#ghost was his deputy and took the job

[eowynstwin]

Price owns the saloon in town near the ranch. Ghost is the town sheriff. Soap is the whoring church priest who somehow never gets run out of town.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Summer Camp Slasher

Serial Killer Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: 1980’s AU, Summer Camp AU, swearing, survival horror, suspense, brief sexual content, blood & gore, descriptions of corpses, brief mention of alcohol, smoking, second chances, ambiguous/open ending

Word Count: 5.4k

A/N: Requested by @kylies-love-letter for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (80's Summer Camp Slasher)

Hillford Camp, 1985

Hillford Camp is having a reopening. As owner and operator, you’re excited for a restart after a string of grisly murders took place on the old campsite. You’ve hired on Simon Riley as Camp Director. Not because he’s your ex, but because he’ll be great at the job. Everything is going great—until it’s not. Two camp counselors go missing only to reappear in morbid display in the dining hall.

With only yourself, Simon, the local sheriff John Price and his two deputies MacTavish and Garrick, it’s a race to find the killer before they find you.

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

"I can't believe this. It's finally happening!"

A dream has come to fruition. Not yours exactly, but your mother’s. You’re on your toes, a bouncing ball of energy. Simon Riley, the man you hired on as Camp Director, stands next to you, a beacon of solid muscle and calm energy.

Hillford Camp is the place your mother spent her youth as a camp counselor. She loved it so much, she eventually bought the land and intended to run the camp herself. She’s gone now, but the land is yours. The camp is yours.

With the tip of his index finger, Simon pushes the rim of his sunglasses down, revealing whiskey-brown eyes. “Give me the word and I’ll make them leave,” he says, gaze fixed on the herd of media in the parking lot beyond the wooden fence.

“Leave them,” you mutter. “Won’t matter if they stay or leave.”

The corners of his mouth turn downward. "You know what they're talking about."

"I'm aware," you grumble.

"And it doesn't bother you?" he counters.

"I'm not allowing it to bother me," you reply.

Hillford Camp was popular for years before people started disappearing. It started small, just one or two people a season. Their bodies were never found, and many chalked it up to accidental deaths. The forest beyond the camp is wide. Local authorities believed the missing campers likely wandered off.

Everything changed ten years ago.

People started disappearing, and this time, their bodies started to turn up in gruesome display. Hillford Camp was shut down completely and left to rot in the shadow of the forest. The Hillford Camp Murders remain unsolved.

No one knows who did it, or why, but the rumors persist, especially now that you’re reopening the place.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest. His high-waisted khaki shorts stop mid-thigh, showing off thick, muscled thighs. The Hillford Camp shirt he wears beneath his jacket is a size too small, the material stretching tightly across his pectorals.

"I don't like it,” he says cooly, gaze still fixed on the herd of media.

A little flare of heat blooms in your chest and rolls outward to steam your cheeks. You may have hired Simon as Camp Director, but he’s no stranger. There was a time when the two of you shared secrets in the dark, when he learned your curves, and made you moan for him.

An old memory resurfaces and you quickly wave it off like a pesky fly. You will not venture into old territory.

“They can’t cross the property line. It’ll be fine, Simon,” you reassure him, patting his arm.

Your hand lingers a little longer than necessary, that old memory resurfacing again. As you pull back, Simon gently grasps your wrist, keeping you close to him. That one touch sends a little reminder to your clit of just how sweet he can be.

"Are you sure?" he murmurs. "I can make them go. Just say the word."

He's always been protective. Even now you're reminded of just how gentle he can be with you.

"It's fine," you emphasize.

Within his grasp, you twist your wrist, presenting your palm. Simon glances down at it, his thumb rubbing against your pulse point. A little shiver runs through you, and you know Simon notices by the way he smirks.

"All right, love," he says, dropping your wrist.

