The 99th awful guy. Metalmankayden on Wattpad (go there for full fics) Requests welcome, just read the bottom of the pinned post for info.
I do not publish on Teenfic.net
"What, Are You Gonna Cry?" -> Roommate!Eddie Munson x Reader
"Oh, That Little Thing? Really?" -> Roommate! Eddie Munson x Reader
Pillow Talk -> Eddie Munson x Reader
Favoritism -> Best Friend!Eddie Munson x Reader
Cap Nap -> Eddie Munson x Reader
Under my Wheels -> Older!Eddie Munson x Reader
Sit Pretty -> Older!Eddie Munson x Reader
Doctor, Doctor -> Eddie Munson x Reader
Billy Hargrove
Slip N' Slide -> Lifeguard!Billy Hargrove x Reader
Don't Care -> Billy Hargrove x Reader
Rory Culkin + Characters
Rory Culkin
Found Again -> Dad's Best Friend!Rory Culkin x Reader (pt. 1)
The Zoo -> Dad's Best Friend!Rory Culkin x Reader (pt. 2)
Walk on the Right Side of the Road -> Dad's Best Friend!Rory Culkin x Reader (pt. 3)
No Treats -> Dad's Best Friend!Rory Culkin x Reader (pt. 4)
Crawling Back to You -> Dad's Best Friend!Rory x Reader (pt. 5)
A Seat Beside You -> Dad's Best Friend!Rory Culkin x Reader (pt.6)
Jack Harlow
Refreshments -> Jack Thurlow x Reader (pt. 1)
This is the House, Come on In -> Jack Thurlow x Reader (pt. 2)
Playing Games -> Jack Thurlow x Reader (pt. 3)
Tell me a Bedtime Story -> Jack Thurlow x Reader
Kappa
Beds and Heads -> Kappa x Reader
Wade Garret
Travelin' Band -> Uncle!Wade Garret x Reader
Eric Draven
Front Page Prize -> Eric Draven x Reader (pt.1)
In My Room -> Eric Draven x Reader (pt.2)
Some Horror Movie Bullshit -> Roommate!Eric Draven
Some Tough City -> Eric Draven x Reader
Street Demons -> Eric Draven x Reader
Patrick Swayze + Characters
Patrick Swayze
Goodnight, Moon -> Dad's Best Friend!Patrick Swayze x Reader
Sleep it Off -> Dad's Best Friend!Patrick Swayze
Dalton
Between a Rock and a Hard Place -> Dalton x Reader
Darry Curtis
Midnight Talk Show -> Older Brother!Darry Curtis x Younger Sister!Reader
Zigzag
Hot for Teacher -> Classmate!Zigzag x Reader
Leon Kennedy
Analysis -> Professor!Leon Kennedy x Reader
Jose Chavez y Chavez (LDP)
New Company -> Jose Chavez y Chavez x Reader
One of Us -> Jose Chavez y Chavez x Reader
Dr. Spencer Reid
The Caffeine Approach -> Spencer Reid x Reader
Listen to Me -> Spencer Reid x Reader
Jeff the Killer
Headcanons -> Jeff the Killer
Requests Rules
You can send in a request. I retain the right to deny it if I'm uncomfortable writing it.
If you send in the same request after being denied, you'll be blocked.
Nothing smutty or incredibly violent.
You can request certain reader tropes (reader is a baker, reader is chubby, reader is a rodeo clown, whatever), but self-insert requests will be denied. I write for the community here.
Be patient if you send in a request. I publish on Wattpad, am still in school, and am working on a novel. I got shit to do outside of here, too.
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I've been reading these things called SMAUs lately. Basically, just texts between Reader and Character. Thinking about making some, since I'm gearing up for another month-long fic event (coming soon, stayed tuned) and won't have a lot of time to sit down and write 1-3k words recreationally. I've included an example below with Eddie Munson as my test dummy in case you don't know what I'm talking about. But please provide your thoughts! Pardon the crop job. New technology is hard for us old folks.
Something we'd want to see more of?
Yuh
Nuh
Voting ended onJul 18
Did anybody catch my IT reference?
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Summary: Life happens. Life gets stressful. And what's a better way to handle it than by turning off your brain for a while? You hit up the local dealer, clueless on how buying works. Unfortunately, you're damn near tweaking on the day of the meeting. Eddie's not stupid, though. He can tell something isn't right. And he's not selling you squat until you open up.
WC: 2.1k
Warnings: Weed, reader is going through it, language
Masterlist
You checked your surroundings like a deer in the middle of hunting season. To the outside eye, you probably looked like one, too. Alone in the woods, paranoid, unarmed... you weren't exactly screaming "don't mess with me." No; if anything, you were a welcoming target. Alone in the woods, paranoid, unarmed... not a good look for you.
"Well, shit," a smooth voice hummed, seemingly appearing from thin air. A twig snapped under his foot as he drew nearer. "Of all the people at school, I never thought I'd be selling to you."
You looked up at him, eyes wide and alert. Eddie always scared you from afar. The individual parts to him weren't that frightening. You could never tell him, but you thought his battle jacket was sick as hell, and so was the rest of his getup. His hair seemed fun, so to speak, and his big smile-- always like a kid on Christmas-- told you that he came in peace. But all together? He was sort of intimidating. Not so much that you'd burst into tears if he spoke to you, but enough to keep you from ever approaching him. That's why you dropped the note in his locker instead of making a phone call or having a conversation. That note let you cower away.
"Well, let's get down to business." Eddie let his lunch pail clatter onto the picnic table. He gestured across from him. "Have a seat. Can't do business if you're six feet away."
You stepped away from the tree you'd been leaning against and over to the table, sitting silently on the very edge of the bench. He shot you a weird look but didn't say anything on the matter.
"So, Four-Point, what brings you to me?" He inquired, propping his elbows up on the table and joining his hands together. His chin came to rest atop his fists.
"Four-Point?" You squeaked. Damn. Wait to be cool.
"Yeah. Four-Point. How have you not heard that before? Half the school calls you that."
Oh, God. Half the school?
Eddie immediately backtracked, seeing the nervous look on your face. "It's not a bad thing," he assured you. "It's just because you're so smart. Four-Point, as in a 4.0 GPA. It's not because you're, like, a square or anything."
"A square?" You glanced up at him, daring to make eye contact only for a few seconds before you returned to the pile of pine needles on the table. "People think I'm a square?"
"God, I'm making it worse, aren't I?" He held his hands up in a peaceful gesture. "You're not a square. That was just the only other reason I could think of that somebody might be called Four-Point. Everybody calls you that because you're smart. As in, the GPA. Okay?"
You swallowed and nodded. You weren't so sure he was telling the truth, but anything to get what you needed and get out of here. "Okay."
"Okay, then." Eddie smiled softly. "Good. Now, business. Based on your whole deer-in-headlights look right now, I'm going to assume this is your first time buying?"
You nodded shyly.
"Hey, nothing wrong with that. We all start somewhere." He began rifling through his pail, setting a bag of pretzels down on the table, then a tin, rattling with something small inside, and finally, a dime bag stuffed with a mossy green substance. "So, considering this is your first time, this little baggie here will probably be enough. But... it would help if I knew what the problem was."
You paused for a moment, on edge. How did he know about your problems? Had somebody heard you talking to your guidance counselor? Damn it; you knew this would happen. You found the courage to make eye contact again, then spoke in a tiny voice. "P-problem?"
"Yeah," Eddie affirmed. "Problem. I don't know you well, so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't seem like the type to smoke recreationally. So, what is it? Joints giving you problems? Trouble sleeping? Home sucks?"
Home sucks.
God, he couldn't have summed it up better. Home sucked butt right now. School sucked, too. And so did work. And your head. You couldn't even retreat to your room and hide from your problems anymore, because they followed you into your dreams like some sort of reverse Freddy Krueger. You'd been having the stereotypical, stupid dreams about losing teeth for three days straight. Next, you'd be chased off a building and fall for a million years, only for your teeth to fall out once you hit the pavement.
"I--" The words caught before you could even get halfway through the sentence. You swallowed, but it didn't do anything for the dryness in your throat, or the tears welling up in your eyes.
"Oh. Oh, shit." Eddie straightened up, pretty brows furrowing in concern. "Hey, I didn't mean-- what happened?"
You moved your mouth wordlessly, begging syllables to work with you. "E-everything..." you managed. A sob forced its way out before you could stop it. The first of many.
"Jesus, um..." He looked around, as if there would be a trusted adult to wave over. When he found no one, he reached across the peeling table and patted your hand uncertainly. "It-- it's okay. Do you want to give me some specifics? You don't have to, but it might help if you got it off your chest..."
"I-- I got kicked off the tennis team because I hurt my wrist, and my mom got mad and isn't talking to me, but she keeps talking to my dad about it, and their room is right next to mine, so I can hear them talking at night, and I don't even understand what's so bad! I got hurt! It-- it's not like I got suspended or anything!" That was all you intended to tell him. You posted up the 'stop' sign in your head, but traffic laws don't apply to things that don't drive. "She's stressing me out because there's no way the tennis thing is the only reason she's not talking to me, but it's affecting my sleep, and that's affecting my grades, and my dad's not happy about that, and I don't know what to do!"
Eddie's thumb moved over your knuckles rapidly, like he couldn't comfort you fast enough. "Take a breath, okay? Just... just breathe a moment."
You didn't even try. You just pulled your hands away from his and cupped your face, wanting to hide. You hated crying in front of people. You hated being vulnerable. And here you were, all but wailing about your miseries with some guy who you'd never spoken to before. Embarrassment flooded your cheeks, but who could tell under the flush from your tears?
"Hey... hey, come on..." He stood up from his side of the bench, drugs totally forgotten. He rounded the corner and came over to your side, hesitating before placing his hand on your shoulder. "It's all right."
"I-I'm so t-tired!" You cried under your palms.
"Yeah. Yeah, I can see that," he agreed. "Come on; put your hands down." Eddie crouched down beside you and took you by the elbows, turning your upper body to face him. He slid up to your wrists and gave them each a gentle tug. He bit his lip to keep down a smile when you resisted. "It's okay. Just look at me."
You let him pull twice more before allowing him to uncover your face. No amount of biting would keep down the smile now. Your cheeks were all wet and red and puffy, your nose a similar color. Your lower lip trembled between sobs, your lashes stuck together with tears... all things considered, you were a pretty crier. Or pretty in general.
"There... hi..." He nodded approvingly, still holding your wrists in his calloused, warm hands. "Good to see you. Can you breathe?"
You nodded. Now, how well you could breathe was up for interpretation, but oxygen went in and carbon dioxide came out. That was breathing in your book.
"Okay. Take a big breath and hold it for me. As long as you can," he instructed gently.
You tried, counting the seconds in your head. One... two... three... four... Just before you could think of 'five,' your body forced the air out, and the sobs started up again.
"Good. Again."
Again, and again, and again. Somehow, it worked. Before long, you were reduced to sniffles and hiccups. Eddies thumbs remained on your radials and his eyes stayed on yours the whole time. He gave you a moment of silence before breaking his news to you.
"I'm not going to sell you anything today."
Your stomach plummeted. Really? After pouring your heart out to him, laying out all the reasons why you needed the weed, and giving him a front row seat to the emotions you desperately needed to turn off, he wasn't going to give you anything?
"No, no. Eddie, I need this--"
"Shh..." He gave your wrists a little squeeze and shook his head firmly. "Bars won't serve you beer if you come in shitfaced. I, as a dealer, can't sell to you if you're already spiraling. I won't go to bed feeling good about that. I'm sorry about your wrist, and your mom-- that's really petty of her, by the way-- and about your grades and your wellness, but Y/N, I can't give this to you and feel okay about it."
A whine clawed its way up your throat. "What-- what am I supposed to do, then? If you won't help me, what am I supposed to do?"
"I didn't say I wouldn't help you," Eddie corrected. "I just said I wouldn't sell to you. Come on; stand up."
He didn't give you a chance to act on your own. He straightened his knees, hauling you up with him. He released your wrists, only to smooth the hair out of your face. He just looked at you for a second, as if confirming in his head that this was what he wanted to do, before wrapping his arms around you.
The first thing to hit you was the smell. You could smell the pot on his jacket; faint, like he'd smoked while wearing it and hadn't washed it since. The cologne masked it slightly, but not well. You couldn't describe it other than being akin to the holiday season. In that little gap between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Like sitting in front of a fire after eating a crazy amount of pie. The second thing you noticed was just how warm he was. Your breath bouncing between the crook of his neck, the cover of his curls, the heat in his palms against your back.
The last thing was the safety. Never in a million years would you have thought you'd buy from Eddie Munson or seek refuge in Eddie Munson. Hell, that you'd even talk to Eddie Munson. But he held you so close, with no expectation to talk or apologize. Just to be still.
"Weed won't fix this." His chest vibrated against your cheek. "I think a conversation would do more. Just, 'hey, mom, this is bullshit, let's talk.' Actually, you should see a doctor. You could get your wrist checked out, and then maybe get something proper for all this stress."
"It's just a sprain," you sniffled. "And she won't talk to me."
