"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
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
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.
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.
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.
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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Sleep it Off
Dad's Best Friend!Patrick Swayze x Reader
Summary: Patrick has been a part of your life since you were born. He's like an uncle at this point. Little do you know, your dad's late night at the sports bar has earned him a night in a cell. You only find out when you get up for some water and see someone other than your dad in the living room.
WC: 858
Warnings: Jail, bar, language.
Author's note: Another long day. This one isn't my best work, either :(
Masterlist
Your eyes were barely open as you turned on the light in the kitchen. Arising from a deep sleep for such a stupid reason as thirst was never something you enjoyed. You'd only wake up several hours later to pee, anyways. Dumb cycle.
"Hey..." A voice greeted softly from the living room. For a moment, you thought you were hearing things. Then, it spoke again. "How come you're up?"
You turned around and rubbed your eyes. Patrick was stretched out on the couch, covered by a quilt. His head was propped up on the arm of the couch as a makeshift pillow. It didn't look very comfortable.
"I'm thirst," you said slowly. "Why are you here?"
"Well, your dad got caught up in something and won't be home until tomorrow. So, here I am, just to keep an eye on you."
"Mm," you grunted, too tired to even think much of it. "Did the Flyers win?"
"Yeah," he replied. "Your dad got real worked up about it."
"Who's surprised? He loves them." You reached up for a glass, then headed for the sink. "What sort of business did he get caught up in, anyways?"
"He, uh..." Patrick sat up, looking slightly apprehensive. "Maybe you should come sit down."
"What, is he in jail or something?" You jested between gulps of your water. When Patrick didn't reply, you set your glass down, suddenly feeling very awake. "Oh, shit, is he really in jail?"
"Just for the night," he reassured, as if that was any better. "He had a little too much to drink, so he's posted up in a holding cell tonight. I don't think there's going to be any charges."
"Why didn't they just let you take him back home?" You demanded, approaching him rapidly. "You seem sober enough."
"I haven't had anything to drink, thank you. And they took him because he climbed into the drivers' seat of the truck. Apparently, that counts as a DUI in some states, and this is one of them."
"That's bullshit, is what it is. Did he start the truck?"
"Nope."
"Did he even have his keys in his hand?"
"No, they were still in the truck. That's what he went for."
"So how the hell--" You sighed sharply, frustrated and too exhausted to handle it correctly.
"Hey," he said gently. "I get it. You're stressed; I'm stressed; everybody's stressed. But we'll go pick him up in the morning and go from there. Nothing we can do right now except get you back in bed."
"How do you expect me to sleep with my dad in jail?" You exclaimed. "How's anybody supposed to sleep when they hear something like that?"
"There's melatonin," Patrick offered, a half-assed attempt at a joke. It didn't land.
"I'm not going to bed until he gets back," you asserted, sitting down on the armchair.
"Yes, you are. Even if I have to tie you there." He tossed the quilt aside and stood up, taking your hand gently. "Come on. Bedtime."
"It is not--"
"Stop." His voice came out firm, in a tone you'd never heard from him before. You looked up at him attentively, and he stared down at you. "I know it's not ideal, and it's sure not relaxing, but you are not staying awake until after he gets home. You'll be cranky and you'll feel awful, and your dad will be in no place to deal with that. So, get to bed. I'm not asking."
You swallowed and looked down the hall before returning your eyes to him. "You promise we'll get him in the morning?" You asked in a rather small voice.
"Well, I'm not going to let him stay there forever, so take a guess. Come on." Patrick began to lead you down the hall. You followed without choice.
He opened the door to your room and flipped on the light. He tried to ignore the flickering coming from one of the lightbulbs but struggled. "Go lay down," he encouraged, patting your shoulder. "Let's get you tucked in."
Begrudgingly, you laid down. He reached over you and grabbed the duvet, draping it over you and folding it down slightly. He grabbed the stuffed rabbit off your bookshelf and settled it next to your head, as if he were unsure what to do with it.
"There," he muttered. "A friend for you."
"Bunny usually keeps me calm while I do homework," you explained. "Not while I sleep."
"Well, Bunny will keep you calm tonight, since I'm about six seconds away from dropping onto the floor, and I won't be of much help after that." He strolled over to the light switch but hesitated to flip it back down. "If you need something, I'll be on the couch."
"What I need is for my dad to come home."
"I'll get that to you tomorrow," he yawned, flipping the switch. "Goodnight, kid."
"Night," you muttered, watching as he closed the door gently. You turned on your side, staring at Bunny. He stared back with blank, plastic eyes. You sighed and pulled him into your chest. "I guess it's you and me tonight, pal."
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Midnight Talk Show
Older Brother!Darry Curtis x Young Sister!Reader
Summary: It's been three days since Ponyboy and Johnny ran away. The stress is almost odorous, and you're having a tough time. Unable to sleep, you wander out to the couch in search of Darry. He's almost as worse off as you.
WC: 1.1k
Warnings: Language
Masterlist
Seventy-three hours.
Ponyboy and Johnny had been missing for seventy-three hours. None of your muscles had been able to fully relax since Darry first raised his voice. Your chest hadn't loosened since he'd raised a hand to Pony's cheek. Your sleep hadn't been restful since he flew right back out the door into the night. You weren't sure how much more this you could take.
Two-Bit had taken you on a long walk earlier today. Maybe it was to help clear your head, tire you out so you could rest. Maybe it was to inadvertently look for any sign of the missing boys. He'd even bought you a milkshake to lift your spirits. The only thing that rose was your blood sugar; you still remained as glum and scared as ever.
A part of you wanted to be angrier with Darry than you actually were. This was his fault, you rationalized. He yelled, he lashed out, he scared Pony off. But looking at the old man your twenty-year-old brother had become in the past seventy-three hours, you knew you couldn't. He couldn't handle any more.
You rolled over in your bed, wishing that your body would just give in. You were so tired; you needed rest. The clock taunted you, flashing the stupid time in your face. 11:42. You rolled back over the other way, but the numbers were engraved in your vision, even behind closed eyes.
Frustrated, you gathered your blanket around you and stumbled to your feet. The cold pine did nothing to reset your system, but that was okay. You didn't have much hope for that, anyways. What you wanted was in the living room. 'The Tonight Show' had just aired fifteen minutes ago, and Jack Paar's lulling, slightly nasally voice was exactly the sort of thing that would send you to sleep.
Your plans to curl up on the couch and listen were foiled by the old man leaning against one of the arms, forehead in his hand. You paused, observing his state. Darry looked like had hadn't slept in days. Hell, he probably hadn't. He stayed up to scold Pony when he fell asleep at the lot, and he'd gone out looking for his brother and friend every night sense. If he caught any sleep, it was probably while he waited for his coffee to brew so that he didn't have to sleep.
He never looked up at you. He kept his eyes closed and head down, as if he couldn't decide to let sleep or shame in first. But somehow, he knew you were there.
"It's late," he said simply. "You need to go to bed."
"I can't," you admitted. You tugged the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders.
"Why not?"
"Darry..."
He gave a great sigh. "Yeah, I figured. You wanna sit?"
You moved wordlessly over to the couch, pressing the bottoms of your feet against the unoccupied arm and laying your head on Darry's thigh. He didn't touch you otherwise.
"...Darry, I'm worried."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"...it's your fault, Darry."
Quieter: "I know, I'm sorry."