The moment with Simon is there and gone but your heart rate remains a pounding thing that doesn't cease. All day through orientation, introductions, and team activities, you float around the grounds, moving from place to place. That feeling never abates. It clings to you like gum on the bottom of a shoe until your head finds your pillow.

When you awaken, you expect the feeling to pass. Instead, it stays, and it is Simon's first words to you in the morning that turn that sensual anxiety to bleeding stress.

"Two of the counselors are missing."

"Missing? What do you mean missing? Who the fuck is missing?" you hiss, leaning close as the two of you monitor breakfast.

“Jessica and Michael.”

“Oh, God.”

Simon sighs and nods at a passing camper before he speaks again. “Their bunk mates said they weren’t in their beds when they woke up this morning. No one’s seen them.”

“Do their bunkmates know where they might be?” Simon shoots you a look and you already know. “Fuck,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Is anyone looking for them?”

“I have the Activities Director and Lead Lifeguard discreetly searching all the possible spots.”

"You're fucking with me," you groan.

Simon smirks and then leans in a bit closer. "Blood runs hot at that age. Remember how we were together?" You smack his chest and he laughs. "Just saying."

"These are college freshmen we're talking about, Simon. They’re here to earn a little extra cash. Nothing more."

"That's my point." A group of teens walk past and Simon waits until they're gone. "They probably found themselves a cozy spot in the woods to get drunk and fuck. They're likely trying to avoid their walk of shame."

"They better be,” you snap. “Calling the local authorities on the second day is the worst possible scenario."

Simon laughs and takes his sunglasses off his head, cleaning the lens with his shirt. "I'd think calling them at all would be the worst."

"Simon. I swear—"

He places his hand on the back of your neck. It's a protective yet possessive gesture. Your body instantly calms—instantly submits to him.

"Let me handle this,” he murmurs, his voice a gentle caress. “It's my job."

You do allow Simon to handle it even though your stomach is a knot the rest of the day. After everyone moves through the dinner line and evening activates wrap, Simon appears at your private cabin.

You open the door, and Simon leans against the doorframe, taking up far too much space.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

You step aside, and Simon enters. Closing the door behind him, the small space suddenly feels incredibly cramped. Staff cabins are slightly larger than those the campers live in, and they aren’t communal.

Simon drops onto your bed, taking up the entire surface. He fishes around inside his grey windbreaker, retrieving a small bottle of whiskey.

"Care to join me?" he asks, offering the bottle.

"What's the occasion?" you counter, taking it from him. You uncap the lid and bring it to your lips.

"An update on our missing lovebirds."

You take a massive swig, the whiskey burning as it goes down. You grimace and offer the bottle back to him. Simon takes it and sits up, taking some for himself.

"And?"

Simon sighs loudly. "And we haven't found them."

You place your head in your hands, groaning with frustration.

Simon sets the bottle down and reaches for you. "Come here," he murmurs.

With the whiskey warming your veins, it's easy to go to him, to settle beside him, and rest your cheek against his firm chest. Simon's arm drapes over you, keeping you close to him. You inhale his scent, remembering the way it felt to be in his arms like this when the two of you were lovers.

"Simon," you sigh, shifting your face toward him.

You don't mean to sound so breathy—so needy, and yet Simon responds, closing the distance, gently pressing his lips to yours. Calmness washes over you, chasing away the day's anxiety. The missing campers are pushed to the back of your mind.

With his arm draped over your hip, Simon uses that leverage to gently roll you onto your back, pinning you beneath him. His hand roams upward, trailing over thigh and stomach before exploring the valley between your breasts. Further he ascends until his hand comes to your throat. He grasps it, a sign of dominance and possession.

Is he not over you? Is this simply going to devolve into sex? A distraction? And does it even matter?

His kisses deepen and you greedily accept them, wanting to consume like you did the whiskey. Forgetting would be nice right now. The trials of the last two days can wait until the morning.

You part your legs and Simon slots himself between. His hardness presses against your pelvis, an insistent sensation that you want to explore. You haven't been with anyone since Simon, and your body yearns for him now.