"Then write her a note. Leave it on her pillow or slip it in her bag. If she won't read it, write more. Keep writing until she caves or gets over herself and talks to you again."
"...you really think that'll work?"
Eddie pulled back slightly with a little sigh. His hands framed your shoulder blades. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know this lady. But the silent treatment? Over getting kicked off a team because of an injury? Even a five-year-old could see how stupid that is. At this point, I'm willing to bet she's only keeping it up because she's too proud to admit how stupid this is. If not..." He winced. "Mama might have some problems."
"What do I do if it doesn't work? The-- the letters, or the conversation."
"Call me," he said simply. "Then we'll talk about getting high, because that's a whole other demon. But for now, I'm prescribing you with hugs and deep breaths. You're in luck, too. Insurance covers everything."
You chuckled. Eddie's shoulders visibly relaxed at the sound, like he'd been freestyling this whole thing and just praying that something stuck. "Do I get free refills on the hugs?"
He pulled you back into him, smile widening. "Definitely."
Ask to join my taglist! Message me with the character(s) you want to be notified of (or just all posts in general), and I'll add you. Requests are welcome!
genuine writers getting wrongly accused of using ai because of witch hunt and proper grammar/structure in their works must be what being a woman in the 1600s who is wrongly accused of being a witch because she can read and is intelligent feels like
Summary: Everybody knows the streets of Detroit are not for the weak. You do what you can to be prepared-- pepper spray, a pocketknife, the works. You've been fortunate enough to never need them. Until tonight. But fight or flight took the night off and left you with freeze, leaving a lurker to come to your rescue.
WC: 2.6k
Warnings: Catcalling, Freaky?Thug, robbery, mentions of cigarette, language, fistfight.
Masterlist Requested by: @bubbles-and-bat-wings
Hope this is okay! I haven't done a request before 👀
The whistling bothered you, but you'd learned to tune it out. You told yourself that the Skinwalkers and wendigo that heard them would do their due diligence, although you didn't believe in such things. It helped a little. The degrading shouts bothered you a little more. You told yourself they only shouted because they were too scared to actually talk to you, so you'd be safe on your side of the road. No harm would come to you if you kept walking. You'd learned to recognize some of the voices, even. You gave them names. The guy that needed to lay off the Marlboro's was Michael, because he sounded like Michael Wincott. The group of youngsters was collectively known as Alpha Sigma, a name earned from their frat-like behavior and presumed alpha-male mindsets. Knowing who they were almost made it feel safer. Of course, it wasn't, but the brain does what it wants.
For the past three years, that had been the routine. Get off at ten o'clock, thug out the walk home, and reward yourself with some tea once you reached the safety of your apartment. The walk wasn't long, only twenty minutes, but four nights and one afternoon per week, they still managed to scare the shit out of you.
Last week, a new voice joined the choir, and much closer to your apartment than most of the regulars could be found. Immediately, the name 'Lemmy' popped into your head. You hadn't listened to much Motorhead in recent years, but you were certain that the reincarnation of the singer was the one hooting and hollering at you. All you needed to prove it was some badass bass and drums, and boom. Lemmy Kilmister. For the past six days, he'd called for you. You were sure tonight wouldn't be any different.
You stared out the front window of the Olive Garden, watching as the rain poured down. Not only did you have to walk home in that, but Lemmy was probably out tonight. The usual logic didn't seem to work with him. Maybe it was because he was closer to home.
"You good?" The bartender asked, stopping beside you. Victor wasn't the official bartender, but most of the drink orders went to him. Somehow, he was just better at it.
"Yeah." You nodded. "Just wondering why I don't have an umbrella."
"I can give you a ride if you want. I just cleaned my truck, too. You could let me know how I did, since I've never done it before."
You furrowed your brow and shifted to stare at Victor. "Really?" You asked. "In your thirty years on this planet, you've never cleaned a car?"
"Well, yeah. I got my license two years ago, and this is my first car. I'm still learning."
"...okay, then. What exactly did you do to clean it?"
"I took out all the stuff, and I got an air freshener."
"Uh huh... And did you vacuum anything, or wipe anything down?"
Victor shrugged. "Didn't know you could do that," he said. "But I don't think my vacuum could fit in there anyways."
So, his car isn't clean at all. Just empty. Yuck.
"Yeah, I think I'll pass on that tonight. But for future reference, you don't vacuum your car like a floor. You need to use the hose attachment."
"Hose? Like, garden hose?"
"You know what? Just invite me over next time you clean your truck. I'll show you. I'll see you, Victor."
"Suit yourself. Have a good night."
He pushed the door open, allowing you out into the rain. He went left towards his truck, and you headed right towards the crosswalk. Maybe the rain would scare off the new guy. Alpha Sigma usually stayed away when the clouds came to play. Hopefully, he worked the same.
Lemmy's voice came much sooner than normal. Only ten minutes in, you heard a barely coherent wail.
"Yoooooo-hoooooo...!"
"Ghost-ass freak," you muttered to yourself, holding the strap of your purse a little closer to your torso.
"Hey!"
You picked up the pace and took an abnormal right through an alleyway. This was a route you'd only dared to take once, and in broad daylight. Even though it was faster, you didn't consider yourself dumb enough to walk down an alley in Detroit at night all by yourself. That was, as your mother put it, "documentary-starring behavior."
"Hey, look who came to play!"
Wrong choice.
Your stomach dropped as you realized your mistake. Lemmy hadn't been further up the street, as you'd previously assumed. He'd been lurking in the alleyway. The alleyway you'd just ducked into.
Upon first glance, he just looked like some guy. His thin hair was greying, his eyebrows needed to be trimmed, and most of his teeth were crooked. His outfit suggested a lazy day, both his hoodie and his sweatpants stained with grease and something brown. He approached, an unsightly smile on his pasty cheeks.
"Evenin'," he greeted, eyeing you up and down. His thick accent was easier to understand when he wasn't yelling. "Finally decided to introduce yourself, yeah?"
"No. I actually got the day mixed up; we're not supposed to meet right now. Excuse me."
You started to back away, not daring to take your eyes off him. Lemmy didn't like this. Grimy fingers dug into your wrist, keeping you in place. "No, I think you're right," he said. "Just put it on your calendar wrong, then."
"Let go." You tried to sound tough. It didn't end up sounding very tough.
"That's a pretty purse," he mused. "Where'd you get that?"
"Thrift store in Kansas City. You wouldn't know it. Have a good night." You tugged on your arm, hellbent on leaving his nasty ass in the alley. But when he yanked back, you couldn't help the whimper that slipped out. His grin widened.
"Scared, are you? Don't be. Just eager to meet new people, is all. I really like this purse..." Lemmy reached out with the hand that wasn't holding your shit hostage to run a filthy hand over the fabric. "Is that real leather?"
"Who knows, man? Give it up already."
Another tug from you, another tug from him.
"I want it. How much you sellin' it for?"
"It's not for sale. Leave me alone."
He grinned, beady eyes bouncing from the bag to your face. "You clearly ain't know. Anything comes down this alley, it's for sale." He paused, training his eyes on you for a minute. "People include. But I like you, so I'll cut a deal. It's either you, or this purse."
"Excuse me?"
"I can either have the purse..." Lemmy articulated slowly. "Or I can have you. Your choice."
The answer was obvious. You weren't about to sit there and let whatever he planned happen when you could just trade the purse and walk away. Hopefully walk away. You never knew with these guys. You opened your mouth, ready to make a final (weak) plea before handing over your bag. As soon as your lips parted, someone else spoke. Not Lemmy. Not Michael, although these were usually his stomping ground. Someone who sounded a lot gentler than any of the late-night freaks you encountered.
"Keep the bag," the new guy said from behind you. You would have turned around to say hello, but taking your eyes off Lemmy didn't seem like the wisest idea you'd ever had.
"Who're you?" Lemmy demanded, grin quickly falling into a frown. "This ain't your business."
"That doesn't matter." A hand brushed the side of your shoulder, silently asking you to step aside. You did, taking in what little appearance you could catch of the newcomer. His hair hung in damp curls; the sort of things that made people with straighter hair question their texture after a shower. What little light came from the street made it hard to distinguish what was hair and what was trenchcoat. You hadn't caught his face, but immediately, he became Loki. One final glance at his hair solidified the idea. "That bag doesn't belong to you. Neither do people."
"Says who?"
"The law, for one. It's illegal to steal, and it's illegal to purchase people, if that's truly what you intended to do. Even if you weren't, there's other things you can't do to her."
"I don't see no lawman here. And I sure don't see your toothpick ass doin' nothin' to stop me."
Lemmy made the decision to reach for you. Loki vetoed this instantly. He grabbed his forearm and twisted. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to make sure Lemmy knew they weren't friends. He groaned and yanked his arm back, swinging at Loki. A duck, a punch, a groan, another punch. Rinse and repeat.
You stood there, watching this go down like a dumbass. What were you waiting for? For Loki to render Lemmy immobile and escort you home like a gentleman? Hell, no. You ran past the scuffle and out the other side of the alley, clutching your purse like an old lady in peril.
Left on Fuller Street.
Right on Mercer.
Right on Prince.
Right onto... Fuller?
How had you ended up back where you started? You knew the route home? You didn't even need the street signs; you could do it with your eyes closed. So how had this happened?
You tucked into a small walkway between two buildings-- not an alley, just a space. No way a car could fit back there. It was barely big enough for a biker to comfortably pass a pedestrian. You bent over and braced your hands on your knees, panting. The puddles on the cracked concrete soaked your shoes, but that wasn't a concern right now; getting home was. You'd just gotten disoriented, is all. Not thinking straight. You went out the wrong side of the alley and got mixed up. That was it.
After a couple moments, you straightened up. You had your purse. You had your sanity. You just needed to get home. That was simple. Just get on the right side of the damn alley, and you could take your left-right-right turns and then right to the parking lot. You took one step.
Before you could take two, a hand clamped onto your shoulder. You let out a yelp, one hand going to the strap of your bag and the other balling up as you spun around. To your surprise, it was Loki that caught the punch in his own warm hand. His expression remained blank, as if he hadn't almost gotten clocked. The way his eyes focused was weird. Like he was looking straight through you.
"Easy," he said flatly. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"You sure? Sneaking up on someone like that doesn't exactly invite friendliness." You took your hand from his grip and place it at the base of your neck, feeling your pulse thrum rapidly.
"He won't bother you again," Loki assured, skipping the small talk. "I made sure of that."
"What'd you do? Put his feet where his ears are supposed to be?"
"Don't worry about it."
Jesus, did he really?
"Anyways, you shouldn't be out here. It's not safe." He gave a pointed look towards the street, not-so-subtly implying where you should go.
"I know that. I've walked this route for two years and lived in Detroit all my life. He's never been that close to work before."
He tilted his head and quirked a brow, finally showing some sort of emotion. "You know him?"
"Sort of. He's been hollering at me for the past week or so whenever I leave work. Just one of many. He's usually on MLK Boulevard; I don't know why he was so close to work."
"It would be safer to take a taxi, or drive." His tone was almost chiding. You had to fight the urge to stare at the floor. "I'm sure you've noticed, but Detroit isn't the place to be at night."
"I'll keep that in mind next time I have some money to spare," you mumbled. "Thanks for... handling him, however you did it." You headed back towards the street, mentally plotting your route. You only got through 'go left' before Loki's voice cut through your thoughts.
"Let me walk you."
"Sorry?"
He approached you as you stood under the streetlight, the yellow light casting a weird glow on your sopping hair. "Let me walk you home. It's late, and you shouldn't be out here alone."
"...all right," you agreed cautiously. "I'm off Hinzer Place. It's not far. But, um, what's your name?"
"I know where that is. By the 7-Eleven that keeps getting robbed."
"Yes, exactly. I'm right next door. Your name?"
Loki seemed hesitant to give you one. For a moment, you thought of Donkey asking Shrek for his name. Would he make it up on the spot, like you were certain Shrek did? Or maybe he'd just withhold it entirely. You weren't pals, after all. He was just some guy who saved your stupid ass.
"Eric."
Eric, okay. That's human.
"Nice to meet you, Eric. I'm Y/N."
"Pleasure. Let's go."
~~~~~~~~
Eric didn't talk much. He answered the questions you asked-- what was he doing out so late, how long had he been in Detroit. Every answer seemed false. They came a little too fast to be natural. A man with his quiet, flat demeanor shouldn't have been so quick to answer. The forced manner of the conversation made the short walk seem much longer.
He stopped at the outer edge of the complex's parking lot, standing like Slenderman waiting for a new proxy. You looked up at him, confused. He stared at the building, clearly expecting you to go in it.
"...Thank you for walking me," you tried.
"You're welcome."
"...have a good night."
"You, too."
God, this was getting too weird for you. You stepped over the curb and between the soaked bushes separating the sidewalk from the complex's parking lot.
"Wait a minute."
You paused, looking over your shoulder to Eric. He'd silently made his way between the bushes but didn't cross onto the property. He just stared down at you from the little planter. "Are you okay?" He inquired, a hint of concern in his voice.
"I mean, I guess so. I didn't get my ass kicked, and I made it home in one piece, with my purse."