You sniffed. "Darry--"
"Please," he interrupted without malice. "Please don't say anymore. Just... just be quiet, okay? Please."
"I'm sorry, Darry." You swallowed. "I-- I'm sorry."
"Y/N--"
"I know you didn't mean for this to happen, and I know you're scared, and you're tired, and you want to get help but you can't, and I'm so sorry--" You cut yourself off with a sob. "I'm so sorry it's all happening."
Darry didn't cry, even though you could feel the uneven, hitching breaths in his stomach. He still wouldn't look at you. He didn't dare speak, on account of the knot in his throat. He did, however, let his free hand come to rest on your head, thumb gently stroking over your temple.
For a long while, nobody spoke. You just cried, and his shadow loomed over you. Neither of you were brave enough to speak. Not until well after midnight, long after your tears had stopped.
"...Darry?" You whispered, turning your head to look up at him.
"Yeah?" He croaked.
"...what are we going to do?"
He sniffed and lifted his head finally. He stared blankly into the kitchen. For a man feeling so many emotions, the only one he had enough energy to show was exhaustion.
"I don't know," he finally admitted. "We can't do nothing, but there isn't much we can do, either."
"Maybe... maybe they left," you suggested. "Got out of town. Maybe they're hiding in Collinsville, or something."
"If they're somewhere else, how would they get there?" He challenged. "They don't have a car. They're not stupid enough to hitchhike. They couldn't walk all the way to somewhere like Collinsville. They'd have to take a train, and they don't know jack about trains, either."
A thought formed in your head. Maybe the boys didn't know anything about trains, but if you were going to run from the law, you knew exactly who you'd go to.
"Darry, I think-- I think maybe if they did run away, they talked to Dally."
"Dally? Why would they--" He paused, realization settling in on his worn face. "Oh."
"Maybe he knows something. We should call him."
"...yeah." Darry rubbed his chin contemplatively. "We will. But you need rest. And I haven't slept in... what day is it?"
"Well, now it's Monday."
"...I can't do that math. I can't stay awake much longer. We'll call him tomorrow."
"What if tomorrow is too late?" You didn't want to ask, but you couldn't help it. All time is limited. Pony and Johnny's time was certainly pressured now, whether it was their time as free young men, or alive.
"Then I will handle Dally myself, so for his sake, he better hope it's not. For now--" He grunted, lifted your head off his lap. You could almost hear the creaking of his back as he stood up. "We need some rest. We can't do anything like this."
"I want to say here," you asserted. "I couldn't sleep in my room. I wanted to listen to Jack Paar."
Darry sighed. "All right. Just... just don't stay up all night."
"'kay, Darry. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
He stepped through to the kitchen, then hesitated. He turned around to look at you, wrapped up in your blanket. You looked so small. It reminded him that he still needed to take care of you and Sodapop. You were all younger, no matter how weathered this situation had made you all.
"...I don't think I've ever told you," he began slowly. "But I love you. All of you."
"I love you, too, Darry." You only whispered because you didn't want him to hear the ache in your throat. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
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Summary: When your parents to take an emergent trip out of town, she asks the neighbor boy to stay with you for a day or two; just until she gets back. Unfortunately, that neighbor is Billy. He doesn't seem to care much, until he finds someone in your room.
WC: 1.8k
Warnings: Language.
Not seeing your mom's car in the driveway when you got home wasn't that big of a deal. Sometimes, she beat the school bus, and sometimes, she didn't. She would be home in thirty minutes, you assumed, just like always. Dad would come home closer to dinner, too; just like always.
When you pushed your key into the lock on the front door and twisted, you were surprised to feel absolutely nothing happen. The door was always locked if she wasn't home. Had she maybe forgotten to lock it today? No, that couldn't be right. Not in your eighteen years on this planet had she ever once forgotten something so routine as locking the door. Maybe grandma came to visit from Indianapolis, and that's why the door wasn't locked. Her door was never locked, so she probably just didn't think twice about locking yours. Yes, that had to be it.
The sureness in your thoughts died when you looked at the boots by the front door. They were way too big to be grandmas, and the only boots you owned were rainboots, but those were upstairs in your room. These boots clearly belonged to a man.
So there was a polite burglar running around your house? Great. Excellent. Just what you needed today.
"Hello?" You called out, feeling stupid. That always got somebody killed in a horror movie.
"Yo!" A velvet voice returned from the living room. It wasn't one you recognized.
So the polite burglar was also terrible at staying undetected. Maybe it was a secret third Wet Bandit.
You grabbed your rather hefty water bottle from your backpack and made for the kitchen. It was no Hydro Flask, but that didn't mean it wasn't heft. It was. And you'd had no water today, so it was extra heavy.
"Oh." Your grip relaxed slightly on the thing when you saw your neighbor sitting on your couch, eating a dripping peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "What are you doing here?"
"Your mom asked me to pet sit for a couple days," Billy said through a mouthful of bread. "Had to go to Indianapolis."
"She would have told me if she had a business trip," you replied skeptically.
"It's not a business trip. She took your dad with her. Something about grandpa."
"What?" Now he had your attention. Grandpa wasn't exactly a stranger in the emergency room. He took a tumble a couple times a year, and his heart wasn't the most reliable organ. Sometimes, if it acted up, he'd take himself down there. Usually, he could convince your grandma to drive him, but once she got on a first name basis with the nurses, she stopped following so much. "Why?"
"I don't know." He shrugged. "I didn't ask, she didn't tell."
"Is it my grandpa?" You pushed, taking a step closer.
"I just said I didn't know." Billy rolled his eyes. "Now go away."
You didn't. Instead, you headed for the kitchen, where the phone hung mounted on the wall. You impatiently dialed the number for Grandma's house and waited with bated breath for someone to answer.
"Hello?" Your grandmother spoke.
"Hi, Grandma. Is Mom there?"
"Yes, she is. I asked her to come. Your grandpa hurt his knee, and I can't support him like your dad can. Your mom's just here to help out where she can," she explained.
"What happened?"
"My genius husband saw the little kids across the street taking turns on a skateboard, and he wanted to try." She sounded unimpressed, but you know she laughed when she saw him. She always did when he was up to no good. "He tried to turn, fell down, and sprained his knee."
"But he's okay?"
"Worse; he's proud of himself. Says he's 'hip with the youth' now. But he's having a good time. He likes when you guys come visit."
"Can I talk to my mom, please?"
"Sure. Just hold on, now." Your grandmother took the phone from her ear and called out for your mouth. Faintly, you could hear her call back. "She'll be right here."
A few seconds later, your mom took the handset. "Hey," she sighed. "What's up?"
"Is Grandpa okay?" You inquired. "Grandma says he sprained his knee."
"He's fine. He's got a brace on, but it's still a bit of a challenge for him to get around, so your dad's helping with that, mostly. I'm just helping Grandma out with the household stuff so she doesn't have to do it alone. Is Billy still there?"
"Yeah." You lowered your voice, cupping your mouth around the microphone. "Why did you have to ask him?"
"Because I know he could use some extra money, he's close by, and it'll get him out of that house."
Fair point. At least once a week, the Mayfield household gave the surrounding houses front row seats to a screaming match. There was always a man's voice-- much harsher than Billy's-- but his partner changed each time. Sometimes, it was a lady. Sometimes, Billy. One night last year, it had been Max. You saw her in the counseling office at school the next day, but you didn't talk to her. She wasn't your friend anymore.