His free hand explores. Roams. It delves beneath your shirt, stroking skin until you're both tugging at the fabric in an effort to remove it. Your bra is gone next. Then his jacket and shirt. The two of you are skin against skin, fingers digging in, mouths meeting repeatedly until you're both gasping for breath.

"Let me in," he murmurs softly as he fumbles with the front of his pants.

You reach for him, helping him out of his shorts before removing your own. The moment there is nothing between you, his lips find yours again, limbs entwining on the small bed.

Simon's hand delves between your legs, stroking until a pressure builds. Molten and bright, it explodes outward. You moan into his mouth, and Simon swallows it down, enjoying every second.

The head of him replaces his fingers, and your body greedily accepts him, devouring every inch until you're full and perfectly stretched. Simon rocks his hips. The damp, sticky air clings to your skin and his, mixing with sweat.

"I miss you," he whispers into your ear, lips brushing along the curve.

Another release builds, swamping your senses until all you know is Simon and the humid air. The fan in the corner of the ceiling spins and clangs, but it is a distant thing. He groans, lower back stiffening against your hands as you press him closer. You come undone before him, shuddering, and Simon follows soon after.

The two of you linger above the sheets, a tangle of limbs. There is rest for a bit, and then you're reaching for him again. Simon happily complies, the two of you further tiring yourselves until sleep seizes you both.

Early, just before the sun rises, you and Simon grab flashlights and hike out to the place you want to forget: the old Hillford Camp.

Not a single building was torn down. Due to the police investigation, the buildings remained standing, but after they cleared out, the buildings were boarded up and left alone for years. It's not like you didn't try to have it all demolished.

The case is still open. And the buildings are nothing more than skeletal structures.

From a clip off his belt loop, Simon produces a massive set of keys. Shuffling through them, he finds the one he's looking for. Placing it into the lock, it clicks, the chain holding the metal fence together sliding away as Simon gives it a tug. He pushes it open, the metal screeching loudly, echoing amongst the trees.

Before you are the old cabins. The rec center and communal buildings are further in. While most of those went untouched, the cabins are another matter entirely. Each one is a crime scene. Each one tainted by the killer's bloodthirst.

"Should check them all," says Simon, pointing his flashlight at the nearest cabin. "Look for signs of entry."

"There's thirty cabins,” you counter. “We can't cover them all one-by-one. We should split up. Cover more ground."

Simon's response is immediate. "You're not leaving my sight."

You casually shrug. "We’ll find nothing except a few empty bottles and dust." You shrug absently. “Maybe a dead racoon or two.”

"I'd feel better if you're in my line of sight at all times."

His “line of sight”. As if you’re one of his old targets. A part of you loves the protectiveness while the other wants to smack him over the head. The two of you aren’t a couple anymore, and this isn’t the military. He won’t boss you around.

"Seriously?"

"Dead," he grumbles, striding toward the first cabin.

The two of you walk around the perimeter checking windows and the front door. All of them are sealed tight. Cabin by cabin, the two of you walk, finding nothing out of place.

"No fresh tracks," mutters Simon. "Not of the human variety."

The sun is starting to rise, the dark giving way to the light.

You shine your flashlight on the nearest cabin door and frown. "Simon. Look at that."

He turns, flashlight beam joining yours. The door appears askew as if it's not entirely on its hinges. Simon strides toward it, you following on his heel.

As you near, you notice the crack.

The door is open.

Simon holds up a hand, a sign to stay put. You nod. In this, you will do as he says. Simon reaches out with the flashlight, pushing the door open further with the tool. It creaks but swings inward.

Inside, it is dark. Simon slowly swings the flashlight back and forth across the interior. You step up behind him, peering around his shoulder.

The two bunks are empty, all four stained mattresses on the ground. Next to them are several used condoms, crushed beer cans, and a half-consumed bottle of off-brand vodka.