"Just because you didn't get cut doesn't mean you're fine," he reasoned, hair blowing in the breeze across his face. The wet strands plastered themselves to his cheeks, but he didn't seem to notice. "So, are you okay?"
Were you?
"...maybe. I don't know." You looked down at your shoes this time, a tight band forming around your head. "I'm scared, yes. Upset that some people have the nerve to act like that. And I'm not thrilled that I have to do it all again tomorrow."
Eric nodded in agreement. Some people clearly had never been taught proper etiquette. He opened his mouth, paused, then spoke in a voice that wasn't quite confident. "I could walk you, if you like. They'll probably leave you alone if there's someone with you."
You tried hard to meet Eric's eyes. Instead of being trained on you, like they'd been seconds ago, they now focused on a very interesting leaf on an even more interesting bush. "I'd appreciate that," you agreed in a tone bordering on a whisper. You took a breath, then continued. "Would you like to come in for tea?"
"Tea?" His eyes remained on the foliage.
"I always have tea after work. It helps me relax. Do you want some?"
For a moment, you thought he might not say anything. Or just walk off into the wind like some sort of badass. Instead, he picked his eyes back up, looking at you. Not through you.
"I'd like that," he admitted, voice barely audible over the rain, even though it had started to slow down. "I haven't had tea in a long time."
"I have earl grey, green, and black. Do you have a preference?"
Eric shook his head. "I don't care."
"All right, then. Let's go."
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I'm writing a book. This isn't my first time doing this, but it's my first time using Plotfactory. I like how well it's organized, which is what drew me to it. Recently, I got hit with the urge to start a new project. I wanted to create a holding space for it. Somewhere where I could jot down the ideas for it under the title. I tried to create that with Plotfactory, but they set a limit of one story with a free account.
Now, I'm not in a space to pay for an upgraded account. I've looked into several alternatives-- Manusckript, NovelEasy, places like that-- but nothing seems quite right. I'm looking for suggestions from literally anybody. All I ask is that it's free and easily organized.
I've posted this on my other account as well. I'm much less active there, but I can't keep putting everything in my notes app. It's starting to look like a jungle in there. Again, any ideas welcome. If I have to go back to Word, I will, but I'd really rather not.
Yo so I've got one requested fic on the way for y'all, but it might be slightly delayed.
For one, I just graduated, and I've got a lot of affairs to get in order. Another thing, allergies are whooping my ass and it's hard to do more than get out of bed right now.
Request is for Eric Draven; I'll link it here as soon as it's done. I'll get it out as soon as I can. Thanks for your patience!
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Summary: We all know that Reid is always going to be the smartest person in any room. Everyone has come to terms with it. What's never easy is when you're proven wrong so casually, especially after you've already screwed up once.
If you hadn't spent six years working towards your lifelong goal of being an FBI agent, you might've thrown in the towel an hour ago. You'd been cooped up in the same room all day, reading the same stack of papers over and over again. By now, you had most of them memorized, but Hotch bribed you with a bagel to read them. "We're missing something," he insisted flatly. "See what you can find."
You laid your head down on some of the scattered papers, exhausted and frustrated. Why couldn't he just get Reid to do this? He read way faster than you anyways. You stayed down like that for another moment or two, resting your tired eyes, before gathering up the stack and heading out of your dungeon, intent on finding your team.
"Excuse me?" You spoke up, approaching an officer by the coffee machine. "Did you see where my team went?"
"Oh, sure." She nodded. "They're in the conference room. It's the one all the way at the end of the hall."
You thanked her quickly and made your way down the aforementioned hallway, steeling yourself to admit your shortcomings.
The team was settled around the oval table, Morgan's phone open in the center. Garcia's voice came through it, rattling off some facts about the latest victim. Nobody even looked up as the door shut behind you. Reid scribbled in his notebook, hanging off Garcia's every word. You waited patiently, standing awkwardly in front of the door. There weren't enough chairs for you to sit with them.
Finally, when Garcia hung up, Prentiss gave you her attention. Not all of it-- her eyes bounced from Reid's notes to you-- but some of it. "Hey," she greeted peacefully. "You find anything?"
"No," you replied. "Hotch, I really don't think there's anything left to infer. We already sucked all the information out of our notes; there's nothing left."
Hotch sighed, clearly unhappy with your results, but didn't send you back to solitary confinement. "All right, then. Why don't you join us? We're looking at victim profiles right now."
You nodded but didn't move. With nowhere to sit, you'd have to participate from the wall. "What do we know so far?"
"Six victims so far, all female. They were all found in the Brightmoor neighborhood, and they each were strangled. They all looked different, so we're not thinking that there's a specific appearance he likes. Other than that, they have nothing in common."
"Do we know any names? Or age or anything?" You inquired.
"They were young," JJ said. "The youngest one looked to be in her early twenties, but the others are probably between twenty and thirty. We only have one name, though." She pointed to the whiteboard. The latest victim was the only column with a real name over it instead of Jane Doe and a number-- Felicia Nicholson. "She was the only one with an ID."
"Do we think maybe they were sex workers?" You pondered, crossing your ankles. "I mean, our unsub clearly has no real 'type,' they're in a bad neighborhood and found in secluded spots, and only one had her ID with her."
"No," Reid cut in abruptly. "They're not. The ME never found any signs of--"
"Well, that's true; yes. But maybe they just didn't get that far. I mean, think about it, Reid. In almost every other case we've worked--"
"I thought about it, and so did the rest of us. They weren't prostitutes."
"Do we know for sure, though? What evidence do we have to suggest that they weren't, when we have--"
"You've done this long enough to know that just because women exist in a bad part of town, doesn't mean they work the streets. Just because they weren't carrying an ID with them doesn't mean they were doing something illegal." He didn't sound mad, exactly. Maybe frustrated, or tired, but not calm enough to keep the condescendence out of his tone. "When are you going to learn that no case is the same?"
You shrunk back into the wall, an embarrassed heat creeping up your neck. "I-- I know that, Reid. It's just that--"
"If you know it, then act like it."
"Jesus, Reid. What was that for?" Morgan asked, furrowing his brow. "She has a point, man. We could be wrong. It's happened before."
"She's not considering the fact that the ME didn't find anything to suggest that they--"
"Right, but she still is right to consider that the victims and the unsub just didn't get that far. In my honest opinion, I think we should go ask around; see if anybody working knew these girls. And even if they didn't, we can still--"
"You're not listening," Reid interrupted. He seemed to be having a hard time waiting for his turn today. "They're not prostitutes. She's been wrong a million times before. Even earlier today, when she thought the fake ID on the fifth victim was a real one. I've never been wrong."
The embarrassment turned to shame. In your defense, it was the most realistic fake ID you'd ever seen. Even Hotch thought it was valid at first glance. But just because you'd taken longer to discern the difference, and just because you weren't perfect pretty-boy Reid, your theories and logic got tossed into the garbage can.
"Excuse me," you mumbled, pulling the door open and sliding out. You closed it gently, although you wanted to slam it. For a moment, you just stood on the other side, chest heaving. You weren't going to cry. You couldn't. Spencer was just tired, like everybody else, and he wasn't trying as hard to filter his thoughts. Yes; that was it. That was the only thing wrong. Not you; just him.
Then again, he was right. You had misjudged the ID, and you had made mistakes before. Spencer hadn't. Not to your knowledge, anyways.
"God..." You whispered, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, fighting back both exhaustion and tears. "What's wrong with me?"
"You look rough," Lieutenant Hall noted, approaching you. "How'd it go in there? Did you guys figure out anything else?"
"No," you replied a little too quickly, swallowing your emotions. "Not yet. We're floating a couple ideas, but nothing new yet."
"Are you okay?" He asked, squinting at you. "You don't look so good."
"I'm just tired, is all." It wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't necessarily a lie, either. "It's been a long day."
"I can make you some coffee," he offered. "There's a machine in the breakroom. My sergeant just got a bunch of these new syrup flavor things to try instead of using cream and sugar, and they're pretty good."
"Sure," you agreed. Even if the coffee was shit, you'd be glad to get away from the room you knew people were stilling talking about you in. "I'd appreciate that."
Lieutenant Hall walked you to the breakroom, yapping incessantly about how glad he was that the unit came all this way to help, how he knew the community would be so relieved once the unsub was caught, how good of a job you were doing. You tried not to listen. Maybe as a team, your efforts were valiant, but you felt you brought the score from a ninety percent down to an eighty. You couldn't admit it out loud, but the thought bumped along in your brain.
"Okay, okay. We got vanilla, caramel, chocolate, and cinnamon," he rattled off, grabbing a k-cup from the cupboard. "Take your pick."
"I don't know. Which one do you like?"
"I've only had the vanilla one, but it tasted exactly like creamer. Supposedly, caramel is good, too."
"Vanilla's fine."
"All right." He pressed the 'brew' button on the machine. A thick, warm smell filled the air as your coffee poured out. "You know, I had a thought about all these victims. Do you guys think maybe they were prostitutes?"
Jesus, here we go again.
"It's, um... it's something we've briefly talked about, but not really in depth," you muttered, skirting around the part where you said the same thing and got torn up for it.
"I think it might be worth a conversation," Lieutenant Hall continued. "I've lived and worked in Detroit for the past twenty-six years. I've seen my fair share of these sorts of deaths. Just... y'know, never this many all at once."
"Yeah." God, could your coffee take any longer to brew? "We're thinking about it."
"What's that Frankenstein-guy think about it? He seems like he's in charge. What're his thoughts?"
"He-- he wasn't there when we talked about it, so..." You kept your eyes down, hoping you sounded convincing enough.
"Oh. Well, next time you see him, maybe bring it up." He reached into the same cupboard the k-cup came from, grabbing the bottle of vanilla syrup.
"Excuse me?"
You both turned at the same time. Reid stood in the doorway, hands hanging awkwardly at his sides.
"Do you mind if I talk with her for a minute?" He asked, glancing briefly at you. "It's important."
"Oh, yeah. Don't let me get in your way." Lieutenant Hall set the bottle down on the counter. "Start with a pump, but you can add more if you like. Let me know what you think."
"I will; thank you."
He gave you a nod, then squeezed past Reid, who still lingered in the threshold. For a moment, Spencer didn't say anything. Just looked at you. You could only look back for so long before it became insufferable. Instead, you grabbed your coffee and pumped an intentionally slow shot into your cup, hoping Reid would either speak first or go away.
You didn't hear him approach. When he spoke, though, his voice came from directly behind you. It wasn't as blunt as it had been in the conference room. "I'm sorry," he admitted quietly. "I shouldn't have acted like that."
"But you were right," you sighed. "You don't make mistakes. I've made plenty."
"That doesn't mean you're wrong, though. It just means you're..."
"Not as smart as you?" You finished. "Yeah. I know."
Reid swallowed. "I was thinking maybe 'eager,' or something. But, yes. You're not as smart as me. But that's not your fault. And I shouldn't have reacted like that. It... it does look like they might have been sex workers, but still, there's no physical evidence to suggest that."
"It doesn't mean I'm wrong." You fought back a sniffle. "Even Lieutenant Hall thought they might have been. We were just talking about that before you came in. He says he's seen a lot of cases like this with prostitutes, just never this many. Don't-- don't you know about Ridgway? Or-- or Robert Lee Yates?"
"They operated in well-known red-light districts in Washington. There's almost ten miles to either of the nearest ones from Brightmoor."
"That doesn't mean that they don't travel," you huffed, finally turning to look at him. "I don't care what the ME did or didn't say they found. I think Morgan's right. We should at least go talk to some of the girls and see if they know any of our victims."
He let out a long sigh, considering this. People did own cars and often drove out a ways for late-night endeavors. "I'm not going to agree with you yet," he started slowly. "But if you feel this passionately about it, I will talk to Hotch."
"Thank you," you said, struggling to speak around the lump in your throat.
Spencer frowned. Maybe he wasn't the best at socializing, but he could still recognize what tears sounded like. "Why are you so upset?" He inquired in a gentler tone.
"Because you offended me, Reid. In front of the whole team." You looked up at him, eyes shining. "Even Hotch said the ID looked real. And-- and Morgan's been wrong before, and you've never said anything like that about him. Same with Prentiss, and Rossi. So why me? What's so stupid about me that you felt the need to call me out like that?"
"You're not stupid," he insisted. He hesitated before hesitantly putting a hand on her bicep. "And I don't know why I did that. I-- I'm tired, and frustrated, but that's no excuse. I'm sorry."
"We're all tired, Reid. We're all frustrated." It was your turn to sound harsh. "At this point, there's two options: we either wait for DNA results and hope they give us something, or we go talk to people. Sitting and twiddling our thumbs because you don't think they were working isn't an option."
"I get it, okay?" He slid his hand off your arm, opting to place it on your back instead. "I get it. Getting worked up isn't going to help anything either. So, take a deep breath--"
"You take a deep breath," you mumbled.
Reid drew his lips into a tight line, debating with himself. He knew it wasn't worth trying to reason with you while you were like this, but at the same time, he caused this, at least in part. That made him responsible for fixing it.
He steeled himself, taking a breath before placing his free hand on your back, right beside the first one. He pulled you in until your chest bumped his and your cheek came to rest right over his heart. You could hear it underneath his sweater, thumping away like a drum.