"You couldn't ask, I don't know, Steve Harrington?" You argued anyway. "I hear him complaining in the halls about how he's always babysitting."
"No, I couldn't have. And maybe that's a good thing. If he's complaining about it, then why would he come babysit you?" Your mom sounded terse. "Just make the best of it. Get out of the house tomorrow. But we'll be home in a couple days."
"How many?"
"A couple. Goodbye, Y/N."
"Mom--"
The line clicked and went dead. You huffed and set the phone back in its cradle. Before you could even turn a single degree, Billy spoke up.
"Prefer Harrington to me, huh?" He taunted. "What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing," you lied. "I just know Steve better."
"Huh. Well, don't expect us to become best pals or whatever." He stood up, folding the paper towel he'd been eating off of. It did little to keep the crumbs in. "I'm just here to make sure you don't burn the place down and to make some money."
"I didn't want to be your friend, anyways," you returned, crossing your arms.
"Good." He strolled past you and over to the trashcan, tossing the paper towel in. "Why don't you go read in your room?"
"Why, so you can have your girlfriend over?"
"Don't got one, so no. I just want to watch WWE. I figure you shouldn't be exposed to such violence," he replied with a grin.
"It's not real violence," you muttered. "But fine. What are we doing for dinner?"
"We are not doing anything," Billy answered. "I am having pizza. You can do whatever. I don't care."
"Can I have pizza?"
"If you buy your own pizza, you can. Like I said, I don't care. Now shoo." He made a dismissive gesture, as if waving you away. "Bob Backlund is going to get his ass kicked tonight, and I want to watch it happen."
"You don't care?" An idea began to form in your head.
"I've said it, like, three times now, kid," he reiterated, clearly growing annoyed. "Get out of here."
You held your hands up in surrender, but made your way towards the hall. If he didn't care what you did, then he wouldn't care if you had a friend over, right?
You grabbed the walkie-talkie off your desk. "Hey, Mike? Do you copy?"
A few seconds later, Mike's voice crackled over the speaker. "I copy. What's up?"
"How would you like to eat some pizza and piss off Billy?"
~~~~~~~~
You flew out of your room the second a knock came to the front door. Billy couldn't see who was out there. You'd die before you got the chance to piss him off, and that couldn't happen.
"I got it!" You called, watching as he began to rise from the couch. "It's my pizza."
"Eating dinner already?" He chuckled condescendingly, sitting back down. "Careful there."
Ignoring his comment, you opened the door, the money you owed Mike in hand. "Hello," you greeted with a smile. He silently held the pizza out, which you took. "Here you go."
Mike accepted his 'payment' and stepped inside. No words were spoken as you crept down the hall, ushering Mike in front of you, just so Billy wouldn't see him if he happened to look. Thankfully, he was too busy watching Ray Stevens destroy his opponent, much to his dismay.
"I can't believe that worked!" You grinned once your bedroom door shut.
"Me neither," Mike agreed. "What are you wanting to do? Aside from eating pizza."
"Well, the board games are in the living room, so those are off limits, but we could do Battleship on a piece of paper."
"Sure."
For a while, it was fun. Mike struggled to find your "pegs," which were just circles on a grid full of "X"s. The pizza disappeared under mysterious circumstances within thirty minutes. No way the two of you ate the whole thing, right? You won, to nobody's surprise. Mike was truly ass at Battleship. But your cry of victory caught Billy's ears.
"What's she wailin' about?" He muttered, rising. His footsteps echoed throughout the hall.
"Shh!" You hushed, even though Mike hadn't said anything. When you were certain that the steps were coming towards you, a panicked heat rose in your gut. "He's coming!"
Mike tumbled for the floor, falling in front of your bed. You crumpled up the papers and tossed them towards your trashcan, missing severely. Before he could get even a leg under the bedframe, the door opened. Billy took in the scene of that freak Max used to hang out with trying to crawl under your bed, and immediately snapped.
"The hell he is doing here?" He demanded, pointing at Mike. "You can't have a boy in your room!"
"Says who?"
"Says me! And probably your mom!"
"You said you didn't care what I did," you reminded him calmly. "Besides, we weren't doing anything nefarious. We just ate pizza."
"Then why is he trying to hide under your bed?" He snapped. He kicked Mike's ankle-- not hard, but certainly not gently.
"Because you're scary," you replied simply.
"Good! He should be scared! Get out of here, Wheeler!"
Mike didn't have to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, barely sparing you a glance before running out the door.
"Your mom will hear about this!" Billy called after him. He turned his pointed stare to you, stepping up to the edge of your bed. "And so will your mom."
"Don't bother her," you insisted. "She's got her hands full with my grandpa."
"Fine," he huffed. "But she's hearing about it when she comes back. I don't want you to come out of this room until noon tomorrow."
"What if I have to pee?"
"Piss your pants. I don't care. Don't come out."
"What if I'm hungry?"
"Starve."
"What if I'm thirsty?"
"Cry about it."
"What if--"
"Jesus Christ, okay!" He shouted, running a hand through his hair. "You can come out for the essentials! Just-- don't bother me! No friends! No TV! Nothing!"
"So I'm grounded, is what you're saying." You wiped a bit of grease off the corner of your lip, evidence of the pizza that disappeared under mysterious circumstances. "I thought only my dad could do that."
"Yeah?"
He's walking right into it.
"Well, consider me your dad for the next few days, because you are grounded."
Bingo.
"Guess I'll rot in here, then," you sighed. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Whatever," he grumbled, making for your door.
You could barely hold back your laughter as you spoke up once more. "Sorry, daddy."
"Y/N!"
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Playing Games
Bad Boy!Jack Thurlow x Good Girl!Reader (pt. 3)
Summary: Your mother has a cow when you came home late, barely awake and fresh out of Jack Thurlow's house. You're confined to home and church for two weeks. But you're bored. You want to see Jack again. So what do you do? You look for an open window.
WC: 1.8k
Warnings: Reader's family is Catholic, language
Masterlist
If yesterday had been hot, then today was sweltering. Maybe getting grounded was a blessing in disguise. You got to sit in the air conditioning, but at the same time, you had no choice but to sit in the air conditioning and do nothing. Your mother had hidden the remote to the TV in her purse and gone to work. Your phone was in there, too. And guess where your laptop was. Well, it didn't fit in her purse, so your dad took it with him in his work duffle. You weren't in the mood to read, or write, or clean, or draw. You just needed something to do.
Jack would know how to have fun.
The thought caught you off guard. You were supposed to be mad at Jack, since it was his idea for you to take a nap, which made you late coming home. So really, this whole thing was his fault. But you were right. Jack would know something to keep you occupied. Maybe you could watch some NatGeo on YouTube on his phone. Or play one of the board games from the basement, if he felt like it. Playing with him would be better than playing alone.
You looked out your window wistfully, wishing you could call him to ask. His car was in the driveway; you knew he was home. You were being teased. This was a sick joke. The man upstairs was punishing you for disappointing your mother and for watching a movie such as 'House of 1000 Corpses.'
Something caught your eye. You squinted out your window, looking over at Jack's house across the short side lawn. His bedroom window was open. Maybe there was a way to reach him.
You slid your window open and stuck your head out. "Jack!" You shouted. When no response came, you shouted louder. "Jack!"
