even understand the jokes. What a fucking poser.

But then you’re touching their arm as you walk around the counter. They’re helping you with closing the store. Their hand is on the small of your back as you twist the key in the lock. Ruhn felt sick as you climbed in their car and sped down the road.

He vomited in a nearby trash can. He wiped the back of his hand against his mouth and stumbled to the White Raven. Ordered shot after shot after shot, trying to burn that image out of his mind.

The bartender had to call Declan and Flynn to get him out.

It was months before Ruhn was able to not drink himself half to death—which, for a fae, is an alarming amount of alcohol. He should count himself lucky that fae have higher healing abilities, or else his poor liver would be wrecked beyond repair. Hel, he would probably still be at home if it weren’t for everyone giving him shit for it. Let him rot, they said, but when he tried, it was suddenly a fucking problem. It was well-meaning, he thinks, but still. It’s the principal of the thing.

Still, he frequented the White Raven somehow more than he ever did before. Sometimes he would catch glimpses of you with that stupid shifter. Sometimes he would drink just enough that he could delude himself into thinking you were sitting beside him, tracing your fingernail along the swirls of his tattoos, head leaned against his shoulder. One of his friends would drag him away before he could fall too deep into the fantasy.

None of them were here tonight, though. So there was no one to stop him from ordering more shots than he should as he watched you dance with that damned shifter.

Ruhn would never wish you unhappiness, but…Was it a bad thing to wish that you didn’t move on so fast? An uncomfortable feeling settled in his gut. What right did he have to be upset? The only reason you were with that shifter was because he fucked everything up. If Ruhn had just kept his godsdamned mouth shut, it could have been him you were dancing with right now. But no, he just had to shove his whole foot into his mouth.

The song ended and faded into another. You pulled away from the shifter, heading in the direction of the restrooms. The shifter slid up to the bar, eying Ruhn, before directing his attention to the bartender and ordered a couple drinks. What an idiot. They couldn’t even order your favorite drink. What did you see in them?

He had no right to think little of the shifter, though. He gave that up. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from grabbing their attention. “Be good to her,” Ruhn said, nodding in the direction you had gone.

The shifter raised a brow. “You a friend or something?”

“Or something,” Ruhn said. “She has a good heart. Don’t break it.”

They shrugged, taking a long sip of their drink. “Eh, don’t see it getting far enough to break hearts.”

Ruhn’s heart stopped. No. It wasn’t cool when he did it—this asshole was not allowed to do the same thing to you. “Excuse me?”

“It’s nothing serious, you know? Just testing the waters.”

Ruhn’s fist swung before he could stop it. The crack of the shifter’s jaw was satisfying enough that he landed a few more punches in before they started fighting back. Ruhn was knocked into the bar, but he didn’t let that stop him. He charged at the shifter, knocked him to the ground. He blacked out from the rage—only became aware when a couple bouncers pulled him off the shifter and dragged him a few feet away.

He shook them off. “Yeah, yeah. I’m going,” he growled.

The bouncers followed him as he pushed through the crowd that formed. But he couldn’t stop himself from stomping the heel of his boot on the shifter’s nose as he passed. The bouncers yanked him away again.

“Oops, didn’t see him there.”

As the bouncers dragged him out, he caught a familiar eye in the crowd. You stared at him, eyes wide and jaw open, horrified at the display of violence before you. The bouncers dragged him straight passed you, and he could very nearly hear what you were going to say. An admonishment for fighting in public, a good tongue lashing for fighting your…whatever that shifter was.

But he beat you to the punch. “You deserve better than that lowlife,” he said.

You couldn’t let him have the final word.

“What, like you know what’s good for me?”

And somehow that hurt more than any hit that piece of shit shifter could land on him.

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roanofarcc · 2 months ago

Text

WHAT IS THIS FEELING?

pairing: yelena belova x fem!reader

summary: yelena puts on a tough front, but it always crumbles when it comes to you.

warnings: mentions of injured reader (nothing graphic), yelena's pov, confused feelings, fluff!

word count. 770 || masterlist

It took a lot for Yelena to feel like she was in a dire situation. She was almost certain she could look the end of the world in the face and hardly flinch. It was what she was trained for since she was little; problem solve, never react. That notion was too hard-wired in her brain to remove, no matter how many years she had been out of the Red Room.

However, Yelena’s defenses had cracks. That was an unfortunate part of being human. And when she felt, it was never small, only big, complicated emotions that sent her into a tailspin.

You were a soft spot for her; the tender part of her heart that never seemed to stop aching. Friends. That’s what you two called yourselves. Yelena was sure you believed that, but she knew it ran deeper for her. She wanted not to care as much, to treat you as she did the other odd collection of people she let linger in her life, but whenever she was around you, she felt different. That was the only way she could describe it: different. Not bad different, but she wasn’t certain it was good either. The only thing she knew was that it was frustrating.

It was frustrating how her heart nearly stopped when you called her from the hospital, and how she felt genuine panic as she sped through traffic, violating nearly every law of the road just to reach you. There was a pain in her chest that was so troublesome she would have admitted herself if she hadn’t needed to see you with such urgency.

You were fine; she heard so herself in your own words through the phone, but it did little to ease her worry. She nearly fell into your hospital room, tripping over her feet, unlike the goddamn assassin she was.

You were upright in the bed, sheepishly smiling as you cradled your arm nestled in a sling. Other than the plaster cast and a scratch along your cheekbone, you looked fine.

Yelena felt both relief and anger flood her veins, another confusing cocktail of feelings to swallow.

An accident, you had explained. A simple collision that left you with a fractured arm and in need of serious car maintenance. It was such a simple, human, thing. A minor car accident, not an alien invasion or government corruption. Yet, Yelena felt as if you had told her a truly terrible thing happened. You were hurt, even if your injuries were minor.

She would have tracked down the idiot who hit you if you hadn’t looked at her with a slight tilt of your head and asked her to take you home in a voice that melted like honey in Yelena’s brain. Instead of vengeance or some threatening of a civilian, she took you away from the sterile hospital room to your apartment.

The place was so comforting, so you, that Yelena often found an excuse to stay longer. If you minded her presence, you never mentioned it. You simply offered her the couch or the left side of your bed and never seemed to find it pathetic that she woke up with her head tucked in the crook of your neck or arm tossed across your stomach. The big, bad former Black Window wished every time that the world would freeze, and she could stay like that for a little while longer.

That night was no different. Yelena volunteered to help you out due to your temporary restricted arm usage, and you were quick to agree. She asked almost every ten minutes if it hurt, attempted to cook you dinner - which ended up being boxed mac and cheese that she was awfully proud of - and wrapped you in blankets like you were at risk of toppling over and breaking.

Though she didn’t say it out loud, she was scared of that. The world was a dangerous place and her presence in your life didn’t make it any safer. She had a past and present littered with red. You hardly seemed bothered by that, though. Even in the wake of a fractured bone in your arm, you had the same soft smile on your face as Yelena made herself comfortable opposite of you on the couch.

She prayed you didn’t notice the light blush that spread across her cheeks when you stretched out, resting your head on her lap as a yawn fell from your lips. Her fingers trembled slightly as she lowered her hand to your head, threading her fingers through your hair. You hummed, content, and she started to relax.

#yelena belova #yelena belova x you #yelena belova x reader #marvel #marvel fanfiction #black widow #marvel mcu #mcu

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