"What are you doing?" You demanded, too stunned to move. You'd never known Reid to hug anyone. There was legend of him hugging Hotch-- the least huggable man in the whole bureau-- after he was kidnapped, but you'd never been shown any evidence. And here he was, hugging you.
"I'm hugging you," he said quietly, almost right in your ear. "It lowers cortisol, and I think you need one."
You couldn't argue there. Hugs did tend to come in handy when emotions ran high. As much as you wanted to push back, to treat him the same way he treated you, you didn't. Instead, you let your shoulders drop from their defensive position and let out a little breath. Reid rewarded you with gentle strokes of his thumb between your shoulder blades.
"I know you're tired, and I know I didn't help things," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."
You didn't say anything. Verbally accepting apologies always felt awkward. "I accept your apology" was too formal, and you didn't want to tell him that it was okay, because it wasn't. Understandable, sure, but not okay. You opted just to nod, the wool of his sweater rustling under your hair.
"Guys." Hotch's flat voice sounded suddenly. You lifted your head to look at him, slightly flustered to be caught like this. "There's another victim. Let's go."
Reid released you with a sigh. "I guess it's our time to shine, then."
"I suppose," you returned, starting for the door.
"Hey-- hang on a second." He reached out and grabbed your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. "For now, I wouldn't look at this like we know they're sex workers, okay? We don't know for sure."
"Reid--"
"But I want you to keep the idea in mind, okay? Not in the front, but... not on the back burner, either."
You blinked. You'd been anticipating another argument, not for him to give you the go-ahead to pursue your theory. Well, not outright, but still.
"Okay," you concurred, voice cracking slightly.
"Come on, then. They're probably waiting for us." He let go of your wrist, striding past you. The more he considered it, the more he wanted to believe you. He'd never admit it out loud, especially not because he just ridiculed you about it, but he'd make sure you weren't the only one looking for signs this time.
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ITS SUPPOSED TO SAY EDDIE MUNSON BUT I CANT CHANGE IT
If y'all have recommendations I'm down to listen. Can't guarantee it'll happen, but I'd love to discuss. I've got ideas for all of these but have come to a standstill in my novel and need something to get ideas flowing again.
Jeff: he's "reluctantly" willing to assist with some back pain (this is so self indulgent)
Eddie: Buying from him when you're this 🤏🏽 close to a breakdown
Reid: He forgets that not everyone is as smart as him, and feelings get hurt.
Unfortunately, I can't format this the same way I did in Canva, where I have pictures and text, so I guess just use your imagination. Go to Pinterest; that's what I did.
WC: 2.8k
Warnings: Language, smoking, drinking, jail, scars + burns, disrespectful!Jeff, shameless!Jeff, gore, mentions of Mayhem, reckless driving, mentions of shotgunning.
...yeah, have fun.
Masterlist
There are some hot takes in here. Get ready.
Yeah, yeah. Jeff is a metalhead. Grew up an emo boy and blossomed into a moshing maniac. But what does he really listen to?Well, Slipknot. Duh. I mean, have you seen him? He likes Megadeth, maybe a little Anthrax, but he’s not much of a Slayer or Metallica guy. He respects Ozzy, but the music just isn’t for him. He’ll laugh if you put Motley Crue on. On a rare occasion, you might catch some Mayhem or Type O Negative. Rammstein is a frequent flier in his headphones.
Maybe this is too niche, but I think he’d absolutely love Shockwire.
Sometimes, he’ll go back to his roots. Falling in Reverse, Linkin Park, maybe even a little My Chemical Romance. He’d never admit it, but The Sharpest Lives will always have a special place in his heart.
“You ever heard of Linkin Park?” He asked, popping a bud out of ear and turning to Jane.
“No. Is that where the Lincoln Monument is?”
Jeff laughed, then shook his head. “Figures. Of course you’d think that’s what Linkin Park is. You’re so cute.”
~~~~~~~~
Raise your hand if you’re surprised that Jeff loves horror movies? You? How?
He’s not big into paranormal or psychological movies. But slashers? He’s seen them all. He thinks Ghostface is pretty stupid (and, let’s face it, overdone), but Chucky? He loves that freak. He’s funny, he’s crazy, plus his wife’s pretty hot. The only bad part about Child’s Play to him is the fact that someday, Brad Dourif will die, and the series won’t be right without him.
His all-time favorites are whatever Rob Zombie gets up to. They’re filthy, they’re bloody, and Sherri. God, he loves Sherri. Especially in the Firefly trilogy. Her laugh drives him up the wall, but everything else is just perfect.
“Isn’t she great?” Jeff asked, resting his chin on his fist. “Total babe.”
“What about the movie?”
“What about it? Sherri’s here. I don’t care about whatever they’re getting up to anymore.”
~~~~~~~~
Part of Jeff’s natural stink comes from the fact that he’s always got a carton of Marlboro Reds in his pocket. He’s not a chain smoker, but he still knocks out a couple every day-- more than he knows he should.
His favorite thing about smoking is shotgunning. It’s intimate, but still so hot to him. Just the idea of controlling how much he gets to share is enough to get him a little worked up. Unfortunately, shotgunning is a little hard, considering the gashes in his cheeks, but as long as they’re covered up by someone else’s hands, it’s his favorite part of a not-so-casual encounter.
“I don’t get how you like those things,” Jane grumbled, snatching the stick from between Jeff’s lips and stamping it out on the porch. “And you wonder why we’re always complaining about how you smell.”
He blew the residual smoke out in her face, smiling. Not like he had a choice. “The more I smoke, the less time I have to spend around you.”
~~~~~~~~
Jeff was a boy scout. There’s simply no other option. He’s a total outdoorsman. He’s the guy at the bonfire with the big stick. But aside from the firepit, he can pitch tents, identify tracks, and navigate like it’s second nature.
His favorite thing about being outdoors? Trees. They supply the bonfire sticks, but they’re also fun to climb. He’s had his fair share of encouters where a seemingly-sturdy branch has given out under his weight, but that doesn’t stop him. Nothing will get between an insomniac in the woods and seeing the sunrise from twenty feet off the ground.
“How far up do you think I could get?” Jeff asked, pointing to a large spruce tree. “I reckon... all the way to the top.”
“I give you ten before you fall and break your ass,” Ben challeneged.
A boyish smirk crossed Jeff’s face. He was never one to back down from a challenge, especially not from the screenager.
“Oh, yeah? Check this out, then.”
~~~~~~~~
OOOH the side eye this man gives. Anytime, anywhere, he’s casting the most bombastic looks your way. If you pull a prank and you get that look? You’re cooked. Publicly roast his ass? Consider yourself spit-roasted.
He almost never acts right away. That side-eye is your warning. He’ll wait and let you stew on what he could do in return. He’ll strike when you least expect it, even if you’ve gotten all worked up about what he’s capable of. When you’re brushing your hair. When you’re eating. When you’re simply sitting on the couch, watching TV. He’ll get you. This side-glance is only the beginning, but it’s nasty.
“Really? Really?” He scoffed, his permanent smile twisting into a sadistic smirk. “I’ll get you for that one; just you wait.”
“Wha-- oh, come on, man; I didn’t--”
He clicked his tongue and shook his head in an almost demeaning manner. “No, you made your bed. Now lie in it.”
~~~~~~~~
Jeff LOVES his alternative jewelry. Ear piercings galore, a lip ring, vertical piercing on the outer edge of an eyebrow; my man is bejeweled. Airport security is a total pain in the ass-- and jail, too. But he’s almost always got a ring or three on, just to be fancy.
And I know he’s got a whole collection of studded belts, from diamonds to rings. He’s the sort of guy to stand over his drawer and stroke his chin going, “Hmm, what to wear...” And he always makes the right choice.
“Aw, shit. Hey! Hey, can you help me?” He called.
When you glanced over, you noticed a man in a dire situation. One of his rings-- the one with the sterling antlers-- had gotten caught in his helix ring. If he hadn’t looked like he’d kill you if you coughed next to him, you would’ve laughed.
“Anytime now, would be great!”
“Let me take a picture first.”
~~~~~~~~
Jeff and his tattoos... they’re something. There’s almost nothing with real meaning, other than “I thought it looked cool.” Tattooing over his skin is a challenge, considering all the scars and the burns. That’s part of the reason why he takes such good care of them, even after they’ve healed. His skin is bad enough; he doesn’t need his ink to look like shit, either.
They’re not always visible. Sometimes, the one on his neck peeks out from behind his hair. If he reaches for something up high, the intentionally illegible script on his ribs makes an appearance. His personal favorite are the ones on his collar bones. Barbed wire, twisting like vines until they taper off by his sternum.
“See something you like?” He taunted, reaching his arms over his head to prolong the exposure. “You’re sure giving my ribs an awful lot of attention for someone who claims to find me absolutely hideous, as you said.”
~~~~~~~~
Having a conversation with Jeff is damn near impossible, especially when he’s feeling playful. To him, flirting and messing around are the same thing, so he’ll end up flirting with little regard for the recipient.
His body language is the big tell. It’s closed off to the rest of the people around, but it’s locked in on his target. The remnants of his lips try to tug into a smirk, cracking at his scabbed-over scars. His eyes are always one of two ways, because he doesn’t blink: they’re either attentive and intrigued, or blank. That’s the only way to tell if he’s flirting. If he really wanted your attention, you could tell. Otherwise, they’re as cold and blank as ever.
“Is that so?” He hummed, folding his arms and leaning against the back of his chair. “Never would’ve taken you for someone like that.”
He tilted his head when you didn’t immediately respond. It didn’t take him long to figure out why. “Oh, is somebody flustered? What did I do?”
“You looked at me,” you muttered.
“Well, isn’t that pathetic.”
~~~~~~~~
Let’s talk about post-shower Jeff. He’s not that unhygienic. He stinks naturally, like everybody else, just a little more. Sure, there’s cologne, and it does smell nice, but Jeff after a shower is something different. There’s something so docile about that usually feral man, and it can’t be ignored.
He ties his hair back so it doesn’t stick to his neck. He hates that feeling more than he can describe. Yeah, it shows the full extent of the damage he did to his face, but it also shows off his jaw. He knows he has a nice jawline. He’s got nice features in general, aside from... well, the damage. For just a while, he doesn’t stink, he’s not as uncontrolled. He’s just Jeff. An older, more put together Jeff.
“I just think that maybe it’s a bad idea, leaving Sally alone for that long,” he opined, brushing the stray bangs behind his ears. When they didn’t stay, he huffed, reaching for his hair tie. “What do you think, kid? You want to be alone for six hours?”
"No."
"Case closed."
~~~~~~~~
Maybe it’s the instinctive urge to protect the innocent after what happened to Liu. Actually, it probably wasn’t that. More than likely, it was the fact that Jeff saw himself in the kids that didn’t know how to fit in. How to be loved. But with some select kids, Jeff is the softest person on the planet.
Usually, he’ll just spend time with Sally. He’s not big into playing pretend, but if he gets an invitation to a royal tea party, he’ll make an appearance. If she falls asleep on the couch and magically wakes up in her bed, it’s almost always Jeff that got her tucked in. You couldn’t waterboard it out of him, but he really does love Sally.
“Take your pick,” Jeff said, settling his hands around Sally’s ankles as they dangled off his shoulders. “They’ve got Captain Crunch, Apple Jacks, Honeycombs--”
“I want Lucky Charms.”
“Then get Lucky Charms. If that big octopus says no, we’ll just tell him they’re for me. He doesn’t need to know. Our little secret.”
Sally grinned, gripping the box like it was her most prized possession. “Thanks, Jeff.”
“Anytime, kid.”
~~~~~~~~
Jeff absolutely knows Jane is a lesbian. He doesn’t have any interest in her whatsoever. But he’s an annoying jackass, so he still flirts with her. It’s purely for his own amusement, and the reactions he gets certainly amuse him.
Jane, however, doesn’t like.it. She’s definitely torn him a new one several times from his flirting alone. She doesn’t care about the audience, and neither does he. Even if he’s not flirting, he’ll do little things to piss her off-- snatch things from her hands, open cabinets in her face, change the channel she was so clearly watching. If it ruins Jane’s mood, he’s down. Anytime, anywhere.
“Aww, you wanna kiss me so bad,” Jeff taunted, patting the top of Jane’s head in an obviously demeaning manner. “Too bad you like women. I’m a total catch.”
“I do not want to kiss you! Not with that jacked-up mouth! And I’d rather get dinner with Ben, because he’s at least funny!”
~~~~~~~~
The thing that irks him the most is that people assume he’s dumb, just because he ditched his education to pursue his passions. But he’s not. Jeff was a smart kid. He’s a total history buff. Ask him anything about the Civil War, and he’ll give you every single battle in chronological order.
As for math, that’s a little harder. He made it through geometry, and he can do basic algebra, but he might explode if you showed him a unit circle.
“So, what-- why are there two different formulas for the one thing? And why are they called ‘quadratics’ if there’s only three figures?” He asked in a huff, brushing his hair out of his face for probably the fifth time.
“Because--”
“Actually, I don’t care.” He announced, rising to his feet. Get EJ to help you. I’m useless here. Come back when we’re doing American history.”