He didn't even look out the window. Rats. Your eyes fell on your desk, where you kept a small stack of scratch paper, as you pondered. When you gave up on thinking and focused on your surroundings instead, a lightbulb went off over your head.
You stood quickly and grabbed one of the papers. In your best scrawl, you jotted down:
Jack-- you should come over. I'm grounded and bored. Parents won't be home for another few hours.
You folded the sheet into an airplane, scribbled his name on either wing, and chucked it out the window, aiming for Jack's open one. It hit the shutter and fell to the ground. No worries; you can just make another one.
And another.
And another.
And another.
The sixth plane finally went through his window, the others laying in a heap on the grass below. You didn't see him go to the window, but you saw the light turn on. You quickly ducked away, feeling shy all of a sudden. And so began the waiting game. Would he do something? Would he laugh and toss your planes in the shredder?
A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Your heart danced in celebration. Success! You ran downstairs and opened the door. There stood Jack, a bouquet of paper airplanes in his arms.
"Good afternoon, Y/N," he greeted in a falsely polite manner. "You wouldn't happen to know who threw all these planes at my house, would you?"
"Maybe it was me," you replied.
"Well, your aim sucks. I mean, seriously. Six planes, only one made it into my window." He let himself into your house, stepping past you. "Could've just called me."
"No, I couldn't have." You shut the door. "My mom took my phone."
"Aww, tough luck. You keep a recycling can around here?" He asked, shrugging the bouquet. "I don't need all of these."
"Yeah, in the kitchen," you said. You gestured for him to follow you deeper into the house. You opened the cabinet under the sink, where the cardboard box held little scraps and retired documents.
"Thank you." Jack dumped his arms into the box. "So... grounded, huh?"
"Yeah. That really old lady across the street-- I forget her name, but she's always looking out her window-- saw me go into your house and snitched to my mom. And then, when I still wasn't home when she got back, I lost my right to the outside world for two weeks."
"You mean Trudy?" Jack asked, smiling. "My grandma has coffee with her every Sunday. She's a bitch."
You had to physically hold yourself back from shushing him. Didn't he see the cross on the wall? The wood sign with "Luke 22:19" painted in warm cursive? Didn't he know where he was?
"Maybe-- maybe use a different word," you suggested.
"Why? Mama's not here to hear it," he challenged, a little smile growing on his face.
"It's still a Christian house," you mumbled.
"All right; I'll use kind words," he conceded, holding his hands up in surrender. "So, what's the plan here? We going to watch a movie, or...?"
"She took the TV remote, and my laptop, and my phone. We can't."
He hummed, leaning back against the tile countertop. "You couldn't just read or something?"
"I wasn't in the mood," you admitted. "Just not feeling it today."
"Well, shit-- I mean, snap. What were you expecting to do then?" The smile shifted from opposing to kind. It was a nice look for him.
"I don't know. We could play a game."
"Oh, I know a good one!" He perked up. "It's called Seven Minutes in Heaven, and--"
"We're not playing that," you cut in. "I might be Catholic, but I'm not stupid. I know what that is."
"Can't get anything past you," Jack grinned. "What game you got in mind? Old Maid?"
"We could play Scrabble," you suggested.
"Scrabble, huh?" He mused. "Yeah, we could. But are you sure you don't want to play--"
"Jack."
"I'm kidding! Jeez, maybe we should play the Lighten Up game," he teased. "Let's go play your little Scrabble game."
"I'll be right back, then. Go ahead and sit at the table."
After a moment, when you emerged from the basement, you noticed Jack wasn't at the table. Instead, he was stalking around the living room, looking at all the framed pictures on the walls. He seemed amused.
"Are you ready?" You called out.
"Yeah, I'm just looking at these baby pictures," he responded. "Who's little baby?"
"That's me," you said, setting the box down on the table. "I'm the only kid here."
"Huh. Cute."
Jack calling you cute did something to you. Even if it wasn't the current you, that baby was still you. And he thought you were a cute baby. Maybe he thought you were cute now.
"Y'know, I never see you at school," you said, swiftly changing the subject. "Are you homeschooled?"
"I graduated last year," he explained, sitting down across from you and unfolding the board.
"I never saw you in the halls."
"I saw you."
Get yourself together, Stomach.
"Oh. Maybe I just missed you," you casually replied. "Do you want to go first?"
"Sure. Lemme grab some letters..." He reached into the velvet bag, counted out seven, then set them on his rack. "Let's see... oh!"
You watched as he laid out five letters. "Shank, for... seventeen."
"Here, let me get a notepad." You stood up and went to the junk drawer, grabbing a pocket notebook. J=17, you wrote. You sat back down, pulled your own seven letters, then surveyed your options.
"Gent for, uh, seven." You set your tiles down, scribbled on the pad, then looked at Jack expectantly.
He stayed quiet for almost a minute, brow furrowed in thought. When he found his word, he relaxed.
"Honey. That's twelve. Man, I'm already whooping your-- why are you red?"
You wanted to keel over in embarrassment. Just hearing the stupid word in his voice made you flustered, and it was the most humiliating thing you'd ever experienced. You couldn't even look at him.
"Hello?" He tapped the edge of the table with a fingernail that needed to be filed. "Are you in there?"
All you could do was nod.
"Great. Why are you blushing?"
You swallowed. "No reason."
"It's the word, isn't it?" A knowing smirk spread across his cheeks. "Honey."
You nodded in shame.
"You like it? Honey?"
"I-- I do," you mumbled. "But--"
"Uh, hold up. I'm still talking."
You were literally talking first, in what world--
"You want me to call you that?"
What a plot twist! He had no reason to do that, although he flirted like he did. And how sudden. But the real question, did you?
"...you-- you could," you replied, throat dry. "If you want."
"Neat," he said simply. "Your turn."
Ignoring the tumbling in your gut, you played 'yacht' off 'honey' for 26. He followed with 'temp' on the 'T' for 16. With mostly vowels, you had no choice but to put 'ape' around the 'P' for a whopping six points. The wolfish grin that spread onto Jack's face told you that 'ape' was a bad move.
"Oh, you're cooked," he chuckled, grabbing his letters. "You're toast. You're done."
With rising horror, you watched as he put a 'D' behind your 'ape,' right on the triple world score. But he didn't stop there. He built up until the word was spelled out clearly: squid.
"According to my math, that's a wonderful 76 points," he announced proudly. "Beat that."
~~~~~~~~
You couldn't. You lost royally-- 273 to 187. How embarrassing to your scholar mind. It took nearly an hour, but after the squid incident, you knew that the game was over.
"Look at those numbers," Jack marveled. "Aren't they pretty?"
"Beautiful," you replied in a playfully flat voice. "I hope you had fun."
"Oh, I had so much fun," he said, still smiling.
You glanced up at the clock above the mantle. 3:49. Your mom would be home soon.
"You should probably go," you advised, a hint of regret in your voice. "My mom will be home in about thirty minutes."
"Can't have mama seeing my unholy ass-- butt-- in her house, hmm?" He teased, rising.
"I'm supposed to be in solitary confinement, so..."
"I get it. No worries."
You walked Jack to the front door, lingering as he slid his shoes on. "I really liked this," you confessed. "It was... it was nice."
"It was, wasn't it?" He opened the door. "Oh, I almost forgot. I'm having a party on the seventh. Do you think you'll be on parole by then?"
"Unless my mom decides I haven't learned my lesson, yeah. Why?"
"Because I want you to come. It'll be a small crowd, but we'll have fun."