Simon snorts. "They left vodka." He tuts. "A shame."

"At least we know where they snuck off to." You turn the beam of the flashlight outward toward the rest of the cabins. "Just need to find where they went."

Simon leans against the doorframe, a sultry smile on his face.

"What?" you prompt.

He nods toward the mattresses. "You want to get on all fours for me?"

The image of you on your hands and knees as Simon fucks you from behind invades your senses, momentarily seizing your sanity. With it comes the feel of his hands, of how large and strong they are, of him grasping the back of your neck as he holds you in place.

You roll your eyes in an attempt to hide your sudden arousal. "You're disgusting."

Simon barks a laugh, slapping your ass on the way to the next cabin.

Each one is searched, and the remainder are all untouched.

“We should search the communal buildings,” you suggest.

Simon shakes his head. “I don’t have my walkie,” he replies, patting the empty spot where he usually clips the behemoth of a device. He glances up into the sky. “We need to return. People are going to start questioning where we’ve run off to.”

You give the old campsite one last long look. "I wonder where they went," you murmur, the unease starting to settle in again.

Simon relatches the lock on the fencing. "I'll radio the sheriff when we return."

John Price, the sheriff of the nearest town, is a good but stubborn man. You’ve only talked to him a handful of times, but he was always polite to you.

Approaching the communal dining hall, you notice a large crowd of campers gathered outside. The main doors are shut when they should be wide open for the breakfast crowd. Several of the older camp counselors stand in front of the doors, barring entry.

Simon arrives first at the edge of the crowd. They part for him like Moses and the Red Sea. The eldest of the camp counselors, Jesse, a senior in college, has a stony expression on his face. His tanned skin is pale, eyes sunken as if he's sickened overnight.

"What happened?" asks Simon, keeping his voice low. Jesse shakes his head, keeping silent. "Is there anyone inside?"

Jesse licks his cracked lips. "Yes," he murmurs. "But they're not—" He glances at the crowd like a wounded animal looking for an escape and grimaces.

Simon lowers his voice further, trying to soothe the young man. "Let us see."

Jesse steps aside and Simon cracks the door open. The smell hits you first. Rotten. Fetid. Like garbage that's been left out in the sun.

Simon pokes his head in and then retreats, turning toward you. His mouth is a thin line, and his face is grim.

"You shouldn't," he whispers.

You shouldn't? What the fuck is in there?

"I will," you insist.

Simon’s nostrils flare slightly. It’s his tell when he’s irritated with you. But he doesn’t push back. Simon opens the door, ushering the two of you inside.

The smell is worse with the door closed. The lights are off and all the windows are shut, the blinds down but cracked, allowing in some of the morning light. The large ceiling fans overhead are still, leaving the air stale and unmoving.

At this hour, the place should be full with people at tables stuffing their faces with eggs and pancakes. But the place is utterly silent. You check the switches on the wall but none of the lights turn on, nor do the ceiling fans.

"Are the generators not working?" you ask, staring up at the unmoving fans.

"I think we have worse things to worry about," replies Simon.

You follow his line of sight, coming to rest at the far end of the dining hall.

At the center table closest to the kitchen are the two missing camp counselors. Jessica and Michael appear completely normal at first, but as you move closer, you suddenly realize the horror before you.

The two lovebirds sit across from each other at the communal dining table. Before each of them is a plastic tray. In front of Michael on his tray is a small pile of open condom wrappers. On Jessica's tray is a lone pregnancy test. You have no idea if it's used or brand new, and you don’t really care to know. Between their trays in an empty liquor bottle, the label partially removed.

They are posed with arms outstretched; hands clasped. Their skin is grey and sunken, mouths terribly stretched into loving smiles. Flies swarm them, switching between bodies and buzzing about in the air. Their eyes are gone. Not vanished, but crushed to pulp.