~~~~~~~~
Jeff knows how to drive. Sort of. He knows how to operate a vehicle, but not safely. Or legally. He never got his license, but that doesn’t stop him.
Being in the car with him is genuinely terrifying. You’re going thirty over the limit, blowing through stop signs, taking turns at a speed that isn’t anywhere close to safe. The radio blares, and he’s just in his own world, jamming out and cutting through lanes. God forbid somebody else be a terrible driver, though. He’ll throw out insults like Clark Griswold and honk for about ten straight seconds. You’re convinced the only reason law enforcement hasn’t pulled him over is because they’re scared of him.
“Come on... You’re totally exhausted! Let me do you a favor, and you can just close your eyes. Please?” He reached for the keys on the table without waiting for permission.
“I’d rather drive tired than let you behind the wheel,” Masky snapped, slamming his hand down over the keys. “Get your ass in the trunk. I can’t have you anywhere near me when I drive.”
~~~~~~~~
Jeff gets people flustered with a technique that has never once failed him. If it can be done from behind, he’s doing it from behind. Need something from the top shelf? You’re temporarily trapped between Jeff and the counter. In his way? He’ll move you by your hips, then slink past.
He’s not a hugger, but he loves the affect it has on people when he comes up from behind. Nobody knows how to behave when the freaky-looking murderer is suddenly clasping his hands in front of their abdomen, his chin settled on their scalp. If he feels bold, maybe he’ll tug the recipient right against him. It’s truly his worst trait, and he relishes in it.
He hummed, resting his forehead in the crook of your neck. His hands pressed against both iliac crests. “Hi,” he muttered, hot breath brushing your neck.
~~~~~~~~
Jeff doesn’t drink. Ever. If alcohol hadn’t been a part of his accident, he definitely would. But he gets grumbly whenever anyone even has a beer around him. He’ll never admit how nervous liquor makes him.
The only time he got drunk was the first time he had hard lemonade. He didn’t know what the “hard” part of it was. He just thought it was just really good lemonade. Of course, he learned the difference when he woke up feeling like he got hit by a truck, but aside from that one incident, Jeff will remain sober for the rest of his life.
“A bar, huh?” He mused, eyeing the table. “Kind of a lot for a birthday.”
“You’re just jealous that those people know how to have fun,” Hoodie taunted, taking a sip of his own cocktail.
“Yeah, right. Sure. Take a look at my back and tell me that alcohol’s fun.”
“That wasn’t just vodka. That was bleach and fire.”
“Two things that we don’t drink. They’re already unsafe. Alcohol is no different.”
~~~~~~~~
Jeff and Ben are too similar. That’s why they hate each other. They hold the same values, but are disgusted by the other. If Ben thinks that girl is pretty? Jeff thinks it’s a serious reflection of Ben’s mommy issues. Jeff makes this joke? Ben thinks it’s lame and that he could have done much better with the concept and Jeff’s never funny.
The biggest point of tension between them is privacy. Ben is always in Jeff’s business. He’ll sit right next to him, read over his shoulder, poke at him. He knows it irritates Jeff, but it’s basically the same thing that he does to Jane.
“Why are you always touching me?” Jeff groaned as Ben slid in right against his shoulder. “You stink! I don’t want to smell you all the damn time!”
“I think that’s just your breath you’re smelling,” Ben replied casually, snatching the phone from Jeff’s hands. “What are we looking at? Tinder?”
“Ben!”
“Ooh! Who’s this!”
“Ben!“
~~~~~~~~
We’ve seen this guy’s outfit. We know he’s filthy. But his mouth? Hide the whole church. He’s got the nastiest fucking mouth ever. He curses enough to put sailors to shame. No word, aside from slurs, are off limits. Suprisingly, that’s where he draws the line. Any swear, any insult. At the end of the day, he’s said them all at least twice.
Language aside, he’s a freak. He’s a flirt, but it goes way beyond that. He loves coming up behind people and whispering the most vulgar things before moving on casually, as if he didn’t just say things you wouldn’t dare repeat to your diary.
You dropped your glass as Jeff’s hot breath glazed over your ear. One hand braced himself against the countertop, the other finding its way to your hip. Your cheeks turned bright red as he briefly tugged the lobe between his teeth, then gave your hip a pat and reached over you.
“You dropped that, by the way,” he announced, shutting the upper cabinet. “Might want to pick that up.”
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And, yes, I have some JTK stuff in the works and a full-length fic started on my Wattpad.
Summary: January nights in the dessert are no joke. Frustrated with your incessant sniffles, Chavez strikes up a conversation and gets you taken care of. A small gesture that lingers until the morning catches Doc's eye, and suddenly, you're not just a Regulator to Chavez anymore.
WC: 2.2k
Warnings: Language, mentions of being shot/stabbed/hurt, creep!Dave, racist!Dave, sexist!Dave (man, how about stupid!Dave?)
Masterlist
It had to have been hours. You'd been at it since the sun was getting ready for bed, and now, the moon had started its shift. Your hands were clasped between your bent thighs as you laid on the earth, rubbing your legs together like two wet sticks trying to start a fire. The fire did little to toast your back with no one else awake to keep it going.
Exhaustion ate at you. Your graceless tumble off your horse earlier had knocked the wind right out of you (not to mention the pride), making the regular toll of being what was once a Regulator just that much harder. Your body hurt. Your muscles cried for rest. Hell, you were ready to join in on the tears. You pulled the neck of your shirt up over your mouth, hoping to kill two birds with one stone and generate some heat with the sniffles you could no longer control.
It barely helped. Half the time, you didn't want to breathe with how rank the shirt smelled. Your last good rinse had been at least a week ago; it was hard to get privacy that lasted long enough to truly sit in the springs you came across.
"Can you knock that off?"
"Huh?"
You craned your neck over your shoulder, squinting in the direction the voice came from. Chavez blinked back at you from the other side of the fire. When had he woken up? Had you been the cause? God, that would be bad... if anybody was cranky and Billy caught wind, the day would go to hell by noon.
"I said, can you knock that off?" He repeated in the same flat tone. "I'm trying to sleep."
"Oh." You sniffled again, trying to get it together. "Sorry."
"What are you doing that for, anyways?" He asked, dragging a hand down his face.
"I'm tired, and I can't sleep, and I'm sore as hell," you mumbled, rolling over to face him. The fire cast eerie shadows over his sharp jaw. "Why are you awake?"
"Because there's this girl that can't keep her nose shut." Chavez sat up, tugging his wool blanket over him. He'd been smart enough to trade for it in the last pit-stop in Guano City, and he'd be damned if he lent to one of the fools he hung around with. "You're still hurting, huh?"
"Very much so. I bet my ribs will be the most wonderful shade of purple in the morning," you mused. In truth, you though they were purple now, but you needed the sun to check, and his shift didn't start until the morning.
"Come over here." He patted the ground beside him, sending a little dust flying into the fire. "Let me look."
"How are you going to do that?" You inquired.
"With my eyes. Come on. Sooner I look, sooner I can go back to sleep."
You cursed his kindness silently as you stood up. As cold as you were curled up, it was better than being cold and straightened up. You stepped carefully over the lump that was Billy and Doc, wondering how they'd ended up so close when there'd easily been ten feet between them when they called it a night. You plopped down next to Chavez, resisting the urge to pick up the corner of his blanket.
"Lie down," he instructed quietly. "Can't see anything if you're blocking the fire. Mind your hair."
You did so, careful to keep your hair away from the fire. While it was dying, it wasn't dead enough to take baldness out of the equation. Cold hands pushed your vest and shirt out of the way, exposing your middle. He didn't say anything at first, but you could see on his face that your ribs were looking rough.
"Not bruised-- yet, anyways," he said. "But you're still pretty red."
"Well, I hit the ground pretty hard, so..."
"Smartass." A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he tugged your clothes back into place. "Ask Doc about it in the morning."
"What would Doc know? He was a dentist."
"Right, but he's a schoolteacher from the city of New York now. He's surely seen his fair share of falls. Probably knows some big-city tricks for this sort of thing."
"I doubt it," you replied.
"Well, you miss every opportunity you don't take."
"Sounds like my problem and not yours."
"You know," Chavez began. "If you won't accept any help with your ribs, you could let me help with your other problem."
"What's my other problem? Aside from Dave being a creep, and I smell like the horses-gone-even-worse, and the chronic dehydration, and--"
"Yeah, can't help you with those. But you said you were cold." He lifted the corner of his blanket up. The same corner you'd resisted taking for yourself. "And I happen to have a blanket."
"You tried to kick Dave when he asked for it," you reminded him. "You're not exactly the sharing type."
"I'd kick Dave if he said 'good morning' to me," he scoffed. "He's just so... kickable. I don't like him."
"Nobody does. Do you know why Billy even keeps him around?"
"Probably because he's excited. Besides you, he's the young one. He's spry. Hasn't been shot a million times yet."
"You've been shot... what, twice? That's not a million."
"But I've also been stabbed, thrown around, fall down cliffsides, and I've lost years of my life to Chivato over there." He nodded at Billy, whose ankle had become tangled up between Doc's. "But that's beside the point. You're cold. I've got a blanket."
"...are you sure?" You asked quietly. Chavez had never been one to share-- Dave or otherwise. He shared his wisdom like it made him richer, and you weren't sure if he even liked you that much. Yeah, he just checked your ribs for you, and he always made sure you ate, even if it was off his plate, but at the end of the day, he still regarded you with the same distance he did with everyone else. Just with a little more warmth in his eyes. But maybe that was the fire.
"I am. If you're not going to get under the blanket, then I'll gladly keep it all to myself. Move it or lose it."
You sighed, shoving your reservations down with all the other worries you had about riding the trail. You scooted closer; close enough so your shoulder became wedged against his and the blanket could hang down over your side. He adjusted it silently, then let his hand slide down to your waist. It wasn't like how Dave put his hand on your waist. When Asshole Dave, as you called him (it fit much better than 'Arkansas' to you) put his hand on your waist, you wanted to cut his hand off and slap him with it. Chavez, on the other hand, was guiding. Nothing terrible to the touch-- except for how icy his hands always were.
"Lay down," he instructed again. It wasn't like he gave you much of a choice, considering that he never moved his hand from your side. Not until you were flat, anyways. He wiggled his arm up under your head, giving your head something to rest on that wasn't crispy. Dry, maybe, but nothing like the ground. "Better?"
"Yeah," you whispered, ignoring how close he was. It felt stupid, getting butterflies just because you were close to a pal. You weren't one of Doc's schoolgirls; that wasn't like you. "Thank you."
"'course," Chavez replied. "Can't let you suffer when I can do something about it."
"...then why'd you let me hobble around on a sprained ankle after the New Year's dance?"
"What, two years ago?" He chuckled. When was the last time he did that? "I didn't know you. You were still new. You weren't one of us yet. If we went now and you hurt yourself, I'd take care of it."
"How would you do that, Chavez? Cut it off?"
"No," he said simply. "I'd do the same thing I'm doing now. I'd make sure you were warm and comfortable, and you weren't hurt too badly--" He paused, tapping your ribs with your free hand. He drew back the second you winced. "Sorry. I'd make sure you weren't hurt too badly, and I'd tell you to sleep."
"You haven't done that yet," you informed him. "Tell me to sleep, I mean."
"Oh, I haven't?" He let the smile take over this time. He adjusted his hips so he could lean down over you, just slightly. "Here: go to sleep. How was that?"
"Effective, I suppose," you yawned. "Guess that means you have to sleep, too."
"In a bit," Chavez replied, not elaborating further.
"...well, what's the hold up?"
"I gotta make sure somebody else sleeps first," was all he said.
You swallowed. "...all right then," you conceded. "I'll... try not to take too long."
"Take your time," he insisted. He tugged the blanket tighter over you, making the already intimate space feel that much smaller. "No rush."
"All right." Of course, you were going to rush. If he wanted to take care of you and make sure you stayed warm, then the least you could do was make sure he got a decent amount of sleep before Billy woke up and made all the sound in the world. "Goodnight."
"Night."
You closed your eyes for an acceptable amount of time before letting your breath even out. You were nowhere near asleep, but Chavez didn't need to know. Even if he did try to find out, you wouldn't answer because you were pretending to be asleep-- duh. But he didn't. Instead, he gave it a few more minutes, ensuring that you'd fallen deep enough into your "sleep" before tucking his chin down on top of your head and letting his eyes flutter shut.
~~~~~~~~
Some sort of holler woke you. You didn't have to be totally alert to know it was Asshole Dave Rudabaugh, trying to wake you up. You jerked into consciousness and glared at him, only progressing his laughter. You laid your head back down, surprised that you were met with terrain and not an arm. You hadn't even noticed that Chavez was already awake and gone; not with the blanket still around you.
"Rise and shine, Princess!" Dave hooted. "Places to be, people to see!"
"Like your mom?" You mumbled, sitting up. You held the blanket close around your neck. "Where's Chavez?"
"Who cares?" He said. "One less Indian in my gang means it's a good day. Why don't you get up and make us something to eat?"
"I'm not hungry. Where is he?"