Your expression softened in surprise. Did this mean you were friends now? You weren't sure what the threshold was in this relationship. "Sure," you accepted anyways. "I'd like that."
"Cool. See you later, honey."
Thank God the door shut before he could see the look on your face.
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Summary: Sometimes, it sucks being the niece of the wealthiest guy in town. By sometimes, I mean all the time. The new cooler in town doesn't like him any better, but he doesn't know your situation. When he finds out, he tries to make it right.
WC: 1.6k
Warnings: Bar setting, alcohol, Brad hurts reader, language.
Author's note: I've got a migraine; I didn't try that hard.
Masterlist
You drug your feet as Pat gripped your elbow, hauling you into the bar you didn't want to go into. It wasn't a trade you had any interest in, unlike your uncle. He seemed to have a personal vendetta against every single business owner in town. He'd never paid much attention to the Double Deuce-- until it started shaping up, and the new kid turned his attention to his niece.
"Evening, Frank!" Brad chirped in a falsely friendly voice, nodding at the owner. "Busy night?"
"It's only three o'clock," Frank replied. "Not much activity yet."
"Ah, well; they'll come." He sat down at the bar, and his cronies sat around him. You finally managed to pull away from Pat and pressed yourself against the far side of the wall. "Always do these days, don't they?"
"Can I help you with something?" The owner asked, eyeing his new cooler in the corner. "Are you here for a drink?"
"Relax! We're all just here for... a nice, refreshing beer, aren't we?"
His posse nodded. You rolled your eyes. It was never just a nice, refreshing beer. It was always three and some bullshit.
"Ernie, get six lagers," Frank said flatly. He looked to you. "Are you drinking?"
"Just coffee, please," you muttered. "I'll pay separately."
"Nonsense!" Brad exclaimed. "I'm buyin' for everyone. Even you, Dalton; if you're thirsty."
The cooler shook his head. "I don't drink."
He didn't seem to have any emotions, either.
"Well, your loss." Brad took the beer Ernie held out to him. "But more for us, am I right?"
Jimmy started the laughter. The others followed accordingly. It was always Jimmy. He did all the fighting, all the fear mongering; and it sucked, because he looked like one of the Lost Boys, which meant he seemed cool to most girls your age. If only they knew.
"Here's your coffee." Ernie smiled at you. You tried to return it.
"I'll leave you to your business," you mumbled, striding past the bar and over to a small, round table in the corner. Sitting with your back to Uncle Brad wasn't something you did much. He liked to scare, then try to claim it was just a joke; even when you continually raised your voice about it. But turning your back to him now was just another act of defiance; a physical show of your opinions on his latest devious plan.
"So, Ernie. How much is Frankie here payin' ya?" Brad inquired.
Here we go.
You tried your best to tune out the conversation. Of course, it wasn't easy with Brad's voice being as terrible as it was. You just closed your eyes and sipped your bitter coffee, wishing you had sugar but not wanting to ask.
"How's the brew?" Dalton asked, taking up the chair across from you. He set his own mug of coffee down.
"It's all right," you replied. "Could do with a little sugar."
He winced. "We're fresh out of packets. Sorry."
"It's all right. I can handle it." You took another sip, as if to prove it.
"Mind if I ask you something?" He inquired, swirling the coffee but never drinking it.
"Sure."
"What business do you have running with a man like Wesley?" He asked in a lowered tone, leaning in close. "You don't seem like the type to participate in his so-called 'business.'"
"I'm not, and I don't," you explained. "I just happen to live with him."
"Are you his daughter?"
You laughed, shaking your head. "No. Thank God for small miracles. I'm just the niece."
Dalton chuckled too, although he had no reason to. "You don't live with your parents?"
"I never met my dad, and my mom is overseas right now," you answered, taking another swig of your coffee. "She's not due back for another six months."
"That's rough; I'm sorry."
"I'm only sorry that six months goes so slow. I can't wait to be out of this shithole," you mumbled. "Sometimes, I wonder how much a girl can take before she ends up like him." You jabbed a thumb over your shoulder.
Dalton nodded. "I've only known him for a couple weeks, and I'm already sick of him. It's impressive you'd made it this long without swinging on him."
"I wanted to this morning, when he told me about his plan," you admitted. "You know he's not really here for the drinks, right?"
"Doesn't take a fool to know." He sipped his coffee, frowned at it, then sipped again.
"He's going to try to buy out Ernie and put him a bar on the other side of town. I forget what it's called, but it's supposed to be a little more high-end; much more Brad's speed," you said. "He told me he planned to offer triple what Frank paid, but didn't intend to follow through."
Dalton sighed. "Figures. Ernie won't take it, though. He took Pat's job; he'll never seclude himself with him."
"You think?"
"I know."
He sighed, looking at you with a sober expression. "Is Brad at least good to you?"
"He... could be worse, I guess," you concluded, taking a smaller sip of your coffee. It just seemed to be getting worse with every swallow.
"He hurt you?"
You hesitated. You'd never opened up about this before, and you never intended to. That knowledge was something you kept locked away in a box, under a blanket of foundation. Nobody was supposed to know.
"Yes," you whispered. "From time to time. It's worse when I do shit like this." You gestured to your subtle act of defiance. "When I don't go along with his plans."
"...be honest, now: do you need a place to stay tonight?"
"I-- I can't wander too far away. Besides, you're involved with his ex. It would look terrible. You hanging out with his niece and his ex, I mean," you reasoned.
"I don't think Elizabeth would mind if it kept someone safe," Dalton countered. "And every time he hurts you, it risks sending you to the hospital, anyways."
"He doesn't do it that bad--"
"--is what you think. But take it from me; things build up. And when they build up on the inside, where you can't see them, they tend to get out of hand a lot faster."
"..."
"Please." His sharp eyes peered into yours, which had begun to mist over. "Let me give you a little break."
"...all right," you whispered. "What do we tell him?"
"Who? Brad? Easy." Dalton stood up, taking your wrist in his hand. "Frank? I'll be back around five. I've got an errand to run."
"Sounds go--"
"Well, hold up just a minute there!" Brad frowned. "Where are you takin' my niece?"
"We're going out for ice cream," he lied. "it's a nice day, and we've both got a hankering. I'll drop her at your place when we're done."
"A man like you doesn't skip on work just for ice cream," Tinker sneered. "I think he's looking for something... a little sweeter."
Pat snickered. Brad smacked the back of his head, effectively silencing him.
"You best do exactly that, Dalton." Brad stood and sauntered coolly over to him. "I hope you don't have to find out what happens to men that lie to me."
"I won't," Dalton asserted, bumping shoulders with the older man as he walked past, still holding onto you. "Come on. I can't stop thinking about double fudge."
~~~~~~~~
"This is where I sleep." Dalton lead you up the stairs of the barn, up to the loft. "It's not much, but it's all I need."
"It's beautiful," you replied, taking in the warm, orangey color of the wood floor as the sun shone in on it. "Cozy."
"You should see it when it rains," he said. "I like to open the windows and curl up on the couch, and just... listen. Listening is a forgotten art these days, I think."
Your face paled when you looked out the window across the river. "Brad lives there," you whispered. "He might see me."
"Well, see, that's the nice thing." Dalton pulled the window shut and drew the curtain over it. "He doesn't have to."