Your gaze lingers and then moves beyond them toward the kitchen. It's designed to be an open kitchen, giving an airy feeling to the space. It’s also designed with space in mind and for the kitchen staff to keep track of how many people are eating and still need to fill their plates.

All six cooks stand behind the buffet line and yet nothing is on. Nothing is cooking. They are posed with tongs and spatulas in hand as if ready to serve the horde outside. Most of them are upright as if they're completely fine. Yet as you look closer, you notice the hooks and wires digging into their clothes and flesh. You follow those wires, and how they're anchored to heavier objects to counterbalance their body weight.

"They're all dead," murmurs Simon.

You wretch, the stink and horror becoming overwhelming.

"Fuck," says Simon, placing his hand at your back.

Another wave of nausea hits you. Simon grabs your arms, guiding you away from the grisly scene toward the side door. He kicks it open, the two of you almost falling down the short stairs to the hard ground.

Yanking yourself from Simon’s arms, you fall to your knees in the dirt, gagging. Saliva pools in your mouth.

You spit into the dirt. "What the fuck was that?"

Simon is far more experienced in the art of brutality. Before all this, he was military. He’s seen war—worked on countless mission.

"I'm calling Sheriff Price," says Simon. "We're shutting this place down. Sending everyone home."

"Oh my God," you murmur, rubbing your dirt-stained hands against your legs in anxious agitation.

Simon's hand finds your shoulder, and you flinch. "I'll handle this," he reassures, helping you off the ground.

His embrace is comforting, reminding you of how much you’ve missed him. It’s cruel and unfair, and somehow completely needed. In this, Simon is your rock. An anchor in a stormy harbor.

"We handle this,” you reply. “Together."

Simon cradles your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears.  "You need to be out there. Put on a brave face. Smile. Take everyone to the amphitheater. Have a couple of the remaining camp counselors go to storage for water bottles and packaged snacks. Feed everyone. Keep them entertained."

It’s the smart thing to do until a plan is formed. Keep everyone in one place. Nobody wanders off.

You nod, swallowing.

Simon presses his lips to your forehead. "Take a deep breath. You can do this." You follow his instruction, exhaling slowly. Simon holds you the whole time, not letting go until the shaking stops.

“Ready to face the crowd?” he whispers against your hair.

“No,” you reply. “But I will.”

"Tell me what happened again."

Sheriff John Price lights up a cigarette, his sunglasses low on his nose as he stares Simon down.

"I told you," replies Simon, his voice nearly a growl. "They're all dead."

“You said that.” Sheriff Price takes a long drag on his cigarette. Expelling the smoke from his lungs, he returns the cigarette to his mouth. "You also said," he checks his notepad, "you're missing five additional personnel."

Simon sighs heavily, clearly irritated. "We are."

"You didn't check to make sure everyone was accounted for before you left?" The accusation is clear, and Simon is clearly agitated by it.

"Sheriff," you interject, placing your hand on Simon's bicep in a comforting touch. "As we noted earlier, there were signs of tampering to the generators and vehicles. We needed to do what was best for the campers. And that was getting them to town as quickly as possible."

"By leaving personnel behind?" counters Price.

"All of the campers are accounted for,” you reply, ignoring the question. “We need to start reuniting families with their children, Sheriff." You emphasize his title to get your point across.

Sheriff Price sniffs and puffs on his cigarette. It hangs from one side of his mouth while he exhales smoke from the other side.

Not long after you herded everyone to the amphitheater, Simon sought you out to report damaged generators, a severed power line, slashed tires on the Jeeps, and missing fuel. Calamity after calamity. Something had to be done.

"Unification is important. Is it not?" you continue, wanting to move on from this.

Sheriff Price tucks his notepad and pen into the front pocket of his uniform. "It is," he agrees. The sigh he releases is heavy.

You aren't upset with him. It's understandable. You showed up with an entire summer camp. There are now hundreds of people occupying the Hillford Library. You've dumped far more in Sheriff Price's lap than he can handle. And that doesn’t even begin to tread on the crime scene of a communal dining hall back at camp.