"Calm down," Doc spoke up. You squinted in the harsh light, looking for him. You found him by the horses, rifling through his saddlebag. "He just went to the river. He'll be back in a bit."
You hummed and rose, stumbling over to Doc. It didn't feel like your legs wanted to work just yet. Your knees moved freely and your feet flopped. He nodded as you approached.
"Nice blanket," he noted. "Where'd you get it?"
"Shared it with Chavez last night," you mumbled. "What's down at the river?"
"Water, I assume. He didn't say." Doc closed the bag and looked down at you, lips pursed in thought. "He left you with the blanket, huh?"
"Yeah. So?"
"Well, in my time, I've learned a thing or two. Some tribes use blankets as a way to show acceptance. Not all of them. Some use it for healing, or grief, or celebrations."
"That's the teacher in you talking," you asserted. "Why's it matter?"
Doc sighed, putting his hands on your shoulders over the blanket. "Chavez-- he's from... some tribe. I can never remember. Anyways, he left his blanket around your shoulders." He gave you a knowing look. "Need I say more?"
"Yes, Doc. You do."
"I sure hope it's just because you're still tired and you're not actually this dense. My theory is that Chavez is accepting you. Okay? You belong."
"Belong where, exactly?" You scratched the side of your head.
"To-- no, not to him. That's not right. With him?" He shook his head. "Look, I don't have all the facts. But him leaving you with the blanket? It's special. Just... leave it at that, okay?"
"I think you're reading too much into this," you replied. "I was cold, we shared. He woke up before me, he left it with me. Case closed."
"If you say so," he shrugged. "But I think I'm right."
"You spend too much time with Dave. You're starting to sound like him."
"Don't hurt my feelings." He clapped your shoulders, then stepped around you. "Here he comes, why don't you ask him about it? He knows more than me."
You turned to face south, the same as Doc. Sure enough, a horse came up in the near distance. The gallop slowed to a trot as Chavez rode up to the other horses, dismounting with ease. He looked you up and down, acknowledged the blanket, then spoke.
"Morning," he said. "Sleep okay."
"Fine."
"Good. Long ride ahead of us today; make sure you eat." He set his hand on top of your head, messing up your already distasteful hair. Something he'd never done before. He walked past as if it were no big deal, but there was nothing Doc could do to keep the smile off his face.
"Told you," he taunted quietly.
"Shut up, Doc."
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Summary: Working a local case is usually a relief-- no jetlag, you're in your own stomping grounds, and all your resources are close by. Unfortunately, this particular one has had you awake for several days, and you're reaching your limit. Spencer picks up on this and offers to help, but his offer quickly backfires when you get to your apartment.
You watched as Hotch moved his mouth and Morgan moved his back. You heard the words, you knew what they meant, but they didn't make any sense. Hell, you could hardly focus on the words; they just went in one ear and out the other. You knew you should've gone home hours ago, but what difference did it make? Either you'd lay awake in bed, listening to Audrey and whichever boyfriend was over tonight, or you could be awake and do your job. One of those seemed a lot more appealing than the other.
"Yoohoo," Morgan sang, tapping his fingers on your desk. "Are you in there?"
"Mm," you hummed, sitting up as straight as you could. Your back creaked in protest. "What's up?"
"I asked for a refresher on your theory," he said, slightly amused by your demeanor. "You said something earlier about the unsub maybe being in the medical field."
"Right." What had you been thinking again? "Um... I think they could be a doctor or nurse of whatever because all-- all the victims had, uh, prescription bottles with them, and... yeah."
"That wasn't it," Spencer interjected from his spot against the wall. "You thought they worked in a pharmacy because all the victims had prescription bottles with them, but the doctors' names were all different. You said it was similar to the Tylenol murders in the eighties."
"Yeah," you muttered, giving in and relaxing your back. "That."
"Hey, you good?" Morgan asked, raising an eyebrow. "You don't look so hot."
"I'm okay; just tired," you affirmed. "I'll make another cup of coffee when I get up next."
"You've had four cups already today," Spencer pointed out, pushing off the wall and gathering around your desk with the other two.
"Who are you, the caffeine police?" You looked up at Spencer briefly, intending to give him a playful smile, but the best you could give was a wobbly one before you had to look back down. The lights hurt.
"Reid, the rest of us are no better," Hotch said. "I think Rossi's also had four."
"Well, Rossi drinks decaf. The rest of us like to be awake. And if we consider that the machine makes twelve ounces per use, plus any amount of creamer-- let's say two ounces-- that's fourteen ounces of coffee per brew. So, fifty-six ounces of coffee. In those fifty-six ounces, there's about six-hundred and sixty-five milligrams of caffeine, which--"
"Okay, okay." You held up your hands in surrender. "No need to shame me. I'll have a glass of water."
"What you should do is lay down," Spencer advised. "All that caffeine, plus the fact that you've been awake for three days--"
"You freak me out."
"You should be freaked out!" He exclaimed, looking to Morgan and Hotch for backup. "You-- most people start hallucinating by this point, and that caffeine can increase your risk of anxiety, heart palpitations, and in serious situations, it can impact vision."
"I can see just fine, thank you."
"Hotch-- Hotch, help me out here." Spencer gestured down at you with an open hand, as if your boss couldn't see you. "She needs to take a nap."
"I trust your judgement," Hotch agreed. "I mean, it's hard not to. Go home, Y/N. Just come back tomorrow. I don't want to see you before 10:00, though. Sleep in a little."
"Hotch--"
"That's an order." Hotch looked down at you with firm, almost cold eyes, even though there wasn't a warmer shade of brown on the planet. He didn't play the 'order' card often, and he'd never played it with you. "Go rest."
"Fine," you grumbled, rising. "I don't suppose you want to hand me my keys, since you're blocking my purse?"
"I don't. Reid, make sure she gets home."
You and Morgan disputed this instantly, voices overlapping. "He doesn't need to drive!" You insisted. "I can do it!"
"And even if she can't, Reid is a terrible driver," Morgan argued. "You're better off sending JJ or Garcia. They're safe drivers. And-- and Garcia would make sure she gets fed, too."
"Reid can handle that just fine," Hotch asserted. "Besides, Garcia's digging on Darien Corque's doctor right now. JJ tried to call him, but he just cursed her out and hung up."
"That's weird. Most doctors would want to hear if their patient dies. But that's beside the point." Morgan pointed an accusing finger at Reid. "He's the worst driver here."
"Then be glad you're not in the car. Reid, go get your bag."
"Yes, sir."
"Hotch, this isn't necessary--"
"I disagree. I'll see you tomorrow." The stocky man turned his back, walking away towards Garcia's office without so much as a "sleep well" or "kiss my ass." You could see it in his gait; he was just as wiped as you.
"Ready to go?" Spencer asked in a thick voice. It always sounded like he was speaking from the base of his throat to you, except for when he got all worked up and high-pitched. Then, he sounded six.
"Unfortunately."
~~~~~~~~
The moment Spencer took his slow ass turn down your street, you wanted to cry. Cars lined the street and packed the driveway, and every light in the house looked like it was on. How had you forgotten? Audrey had warned you that she was having a party this week; why didn't you remember? You always remembered, because she all but demanded you make yourself scarce, and it made you a little sad. Maybe it was because you actually had something to do this time.
"No, no, no..." You whined, wiping a clammy hand down the side of your face. "I forgot..."
"What's all that?" Spencer asked, slowing to a stop in front of the driveway.
"My roommate. I forgot she was having a party this week."
"Oh. Well, if you wanted to go in and socialize a little before bed, I'm sure--"
"No, no. Audrey doesn't want me around during her parties. Even if I wanted to, she'd kick me out before I could make it to the kitchen."
"That's ridiculous. Where do you sleep when she has her parties?"
"Usually the Holiday Inn, if they have a vacancy. That means I don't have to cook breakfast."
"I don't feel right leaving you at a hotel tonight," he admitted. "Why don't-- why don't you come to my apartment? I have a guest bed. It's not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it's better than questionable housekeeping and microwaved eggs."
"Reid--"
"I mean it," he interjected gently. "I'm not leaving you there if you can't sleep here."
You pinched the bridge of your nose and let out a hefty sigh. "Am I allowed to leave a little money for gas? Because you're the complete opposite way."
"I suppose, if it will let me get you to bed." He shook his head, quickly realizing how that sounded. "I mean--"
"Relax, I get it," you soothed. "Let's just go before somebody else decides to show up and park in the way."
~~~~~~~~
"In here," Spencer ushered quietly, opening up a door for you. "It's mostly storage, but you can access the bed just fine."
The room was the most Spencer Reid thing you'd ever seen. Olive walls, a matching pine bookshelf and desk pushed neatly into the corner, and a neatly arranged stack of cardboard boxes, all labeled with "MOM" in big brick letters. The incandescent lights were a welcome change from the LEDs that haunted your every waking moment. You made a beeline for the bed in the far corner, its dark grey sheets pulled taut over the mattress.
"If you get cold, there's a quilt under the bed," Spencer said, walking over to the bookshelf. "And if all that caffeine is keeping you up, I've got a couple books in here that might help. Mostly classics, like 'Canterbury Tales' and 'Catcher in the Rye,' but there's a couple-- oh."
He looked down at your curled up form on top of the sheets. You hadn't even bothered to take your shoes off. Under any other circumstance, he would have moaned and griped, but not now. Not when you'd been awake for three days and taken in almost two hundred percent of the max dose of caffeine. If anybody needed to sleep unbothered, it was you.
Spencer dropped to his knees and felt under the bed for the quilt. His mom had made it for him, right before he left Las Vegas, and he didn't love the idea of sharing something so intimate, even though he offered. But, again, look at you. You needed it. He draped the quilt over you, ensuring it laid evenly across you, then headed back for the door. He flipped the switch and shut the door, silently cursing Hotch for not giving him the night off, too.
"Doesn't he know I haven't slept, either?" He muttered, grabbing a quick glass of water. "None of us have."
He set the empty glass over some prongs in the dishwasher. The clock on the stove read 11:53. Way past his bedtime.
"Maybe the extreme coffee isn't such a bad idea."
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Summary: Friends. Who needs them? Not you, that's for sure. After ditching one of your pals' party, you run into someone you used to know. You're content to mosey on, but he's not going to let that happen. Not when he knows first-hand how unforgiving Motor City can be.
WC: 1.5k
Warnings: Language
Masterlist
"Yo!"
You carried on walking. Being killed was just one more thing you didn't need.
"Yo!" The driver called again. A car swerved around him, honking at the slowing vehicle. He paid them no mind. "Hey!"
"Go kick rocks, man! I'm not for hire!" You finally shot, not taking your eyes off the sidewalk in front of you.
"I'm not trying to hire you, stupid!" He returned. "I want to check on you!"
"I'm fine! Piss off!"
"Damnit, Y/N--"
Pause, pause, pause. How did this solicitor know your name? You didn't know many in Detroit-- by choice; it wasn't because you were weird-- let alone any grown men. Who was yelling at you? Did you look? What if it was your dad's weird friend? What was his name... Terry? Frank? Some dad-pal name. Not something you wanted to risk.
"Y/N, please! It-- it's late, it's pouring!" The man pleaded. "At least let me check on you!"
Dad-Pal wouldn't want to check on you. He'd want to talk, but not like that. He'd make jokes about his ex-wife and 'getting a newer model.' So you were safe from him, at the least. But who else was left? Against your better judgement, you turned your head. Just slightly, not enough to even notice, really. What you saw surprised you.
"Eric?" You called out, squinting. "Is that you?"
"Yes!" He sounded both exasperated and relieved. "It's Eric! Stop, please!"
You stopped walking and he pulled up to the curb, turning on his hazards. He leaned over the passengers seat, taking in your haggard appearance. You were soaked to the bone, exhausted, and a bit pale, but maybe that was the streetlights.
"What are you doing out here?" Eric demanded. "It-- it's almost midnight!"
"I was supposed to be sleeping at my friends' house, but it turns out that she sucks, so I left," you replied.
"Do you know where you are?" He asked as if you were stupid.
"In the jungle, baby," you answered both flatly and automatically. "You're gonna die."
"Yes, you are. It's the middle of the night, in Gang-Central, Detroit, you're drenched, and you're young. There's a good chance you will die if you keep walking," he insisted, totally ignoring your reference. "Let me give you a ride back, at least."
"No thanks, Eric," you said politely. "My mom's pretty mad at me right now; I'm sure if I came home, it would just make things worse."
"I'm sure it would make things worse if the next time your mom saw you, you were in a body bag." He glanced around, inspecting the figure approaching from the south. His eyes caught one coming from the north, and something told him to get you the hell out of there. "Get in the car."
"Eric--"
"Now!" He snapped. "I'm not asking again!"
Startled, you opened the passenger door and climbed in, definitely drenching the back of the seat with your hair. He watched as the northbound man faltered, then turned around. He sighed, shaking his head.
"I knew it," he muttered. "That guy was definitely coming for you."
"I don't think so," you countered, pointing to the man as he opened a door. "Look, he's going inside."
"Because he doesn't want to be implicated," Eric disputed. "I promise; he didn't have good intentions."