You nodded uncertainly. This was a nice thing for him to do, especially for someone whose name he didn't even ask for. And for a man who seemed to have to so little trust in everyone. And a nice thing to do in general.
"...thank you, Dalton," you mumbled, although your voice was earnest. "What time do you get off work?"
"Two," he replied. "If you need anything-- food, entertainment, whatever-- go hunt down Emmett. He's got plenty of farmwork to do, and he's got some stories, too, if that's more your speed."
You nodded again. He studied you quietly, then sighed.
"You don't have to be scared, you know," he said as gently as he could. "I'm not sure Brad even knows I live up here."
"What if he does?"
"Let's assume he doesn't. If there's a problem, go over to Emmett. He's got a phone." Dalton strolled back towards the stairs, then gave you a final glance. "Just rest, okay?"
"Yeah."
"All right."
Resting seemed to come easily in Dalton's loft. Maybe it was the atmosphere. Maybe it was the idea that Brad wasn't across the hall (or the river just yet). Or maybe it was the fact that you were snoozing in the bed of a guy who, supposedly, tore a man's throat out, so you didn't have to worry much about protection. But you were still asleep when he came back, and stayed asleep when Dalton crashed equally as hard on the couch.
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This is the House, Come on In
Bad Boy!Jack Thurlow x Good Girl!Reader
Summary: Four o'clock has finally rolled around. You'd been waiting anxiously, but not without the occasional burst of excitement. You're not entirely certain what Jack's got in store for you at Grandma Thurlow's house. But you won't find out by sitting on your couch, now will you?
WC: 2.2k
Warnings: House of 1000 corpses spoilers, mentions of sex, language, readers family might be homophobic
Masterlist
You bit your lip, staring at yourself in the mirror for the sixth straight minute. Something was missing, but you couldn't decide what. Your dress was modest and pretty-- elderly, even, if you considered the simplicity of the wrap and the floral pattern. Your socks barely peeked out from the collar of your shoes. The pendant on the necklace your grandmother gifted you rested at the base of your throat. You looked fine. What was wrong?
Plain. You looked plain.
You sighed, biting your poor lip again. Your mother kept makeup, but it only ever came out for special occasions. Think weddings, funerals, baby showers. The most she ever let you wear was a tinted lip gloss. But this was a special occasion, wasn't it? You were making a new friend, giving a person so different from you a chance. That didn't happen every day.
You padded across the old shag in your room and crossed the hall, then opened the door to your parents' room. You hardly went in here anymore, except to watch your mother get ready for her so-called special occasions. How her clothes clung to her, still in a respectable way. The complicated way she pinned up her hair, all by herself. You'd sit on the edge of the bed, peering into the bathroom in admiration. Out of habit, you gripped the edge of the mattress. You paused for a moment, redirecting yourself on your mission, then heading for the bathroom.
You crouched down in front of the cabinet and surveyed your options. A natural pallet, or a fun one? A matte, blush lipstick, or a wet, bright one? Highlighter, or blush? Decisions, decisions...
In the end, you reached for the mascara and the contour pallet. You wouldn't use the contour; you had no idea how to do that. But you knew how your mom used the blush and the highlighter. A thin streak across each cheek with the blush, blend it with that pom-pom-looking brush, then one dab with the brush on her nose. Another finger, a swipe of highlighter, a small dot on the tip of her nose. The mascara was easier. Just two strokes of mascara on top, one on the bottom, and then over to the other eye. As long as you didn't blink, or breathe, or stab it in your eye, you'd be all right.
...well, it didn't look terrible. Certainly nothing like what your mom did, but it was okay enough. You looked artificially natural, like those girls at school that claimed they didn't wear makeup but totally did. You looked like you fit in, for once. Surely your mom couldn't complain about her daughter belonging with people outside of the nerds for once, right?
The clock on the wall pointed just shy of the four. You sighed. You wanted to do more-- a messy braid, or maybe you could've curled your hair-- but you'd run out of time. Whatever; your hair still held some texture from those stupid pigtails. It was time to do the true scary thing. To cross the side yard and knock on Jack Thurlow's door.
The day hadn't cooled whatsoever. Thankfully, his porched was covered. Several windchimes hung from hooks scattered above the railing. They sang without coordination in the gentle breeze. You took a stabilizing breath, then rapped thrice on his door.
For almost thirty seconds, it remained shut. You started to think you'd been duped. Fooled. He'd played a nasty trick on you. He had bribed you into further humiliating yourself. He was probably upstairs with some other girl right now, just to rub salt into the wound. That's what you get. That's what you get for giving the bad boy a chance. That's what you get for--
"Hey," Jack said casually, pulling the door open. "You're late."
"What?" You blinked, drawing yourself out of your deprecating thoughts. "It-- it's four o'clock."
"It's 4:01," he corrected.
"Oh. Sorry."
"Relax. I'm teasing." He opened the door wider and stepped aside. "Come on. Fun things await."
You stepped through the threshold, immediately struck by how powdery the place smelled. Yep; a grandma definitely lived here. Even you didn't see all the lace and the knickknacks, all the natural light and lived-in sort of cleanliness might have tipped you off. But the smell was a dead giveaway.
"What, um, what are you wanting to do?" You asked, gingerly slipping your sandals off and setting them next to the other shoes behind the door.
"I was thinkin' we could watch a movie." Jack crossed his arms, barely hiding the amused smirk on his face. "I've got a VHS set upstairs."
"Sure," you replied. "I mean, there's certain things I can't watch, but we can watch a movie."
"Yeah?" Jack called over his shoulder, heading for the stairs. You followed. "What can't you watch?"
"I can't watch movies with a lot of blood, or violence, or cursing, or sex, or smoking or drinking or drugs. Oh, and anything about the devil is off-limits."
He whistled, stopping outside a door. He turned to face you, smirking. "Wow. So what can you watch?"
He rubbed his forehead, sighing. The smile remained. "Okay. All right. We'll start you off easy then, since my collection is mostly horror." He opened the door and stepped in, waving you in behind him.
"I'm not allowed to watch horror movies," you admitted sheepishly, standing with the backs of your knees against his bed.
"Well, this one barely counts," Jack explained, dropping to his knees in front of a storage cube. "This one is about a family helping a lost group of friends."
"That doesn't sound very scary," you said.
"It gets scary-ish. The friends are sort of held hostage, and they get stuck in a lot of scary situations, but one of them makes it out alive."
"Only one?"
"Only one, unfortunately. But it's a great movie." He snatched a VHS tape out of the case and held it up. House of 1000 Corpses.
"'House of 1000 Corpses' doesn't exactly invite the idea of a helping hand," you muttered, raising an eyebrow.
"That's one of the scary parts. There's a lot of dead people involved, but there's not actually one thousand corpses," Jack clarified. He walked over to the ancient VHS player and popped in the tape. He pressed a couple buttons on the TV box, then strolled over to you, bumping you with his shoulder. "Come on. Come sit."
He reclined against his headboard, patting the spot beside him. You opted for the very edge of the bed. He rolled his eyes, but didn't complain. His favorite movie was starting, he had a pretty girl in bed with him; life couldn't get any better.
You watched as the movie progressed, and uncomfortable weight settling in your gut. This movie would send your mother into a fit. There wasn't any actual sex, but there were so many references and innuendos, sex almost would have been better. That clown freak and his anemic-looking pal swore like sailors. The homicides, the mutilation, the utterly disgusting images were horrible. The fact that the anemic guy and the ancient guy constantly had beers was somehow the best part of the movie.