"Okay, whatever," you sighed, not wanting to argue. "Can you just... I don't know, drop me at the motel on 58th please?"
"Why would I do that?" He asked, still focused on your appearance. You really didn't look good in your current state. It concerned him more than he wanted to admit.
"Because I don't want to go home, and I'm not going back to Rhea's house. She's a bitch."
"A bitch, huh?" He tried hard not to chuckle but failed anyways. "Tell you what: why don't you crash on my couch tonight? It's a foldout, so you won't have to worry about hurting your neck, and I make some mean French toast."
"I remember," you hummed. "You brought some over one Christmas. My mom's been trying to recreate it since. But I-- I would appreciate that. Thank you."
He allowed himself a real laugh this time, merging into traffic. "Don't even worry about it, kid. I just... I'd hate for something to happen to you. It's good you were wary of me, though. Not everybody here is a good guy. Lots of villains live in Detroit."
"And in Seattle, and Dallas, and Chicago, and San Diego, and every other city in the States. And outside, too. There's bad guys everywhere." You sighed, dragging your damp hair off your neck. "Honestly, I'm so sick of hearing how terrible this city is when it's no different than any other. There's always going to be crime everywhere."
"You're sick of hearing about it until you become a victim," Eric countered. His tone had fallen into a much more colloquial cadence, but you could tell he felt passionately about the idea by his grip on the wheel. "Or until someone you care about becomes a victim."
It didn't take a genius to figure out who he was talking about. That was the whole reason he moved out of your complex. He couldn't keep coming home after Shelly died. Not when her things were still there, and most of her posessions were just as she left them, but she wasn't there to love them. Love him.
You bit your lip and looked out the window at the people on the sidewalk. For the hour, a surprising amount of them were out. Maybe there had been some show at the Pit. If that was the case, all these people would wake up with killer headaches. The only people who came out of that place sober were the ones that passed out drunk the night before. Seedy place, the Pit.
"So, where are you living these days?" You asked, finally breaking the awkward tension.
"I'm not too far from the lake, actually. You can see it from my living room," he replied, clearly relieved with the change in topic. "It's a little pricier than I like, but it's nice."
"That's nice," you said. "Is Gabriel still around?"
Eric smiled, letting out a little huff of air. "Lazy animal, I tell you. Half the time, he doesn't even get up and play. He just..." He batted his hand sluggishly through the air, demonstrating the cats' actions. "Paws like he's King Shit."
"King Shit, huh?" You giggled. "Apt way to describe him, as I remember."
"Oh, yeah." He paused, glancing over at you again. The smile on his face fell into something more neutral, leaning towards bittersweet. "It's good to see you. Even if it is... y'know, midnight in a bad part of town."
"Is there any 'good part of town' in Detroit?" You pondered, furrowing your brow in thought. "I know I said I'm tired of hearing about it, but the place is pretty tough."
"I don't think so. I hear sirens at home almost every day, and I live right on the border of Rivertown and Lafayette Park. I should be safe, but it never sounds that way."
"How long do you think it will be? Until we get to your place, I mean." You moved your hair once more. No matter how much you tried, it just wouldn't leave you neck alone.
"Shit, probably... ten minutes? Fifteen?" Eric scratched his neck. "Why? You tired?"
"Yes, but more than anything, I need to handle my hair."
~~~~~~~~
"Alrighty..." Eric tossed a towel from the linen closet over to you. He missed entirely-- the thing actually flew over the couch-- but that was okay. You had legs. "One towel for the lady... a blanket... oh!" He wheeled around, biting the inside of his cheek. "Do you need dry clothes?"
"I'm okay, this is plenty--"
"Overruled," he interjected. "Give me a minute. I'm sure I've got something here that'll fit you decently."
"Eric--"
Your words died off as he disappeared down the hall, his mind made up. He didn't need to do all this. A towel and a blanket already exceeded what you'd been expecting for a night on the couch. Clean clothes? That was the royalty treatment, you supposed.
"Catch."
You glanced up just in time to see a raggedy L7 shirt flying at you. You caught it this time, and the sweatpants that followed.
"The pants might be a struggle, since I'm tall and you're... not." He smirked playfully. "But we can always tie them. Bathroom's down the hall, last door on the left. Knock yourself out."
You rose, towel and clothes in hand. Gabriel quickly occupied your seat on the couch, purring contently as he curled up. Yep. King Shit all right.
"Thank you, Eric. You really didn't need to do all this," you said earnestly, clutching the fabrics in your arms.
"'course I did," he snorted. It wasn't a rude snort, more of an incredulous yet friendly one. One you might receive if you downplayed an achievement. "Why wouldn't I?"
"...I don't know," you admitted. "We just... haven't spoken in almost five years. I didn't think you still remembered me."
"See, that? That's crazy. I still have all the drawings you gave me from your elementary school days. There's no way I forgot about you." Eric reached out and ruffled your damp hair. "Go clean yourself up, but come right back. I want to know what's so wrong with this Rhea lady."
"Ugh, what a piece of work," you muttered. "You're in for it, pal."
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Summary: It's time for some ink, and the town's aging freak is the right one for the job. Unfortunately, with grey hairs comes extra charisma, and you're certainly not immune to his charm.
WC: 3.7k
Warnings: Brief mentions of death, needles, slight blood, the briefest allusion to something freaky. Your story totally isn't based off the story of my tattoo at all... crazy accusations...
Masterlist
Five minutes.
Your appointment started in five minutes, and you still couldn't get out of your car. You knew you had done everything right. You'd done your research, submitted your request, and eaten an insane amount of carbs with a diabolical amount of water. You were all set for your appointment, except for one little thing.
You knew exactly who your artist was. Sort of. You knew his name, and his reputation, but you had never spoken with him. Never seen his face. You'd heard legend of him being a total flirt, and it made your stomach flutter. Then again, it might be a nice distraction from the needle. Instead of focusing on the pain, or the hum, you could focus on the attention. Because that would make it better, right?
But what if your friends were wrong? What if his charm was just a myth, and he was actually more awkward than you? God, that would be terrible.
"Get in there," you told yourself. "He's waiting."
You didn't move.
You thought for a moment, wondering if it was really the right move to get the piece done. Maybe it would be best if you just left. You'd already paid the deposit, so he'd at least make some money, but you'd leave with the remaining funds still in your pocket and virgin skin.
Just as you were about to turn your car back on, your phone shrieked to life, ringing loudly in the silence. You jumped and looked down at the number. You didn't recognize it, but the area code belonged to Hawkins, so at least it wasn't some spam call.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's Eddie, with Inkblot. I'm just callin' to check in about your appointment. Are you still coming?"
God, he's real. He's talking to you.
"Oh! I, um... yeah," you stammered. "I'm actually in the parking lot right now."
"...wait, are you the one that's been sitting her car for, like, ten minutes?" He asked, amused. "I watched you pull in, but nobody's gotten out yet."
"Yeah, that's me," you admitted.
"You're nervous, huh?" The window to the shop was blurred out with a privacy screen, but you could see a figure moving at what might have been the front desk. It looked like they hunched over to rest against it. "Your first tattoo?"
"...yeah."
"Well, why don't you come in? I'll talk you through the process, and we'll get you nice and relaxed before we do anything to your body. Sound okay?"
"Sure," you lied. "I'll... I'll be right in."
"Good to hear." You could hear the smirk in his voice. "I'll see you in a second."
The line went dead. You cursed aloud. He'd seen you. He'd talked to you. And now, you had no choice but to head in. No matter how much you wanted this, you did not want to get out of your car.
"Stupid," you scolded, shoving your keys into your purse. Nevertheless, you opened your door and climbed out, heading towards the shop with more confidence in your gait than you truly had.
The bell chimed as you stepped in. The place had an interesting scent to it. Something sterile, like sanitizer, mixed with something akin to a velvet cologne. The speakers overhead played a familiar tune-- Girls on Film by Duran Duran. Not at all what you expected when you took in the man at the desk.
He looked like he stole the hair right off Kirk Hammett's head. The only difference came in the color. While Kirk's hair was entirely grey now, this man only had a single, yet very noticeable, streak of the color. The rest was a milky chocolate brown. His figure was lean, yet muscular. Man-curves, as your good friend would have said. The exposed skin was littered with tattoos-- a spider there, a freaky-looking demon there. The top half of some sort of head was visible on his chest, just barely peeking out from under his shirt. But it was the smile on his face that did you in. It was proud, yet almost taunting. The dimples on his cheeks stood out against the wrinkles that had begun to form. They seemed almost too normal for the man you knew you were talking to.
This was Eddie Munson. And you hated how handsome he looked.
Older men weren't typically on your roster. Working in the food industry had thoroughly ruined the idea for you. But this man? Hot damn.
"There she is." Even his voice was proud. "You made it."
You chuckled nervously, looking everywhere except for him. The flash pieces on the walls, the planks in the floor, the divider between the waiting area and the studio. "Yep. Here I am."
"Well, before we do anything, we've got a little consent form to sign." He grabbed a sheet of paper from behind the desk and set it on the top bar. "Basically, you agree that you're doing this of your own volition, and you won't sue us if you don't like it."
You hesitated to step forward. He tapped a pen against the sheet, somehow able to smell that you wanted it; you were just scared. "C'mon," he coaxed. "We just talked about this. Nothing here's gonna bite you. If you decide you don't want the piece after you sign, we'll just shred it and part ways. But I can't do anything for you until you sign it."
You exhaled quietly and stepped up to the desk. When you took the pen from him, your fingertips brushed his. It warmed your insides more than you were willing to admit. "I just sign on the bottom?" You asked quietly.
"Mhm. Once you sign, I sign, and then I check your ID, and then we have some fun." He shrugged. "Sometimes people get weirded out about the ID thing. But your trust a kid about their age once, and all of a sudden, you're getting an angry phone from their mom, wailing about how her kid's sixteen with a tattoo she told him not to get."
"Do I look sixteen?" You asked, not sure where the question came from.
Eddie smiled. "Nope. Not to say you're not youthful. But rules are rules." He took the pen from you, scribbled what was supposed to be his initials in cursive at the bottom of the page, then held his hand out. "Your ID, if you please."
You grabbed your wallet from your purse and pulled out your license. He studied it, studied you, then handed it back.
"It's a good picture," he commented, sliding the paper into the desk drawer. "Hair looks nice. Come on."
He led you into the studio. You didn't know much about Eddie, but just looking at the space told you that he decorated it. Posters and prints of his designs littered the walls, as well as a Hellfire shirt pinned above the bench.
"What's Hellfire?" You asked, pointing to the article.
"Oh, that was my D&D club way back in high school. That was the first shirt I designed for it. It's one of my flash designs now." He sat down on a swivel chair and picked up his tablet. "Let's talk business, shall we?"
You stood awkwardly before him as he tapped away at the screen. Eddie glanced up at you briefly, then nudged the leg of the bench with his ankle. "You can sit," he said. "I'd actually encourage you to sit while getting a tattoo. Makes it a little easier, y'know?"
You chuckled nervously and sat on the edge of the bench. He scooted around to the side of you, holding the tablet out. "So this is what I conjured up for you," he explained. "I've got your angel, and your crow, and I also found a way to incorporate your laurel crown. I just replaced the halo with it."
You stared at the design. Even just looking at it made you want it even more. It was like Eddie had read the scattered fragments in your mind and glued them together, creating the memorial piece you wanted in perfect detail.
"It's... I love it," you said quietly. "Just right."
"Good." Eddie smiled, a small bump of joy in his voice. "Always love it when my clients like their pieces. Are you still wanting it on your thigh?"
You nodded. He tapped your knee. "All right, then. Go ahead and get those jeans off for me, and we'll get you nice and prepped."
"Can you, um..."
He chuckled. It was barely noticeable, but you didn't mind. It wasn't a condescending note, more of amusement and expectance. "You want me to turn around?"
You nodded.
"That's fine." He swiveled his chair around, so he was no longer looking at you. "But I'll have to look at you when I do it. I'm good, but not that good."
You worked your jeans off with shaking hands. "I know," you whispered. "Just... just want to get them off."
"Hey, no judgement from me," he said with a smile. "If it makes you feel any better, I've seen plenty of people without pants over the years."
It didn't, but the thought was there. You rolled your jeans up and set them neatly on the chair in the corner. "I'm done," you announced quietly.
When Eddie turned around, he kept his gaze respectful. Now, does that mean he didn't check you out? No. He totally did. But he did so discreetly, paying the most attention to your outer thigh, where the tattoo would go.
"From your hip to the middle, right?" He asked, picking up the tablet once again. After a few taps, the printer sprung to life, and out popped your stencil.
You nodded silently. You had expected to be slightly uncomfortable with sitting in your underwear with Eddie, but you didn't expect to be so flustered. Maybe because you didn't anticipate finding him as attractive as you did.
"Good. Go ahead and lay on your side, and I'll get you shaved."
You rolled onto your side, back to Eddie. He snapped on his gloves pumped a small amount of foam onto your thigh. He spread it with his fingers, then picked up a razor.
"Once your shaved, I'll transfer the stencil onto your skin. You can check it out in the mirror and make sure it's where you want it. This is the important part, so hear me when I say this: if you want something changed, you have to tell me. I can't adjust anything once we get started. So, if you want it more to the left, say it before we start. If you want it lower, say it before we start. Hell, if you want it upside down--"
"Say it before we start," you finished, voice a low mumble.
"Exactly." He gave your hip a gentle pat. "Relax and hold still for a minute." He squirted something cool onto your thigh and rubbed it in just as gently as he had patted you. "This is the transfer gel. It'll help the design stick."
When the gel was rubbed in, he picked up your stencil. He laid it gently on your skin, smoothed out the paper, then pressed his palm against it. You counted to ten before he pulled his hand away and scooted the chair back.
"Okay. Looks pretty straight to me, but your opinion is the one that matters the most. Give 'er a gander."
You stood up and padded over to the mirror, examining your thigh. You would have been content to walk out with the purple ink then instead of the black and grey you wanted; it was that good.
"It's fine," you told him.
"Just fine?" He teased, smiling at you.
"I-- I like it how it is."
"I know. I'm just messing with you. Come lay back down. Let me mix up my colors, and then we'll get going."
You laid back on your side, feeling slightly more at ease. Your heart wasn't exactly beating at its resting rate, but it no longer exceeded one hundred beats per minute, like it was in the car.
He was handsome, and it flustered you. He teased, which flustered you more. And there was his reputation to consider, which, you guessed it, flustered you even further. But there was also a welcoming air around Eddie. It told you that he didn't have any bad intentions. He was just a guy who was passionate about tattoos.
And flirting.
"So, uh, what's the story with this piece, anyways?" He asked. "It's pretty big for a first tattoo."
"Well, it's... it's for my grandmother," you explained. "She died, and I'm not mad at her, but some... interesting choices were made on my family's behalf, and I'm still pissed about it. But I want a piece to remember her by, even though they're also trying to talk me out of it."
"Aww, I'm sorry." Eddie frowned. The care in his tone made your stomach swoop. "But that explains the angel, huh?"
"Uh huh. But she liked bird watching. I didn't know her favorite, but one of my favorite movies is 'The Crow,' so I figured it wouldn't hurt to put two and two together. And I just wanted the laurel crown because she had a laurel tree in her yard, and I thought it was pretty."
"Mm. Well, if you don't mind my saying so, your family sounds... interesting, as you said. But I think this is a sweet piece. Thank you for trusting me to memorialize Grandma. I bet she'd love it."
You didn't bother to correct him. Gram-Gram was vehemently against tattoos, but he didn't need to know that. Besides, if she knew you were getting one in her honor, she'd probably hate the idea a little less.
"I'm all mixed up over here. You ready?" Eddie dipped his needle into one of the caps he had set up on his workbench and wheeled around to you. He placed one hand on your hip, holding you in place. "Speak now, or forever hold your piece."
"I-- I think I'm ready; just..." You hesitated, not wanting to sound stupid. "I know it will hurt, but how much do you think it will hurt?"
"Well, it's different for everyone, especially between women and men. Even where you're at in your cycle can make a difference. Now, I don't menstruate, so I can't say what it will be like for you, but when I got my tattoo on my hip, it was just like somebody poking at a sunburn. It wasn't fun, but not totally unbearable."
"...okay, then," you whispered. "I'm ready."
"Atta girl," he hummed with pride. "Kick back and relax."
~~~~~~~~
You managed to sit still for the first two hours. Eddie checked in constantly, making sure he praised you a fair amount. Not just because it was your first tattoo and you were sitting so well, but because he wanted to. How could he not when a pretty girl like you rolled up, did a terrible job at hiding her emotions, and was willing to take on such a big piece for her first tattoo? At the very least, it was admirable. But to Eddie? It was pretty hot.
He noticed you tensing up just as he got to the shading in the angel's robes. Being tense was okay enough. Totally natural for somebody getting stabbed a billion times. As long as you didn't start squirming, you were okay.
"You're gettin' pretty tense," he noted. He rubbed gentle circles with the pad of this thumb on your hip. "Try to relax for me."
"Sorry," you whispered. "I can just... feel it everywhere."
"That's normal," he assured you. "When I got one of the pieces on my chest done, I could feel it in my armpit. But try to relax for me some. Do you need to take a break?"
"Maybe... maybe for, like, two minutes."
"Two minute break, comin' up." Eddie let off the pedal and picked up a wet paper towel. He wiped down the sensitive skin, taking with it some excess ink and a small amount of blood. "If you get up, make sure you do it slowly. Your sugar might have dropped some."
You got up at an elderly pace. Your head felt like it was still on the bench for a moment as you reoriented yourself, but quickly felt well enough to stand. You cracked your back, then looked over at him.
"Can I look at it?" You asked.
He chuckled. What an adorable question. Could you look at your own tattoo...
"I mean, you could," he mused. "Or you could leave it a surprise. We've only got about thirty minutes of work left."
You bit your lip. As anxious as you were to see your first tattoo, the idea of seeing it completed sat better with you. "I'll wait," you said.
"M'kay then. How're you feelin', hon? Any lightheadedness?"
For a moment, you bluescreened. Maybe it was a mistake. Or he was just trying to keep you calm. Yes, that had to be it. That made sense. It wasn't anything more than an excellent bedside manner. No flirting. Not like that, anyways.
"May-- maybe a little," you muttered.
"You want a Sprite?" He offered. "It'll help get your sugar back up. Shit's strong. Tastes like nuclear batteries."
As if you'd never had Sprite before.
"I'm okay, I think," you replied quietly. "Thanks, though."
"Offer's still on the table, if we pick back up and you change your mind," he said. "Let me tie my hair back, and then we can finish up, okay? It's been bugging me for the past two hours."
"'Kay."
You made the mistake of looking at Eddie as he pulled his curls back into a ponytail. A rogue, uncontrolled thought flashed through your mind. In the picture, he was pulling his hair back for a much different reason. And God, those biceps. Heat rushed through your cheeks. Just as soon as the image came, it fled, and you were left a staring, red mess.
Eddie looked up at you as he worked his band around the fistful of his hair. He smirked, like he knew exactly what you were thinking. "See something you like?" He taunted.
"No." You shook your head quickly, then realized your mistake. "I-- I mean, um... you're not... bad looking, I just-- never mind." You laid on your side, suddenly very glad to not have to look at him.
He laughed a genuine, flattered laugh, then shook his head. "Relax. Just messin' with you." He slid a new pair of gloves on and drowned his needle in ink once more. "Besides," he began, rolling back up to your side. He placed his hand back on your hip, thumb very deliberately rolling over the hem of your panties. "I'm not exactly complaining about my view, either."
For the last thirty minutes, you locked in on a very specific flash on the wall. It was a Doberman, but he donned a wizard's hat instead of the regular no-hat that dogs came with. It was truly the longest thirty minutes of your life. Just as you were about to move onto a new design, Eddie pulled away.
"All right," he sang. "You're all done. Let me wipe you down real quick, and you can take a look."
You'd become quite the fan of being wiped. The green soap was cooling against your skin. It didn't burn like you had originally expected. Eddie chuckled at the little hum you let out. Without the whirr of the machine in the way, he could tell you liked it.
"Feel good?" He asked.
"Mhm."
"Well, all my good clients get the green soap. Otherwise, I dry-wipe them. But you sat so good for me, so I'll give you all the green soap you want."
There was that flip in your stomach again. Damn him.
He wiped your thigh once more, just for good measure, then rolled away. "Okay, you know the drill. Take it easy getting up."
You took it a little less easy than the previous time, eager to see your tattoo. When you angled yourself in the mirror and beheld your thigh, you lost your ability to breathe. There it was. Your first tattoo. The angel, for your grandmother. The crow, for your movie and her hobby. The laurel crown for her pretty trees that you loved so much. The tattoo, for the woman you loved even more.
So, what do you think?" Eddie asked, leaning against his workbench. He knew what you thought. It was written all over your face. He just wanted to hear you say it.
You didn't say it, though. You didn't say anything. Instead, you whirled around and wrapped your arms around him tightly. He chuckled, looking down at you before circling his arms around you in return.
"It's not every day I get this reaction," he hummed, stroking your back. "I take it you're pretty happy with it?"
"It's perfect." You couldn't hide the waver in your voice. "I love it."
Eddie cooed when he heard the emotion carried in your words. "Aww, baby; it's okay. I know, it's pretty special to you, but you don't gotta cry about it."
"I'm sorry." You pulled back and wiped your eyes. "It's just... it's perfect. I don't have any other words for it. Thank you."
"Anytime." He held a tissue out to you. "Let's get your Saniderm on, and then you can get your pants back on, okay?"
He carefully laid the second skin over the ink. "Think of this like a big Band-Aid," he explained. "After twenty-four hours, take it off and clean the tattoo gently. I'll print out some aftercare instructions for you, but listen when I say that you cannot, under any circumstances, scratch it. Do you understand?"
"Mhm," you hummed, wiping your eyes.
Eddie pulled his gloves off and threw them in the trash. He took in your slightly disheveled appearance and drummed his fingers against his workbench, pondering.
"You know," he began. "I feel pretty bad about makin' you cry like this. You should let me make it up to you."
"Huh?" You looked up at him, not the least bit surprised to see that the son of a bitch had a smirk plastered all over his face.
"Let me take you to dinner." He glanced down at his watch. "How's tonight sound? I could take all your money, lock up, and take you out."
You blinked in surprise, but for some reason, you didn't have the same fear you had when you walked in. Surely being asked to dinner while standing in your underwear was the most embarrassing thing to happen to you today, but you lacked any apprehension about the idea.
"I'd like that," you answered quietly.
"Good." A devilish grin flashed across Eddie's features. "And, hey; maybe after dinner, you can give me some dessert."
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Summary: Surgery isn't for the week, and neither is AP History. You're doing your best to power through both with a classmate. But the oxy and the pain are getting to you, and Jack's getting stressed out.
WC: 670
Warnings: Reader is on painkillers (oxycodone) post-surgery.
Masterlist
"Okay..." Jack muttered, adjusting his seat on the edge of your bed. He shuffled through the flashcards for a minute before stilling. "Here's an easy one: what year did the black death become a real problem?"
"Uh..." you rubbed your forehead, trying hard to think. Your calf throbbed louder than your heart beat. "Was it... 1543?" You guessed, throwing out a random year.
"That's not even when it ended," he sighed. "Try again."
"1433?"
"You're about a hundred years too far still." He set the cards down and looked at you with concerned eyes. "Are you sure you can do this?"
"Yes," you insisted. "I want to be caught up when I go back to school."
"What about your other classes?" He inquired. "Why don't we try those?"
"Because I don't care about them. I care about passing Mr. Dillons class."
"I think your focus should be on recovering, but are you sure you want to spend your energy on this? I mean, it's--"
"Listen." You sat up as straight as your sore body would let you. "This class is the only thing in my way of a 4.0. I know I'll be fine in my other classes. I just need this one, and I'm so close."
"What's your grade in it?" Jack asked inquisitively. "Because it's close enough to an A, I don't think--"
"I have a 68%."
Jack raised his eyebrows, then glanced down to the notecards he'd discarded on the comforter. "Okay. Okay. Yeah, let's lock in a little." He picked one up, reading the prompt aloud to you. "This one's easy, too: what was the name of the man who founded the Holy Roman Empire?"
"...Octavian?"
"Yeah, you're done." He scooped up the rest of his cards and reaching for his backpack. "You're high, you need to rest. This shouldn't be your priority."
"Jack, come on," you whined. "I can do this."
"I'm not convinced. You're two days post-op. Call me on, like, day five or six."
"Then tell it to me," you insisted. "Give me the material in the form of a bedtime story. I can handle that."
"You want a bedtime story?" He sounded unamused. "How old are you?"
"Old enough to deserve a bedtime story about Medieval Europe after having surgery." You patted the spot beside you. "I've got an extra pillow. Sit down."
Jack sighed but sat down anyways, shuffling through to the front of his stack. "Fine. But if you fall asleep, don't expect me to stay."
"I don't. This-- this will just be a crash course. An introduction. Introduce me."
Almost begrudgingly, Jack talked through his notecards. He went through Charlemagne and the gang, the Magna Carta, and only up through Anne Boleyn before finally looking over at you. Your head was tossed back, eyes closed and mouth open slightly. He elbowed your side gently.
"Hey," he huffed. "Wake up."
You didn't.
"Hello?" A harsher elbow-- nothing painful, but certainly more pointed. When you still didn't react, Jack sighed. He knew this would happen. You were in no state to listen to a story. How long had you been asleep, anyways? Could've been an hour, could've been three minutes... it was anybody's guess, but you were out cold.
He took his eyes off you and rose to his feet. He gave your cast a sidelong glance, glad it wasn't him that tore their ACL. You looked miserable, even while you were sleeping. The bags under your eyes told him that you were tired, and you'd mentioned earlier that the oxy didn't help much. It just clouded your head and made you emotional.
Jack hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. He grabbed the blanket from the foot of your bed and pulled it up to your shoulders, ensuring it didn't rest heavily on your knee. He picked up his backpack and headed for the light switch, only sparing a single, slightly longing glance before he turned off the light and walked out.
If only he were braver.
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