"Jack, I don't think I can watch this," you informed him, listening to Gramps make yet another vulgar joke. "This isn't appropriate."
"You got a boyfriend?" He asked instead of responding.
"No, I don't. And I'd like to watch something else."
"Mm. What about a girlfriend?"
"I couldn't bring home a girl and continue to live there. I want to watch something different," you insisted.
"Hm? A different movie?" Jack tapped his chin, then shook his head. "Nah. I think this one's all right."
"I don't, and neither would my mother. So either put on a different movie, or I'm going home." You stood up, glaring at him. As much as you wanted him to like you, you didn't dare violate your mother's rules.
He gave an airy sigh, then stood up. "All right; all right." He pressed the 'EJT' button on the TV, then snatched up the tape when it slid out of the slot. "I'm sure Grandma's got 'Pocahontas' around here somewhere."
He didn't bother to put the tape back in the cube. He just tossed it onto his desk and strolled out, leaving you alone in his room. Like any normal person, you took the chance to look around. There were no real signs of personality littered around-- no posters, no trophies, There weren't even any photos on the wall. Before you could take in much more, he returned, clutching a tape for 'The Princess and the Frog.'
"Got one." He grinned. "This one okay with mommy?"
Your cheeks flushed. "It's fine. One of my favorites."
"Cute. I'll play it, but I've got a condition."
"Name it," you replied with trepidancy.
"Get off the edge of the bed," Jack proposed. "Sit next to me. Properly. Just relax a little, and we'll watch it."
"...Fine," you huffed, climbing back onto the bed, far enough away from the edge to be acceptable.
"Atta girl," he muttered, pushing the tape into the slot and pressing the same buttons. He sat down right next to you, hips almost touching yours.
You watched in silence once more. Well, you watched. Jack stared at you, squinting. Something was different about you, he now realized. But what was it? He drug a finger across your cheek with a fair amount of pressure. You turned to look at him, confused.
"What was that for?" You demanded, watching as he examined his fingertip and a smirk bloomed on his face.
"You got all dressed up for me," he pointed out. He turned his finger out to you, a mixture of blush and highlighter shimmering on the skin. "What's so special about me that you decided to fancy yourself up?"
"I just wanted to try something new," you huffed, taking his cold finger and smudging it against your dress, trying to wipe off the evidence. "It's not you."
"Sure, sweetheart," he chuckled. "Keep tellin' yourself that."
You flushed. Damn him, you thought, then flushed harder at the vulgarity. It seemed that while your makeup rubbed off on him, his personality was rubbing off on you. And he'd asked if you were dating anyone. Did he like you? Was he trying to rile you up? You certainly liked him, as much as you didn't want to admit it.
"...Jack, why'd you ask if I had a boyfriend?" You inquired quietly.
"I was curious," he said with a shrug. "Why; do you want one?"
"No," you whispered. "I guess I was also curious. Do you have a bathroom?"
"Across the hall." He pointed out the bedroom door. "Don't be too long."
You knew you wouldn't be. All you were doing was cleaning your face. He wasn't supposed to notice your makeup. But if he noticed, your mother certainly would, and you couldn't have that. With your eyes slightly reddened from rubbing and skin just as irritated, you flushed your napkin and returned.
"There she is," Jack welcomed. "That was fast."
"You said not to take long," you muttered, climbing back into bed and rubbing your eyes.
"You tired?" He asked, looking down at you.
"A little, but I'm okay. I've been tired plenty of times before."
"...you can close your eyes, y'know. I'll wake you up when it's over," he offered.
"I'm okay, thanks."
Jack sighed, turning his body to face you. "Look, I know I have a reputation. But I'm well above taking advantage of someone when they're asleep. That's some shit I don't mess around with. So if you want to close your eyes, this is a safe place to do it. You can even use me as a pillow." He patted his chest, almost in an apish manner.
"..."
"What can I do to convince you?"
"...nothing, I guess."
"Then shut your eyes." He didn't give you a chance to make a choice before draping an arm over your shoulders and pulling you right against his side. "It's okay. I promise." He pressed a hand behind your ear, holding your head to his chest.
Gosh, he smells good, you thought. It was a warm smell, like the crispy, heated scent of an ice cream parlor with waffle cones.
"Well, if you do anything, you should know that my dad's a lawyer," you lied. You'd ask for forgiveness later. Right now was about safety.
"No, he's not," Jack scoffed. "I see him all the time at the middle school. He's a teacher or something, isn't he?"
"Principal," you corrected.
"Oh, so the angel lied, huh?" He teased, rubbing your shoulder. "Naughty."
Your cheeks reddened once more with fresh color. He snickered.
"Just close your eyes," he encouraged. "Sleep."
You closed them with very little hope that you'd actually manage to sleep. But somehow, the warmth emanating from his side, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and Tiana's tunes managed to send you off. He'd never admit it, but when he realized you were asleep, Jack felt a rush of pride. He'd won over the good girl. It was only a matter of time before she liked him; he knew it. And he'd stop at nothing to get keep you at his side.
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Summary: You've fallen on tough times in Lincoln County. You've resorted to many crimes, just to try and survive the streets. You're not proud of it, but what can you do? Better question: what can John Tunstall do? And here's another brain teaser: what will the most standoffish of his regulators do?
WC: 1.9k
Warnings: Language (including 'whore'), mentions of prostitution and other crimes, homelessness.
Masterlist
All eyes remained on you as John led you inside his house, arm over your shoulders. The boys outside were lost. Who was this? A young girl, barely younger than Billy, and John? Surely he couldn't be considering a female regulator. She had to be his niece, they decided. Yes. Family. Not one of them.
"Should we go after 'em?" Steve asked, chewing on a wad of tobacco.
"Not we," Dick replied curtly. "Me. Stay here. Go check the cattle down west. I'll report back." He hopped off his horse and looped his reins over the fencepost, sauntering towards the house with a regular air of arrogance. The others watched in silence as he disappeared under the shadow of the porch, door shutting loudly behind him.
"She didn't look that much like John," Doc mused. "But she has to be, right?"
"Don't look much like nothin,'" Charley replied. "Just a little thing."
"I seen her somewhere." Oh, lord; here went Billy with his damn stories. "You see a lot when you live on the streets. I know her face. I think she propositioned me once."
"You'd think that about your mother if you didn't know the difference," Chavez huffed, patting his horse.
Billy's face soured as the front door opened again. "You don't talk about my mother like that, Chavez," he chastised. "Besides, I could say a thing or two about your old lady."
"Yeah, yeah. We've heard it all before." Chavez waved a dismissive hand, then looked to Dick. "What's the news.?
"She's from the streets," he sighed. "Not family. Done everything she can to survive. It's a sad story, to my understanding. She's been stealin', cheatin,' even workin' the streets."
"I told you." Billy gave Chavez a triumphant smirk. He rolled his eyes.
"She's not lookin' so good. All shook up about somethin'. I suggest you all be kind."
"We is kind," Steve grumbled. "Ain't we?"
"We are," Charley corrected.
"See? Charley gets it." He spat out a glob of tobacco. "We ain't gonna cause no problems."
"It's that one I'm worried about." Dick pointed a finger at Billy. When the younger man gave him an incredulous look, he continued. "You're a child, and you act like it. The last thing she needs is a grown-ass man acting like he's half her age."
"How old is she, Dick?" Doc asked. The wind pushed his blond bangs across his eyes, which he fought back to little avail.
"I didn't ask, but she looks to be about Billy's age. Maybe a little younger." Dick freed his horse from the post and mounted up, taking in the men beneath him. "Did y'all go west?"
"Nah, we was-- check this word out-- hypothesizin.'" Steve sounded almost proud.
"How about you hypothesize what John will do if he finds out his regulators didn't regulate? C'mon, mount up and head out." Dick clicked his tongue and rode out without another word.
"He ain't gotta worry about me," Billy hummed, strutting over to his own horse. "I'm perfectly well-behaved."
"Right. And that's why you're called 'The Kid.' Because you're an angel," Chavez replied, climbing onto his own steed's back.
"Hey, I am!"
"Mhm. Sure."
~~~~~~~~
You didn't speak during dinner. You wanted desperately to tell the men to look away, to leave you alone, but your voice had taken the evening off. Instead, you ate quietly, struggling to fork your potatoes up with your shaking hands.
"What're you in for?" Billy finally asked, wide eyes looking at you from across the table. He knew you recognized him; he could see it in the fear on your face. You turned your eyes to John, who nodded encouragingly.
You swallowed. "I-- I did a lot," you admitted. "I made promises I couldn't keep, and I stole from merchants just to sell their goods myself, and..."
"...And?" Dick urged through a mouthful of pork.
Billy laughed, a little fleck of tuber flying from his lip and landing on your plate. "She can't say it," he teased. "She knows exactly what's left, and she can't say it."
"Well, William," John cut in. "If you're so familiar with her, then why don't you say it?"
"Mr. Tunstall--" Your voice came out frightened.
He held up a silencing hand. "It's all right. William?"
"She's a common whore," he announced almost delightfully. "Ask me how I know that one, Dick."
Dick and John exclaimed in dismay at the same time. You let your burning eyes fall to your knees. You'd been fed, bathed, given a bed for the first time in months, and for what? To be mocked by the very man who owed you for your services? The old you would have said something. The old you might have taken the money you were intitled to, plus interest. But the new you, shaped by the streets, simply said nothing.
"Apologize, William," John demanded in a paternal tone. "Apologize to Miss Y/N, then go to your bunk. I don't want to see you until the morning."
"Aw, come on, John; it's just a joke!" Billy exclaimed, still chuckling under his breath at you. "Besides, it's true. Ask me how I know."
"We can infer how you know. Say your apologies and leave."
"Whatever," he scoffed, rising. You didn't need to look up to know he was staring holes into your scalp. "Sorry I never paid ya."
Your chest tightened as you listened to his clunking steps fade out. And still, you didn't look up. The threat was gone, but the energy lingered.
"I apologize for him, Miss Y/N," John said in his normal, concerned voice. "He can be immature. He's a tough case to crack."
You didn't acknowledge his apologies. Instead, you drew your lips tight and placed your napkin over your plate, even though you were still hungry.
Maybe John's ranch wasn't as safe as he had painted it to be.
~~~~~~~~
You were yet to head inside the bunkhouse, even though the rest of the regulators had long since turned in. The night air ruffled your clothes as you sat on the porch, looking out at the land, at the sky, at the whole word, wondering why this was the place you'd been put in. There was so much out there, and yet, you'd been dealt a hand was synonymous with a 7-2 offsuit. There was no fixing it. There was no rising to the top with a flush or strait. There was only acceptance. Was that really all you were good for now? Accepting your fate and living a life you hated?
"You look entertained," a gruff voice sounded from behind you.
You turned, watching as the olive-skinned one stepped out onto the decaying wood with you. You didn't know his name. He'd been quiet, brooding in the corner while you were made to read. The reading was nice, you supposed. It wasn't often you got to do that now. But in this environment? It was more like trying to read while the boiler room below slowly filled with icy Atlantic water. He sat down beside you with a small sigh, cotton undershirt doing little to keep him warm. While New Mexico could be warm enough to wear only a thin jacket during the day, the December nights were rough. If you were cold under the several layers of your outfit, then little could be done to convince you that he wasn't freezing.
"...Billy doesn't think," he said finally. "Doesn't know what common sense is. Whatever you were before, that's not you now. It's the same for all of us. We're learning better ways. And if you stay, you will, too."
"...but he's right," you whispered. "I am a common whore."
"Were," the man insisted firmly. "Not anymore, you're not. You're not a regulator yet, but you're not a whore, either."
"So I'm just... here," you muttered, bringing you back to your existential dread.
"Your train is on the tracks," he began. "You're just waiting for the all-clear to move forward."
"And who gives that?" You turned your body to face the man slightly. The crisp air had turned his nose pink already. "It-- it should be me. I should tell myself when to move, when to stop, when to speed up, when to give up. And I don't."
"You're only stopping yourself." His tone was pithy, but even in the dark, you could tell his eyes held warmth. "You just need a little extra fuel before you can send the signal."
"I didn't ask to talk to Shakespeare," you muttered.
He chuckled and shook his head. "You're not. You're just talking to someone who gets it."
"Yeah? And what are you in for?"
His laughter cut sharply as a frown etched its way onto his face. "...I'll spare you all the details for tonight. It's late. But my tribe was massacred. I'm the last man standing. I went looking for revenge. John showed me a better way to prove myself. If I can be better than the men responsible, it's revenge enough."
"...you don't believe that," you whispered, a knowing shine in your eyes.
"Not entirely, no," he agreed with a huff. "Sometimes, you need to see the facts to know they're true. How much does Billy owe you? Assuming he wasn't lying about what he said."
Smooth.
"Two dollars," you mumbled. "Would've gotten me some food and maybe a blanket."
"You'll have food here. And there's a blanket, and a pillow, waiting for you inside," he said gently. "You just have to want them."
God, you wanted them. Desperately. A well-fluffed pillow might have made you cry. And the hug of a warm blanket, tucked around every curve and crevice? A real wailer.
"I do. Badly."
"Then give your crises a rest tonight. C'mon." He stood up and offered you a hand. "I'll show you your bunk."
You rose on your own. "Why are you being so nice?" You asked genuinely. "Billy... hasn't changed, and Dick is arrogant, and Doc didn't talk to me, and those other two-- the smelly ones--"
"Steve and Charley."
"Yeah. They just mumbled about me. So why? Why aren't you like them?"
He sighed, giving the landscape a quick survey before looking down at you. "There's an air around you that I had for a long time," he began, as if a storyteller. "You don't have anyone left to lose, because they're already gone. It would be different if they weren't there in the first place, but they were. I can feel it."
"...isn't it interesting how we mourn people that aren't dead?" You inquired. "They're just... gone."
"Yeah," he muttered bitterly. "Let's get you to bed."
"I didn't--" The words caught in your throat. The man quirked a brow, an expectant look on his face. You tried again. "Nobody told me your name."
"You didn't ask."
"I didn't ask for this life, and here I am." You gave a single, dry laugh.
"...Jose," he said finally. "They call me Chavez. Let's go."
Your bunk was all the way in the corner, next to Chavez. Whether it had been done intentionally or not, that was the one John picked for you. You wouldn't complain. Being against a wall meant you had a place to turn and hide your face in when you needed a private cry.
Chavez didn't say anything more as he watched you climb into the sheets. The look on his face told you everything you needed to know. He understood where you were. And he'd be damned if he let something make it worse.
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