Without removing the cigarette from his mouth, Sheriff Price presses the button on his walkie attached to his shoulder. "I need Sergeants MacTavish and Garrick to report to the library's south side exterior."

A pause. Then the radio crackles. On our way.

"So, we have dead staff. Busted generators. Slashed tires. Missing fuel. A severed power line," lists Price. "What else am I missing?"

You sense a snarky remark ready to fall from Simon's lips. "Nothing, Sheriff,” you answer before Simon can interject.

Sergeants MacTavish and Garrick appear. They both look a little weary. Price begins rattling off orders the moment they arrive.

"The five of us are heading back to Hillford Camp. Return to the station and pick up a squad car. Grab a camera and the evidence emergency bag. We need to collect what evidence we can." He turns toward MacTavish. "Tell Deb to call the federal bureau in the city. I want them here now. We need to prepare for media coverage. Everyone else needs to be here. I want families contacted. We need cots. Blankets. See if any of the locals are willing to assist."

"On it, sir," replies Sergeant Garrick. He pats MacTavish's shoulder, the two men briskly walking away.

Sheriff Price watches them go. When they disappear, he turns back to the two of you. "Well then. Let's go catch ourselves a killer."

It's full dark by the time you, Simon, Price, MacTavish, and Garrick arrive at Hillford Camp.

With the generators damaged, all the outside lights are off, submerging everything in utter darkness. Your quintet stands in front of the squad car, headlights and brights on to cut through the void. Each of you holds a flashlight but even that doesn't seem to pierce the night. Forests are always more sinister in the dark.

"This is fucking creepy," mutters Sergeant MacTavish, slowly sweeping his flashlight beam back and forth.

An owl hoots and insects buzz but otherwise there is complete silence.

"Show me the bodies," says Price.

"They’re this way," says Simon, guiding the group forward.

The smell of the corpses is worse now that they've been sitting. Covering your nose and mouth helps a little, but the stench is nearly overpowering. You and Simon linger near the main door, watching the three men move about the communal dining hall, flashlights illuminating the horror. Simon places his hand on the back of your neck. With just the slightest pressure, he pulls you into him, lips pressing to the top of your head. He's trying to comfort, to bring you peace, and while his touch and closeness is pleasant, you're still on edge. Still wired and unsure.

"Look at this," says MacTavish, tracing the wires and hooks with the flashlight beam.

"This can't be one person," observes Garrick.

"If it is, it's goddamn impressive."

"I want to take a quick look around. Show me those damaged generators. And the severed power line," says Price.

As you exit, you sense a presence. A lingering sense of dread, as if a knife hovers above your head, ready to drop.

"Simon," you whisper, reaching out in the dark for his hand. His fingers find yours, tangling, pulling you close.

"What is it?"

Something wet drips onto your face. It's just a drop. Lukewarm. On your forehead. As you reach up to wipe it away, you feel another.

"What the fuck," you mutter, smearing whatever it is. There’s no rain expected in the forecast.

Simon brings his light closer, and then his hands are on you.

"Are you hurt?" he asks sharply.

"I'm fine. I—"

You see it then, the deep dark red smeared across the back of your hand.

"What the fuck," you mutter.

"Move!" yells Price, waving. "Move.”

Simon grabs hold of your arm, drawing you away, all the flashlight beams pointing upward into the trees.

A scream lodges in your throat. It sticks, twisting.

The five missing personnel dangles from the overhead tree limbs. They are naked, skin split and splayed open as if they are descending from the heavens.

"We need to leave," growls Simon.

"Back to the squad car. Now!"

One moment Simon’s arm is around you, and the next it’s gone. You stumble forward, flashlight beam swinging wildly as you try to find balance.

Behind you, someone cries out.

"MacTavish!"

You glance over your shoulder as the sergeant takes a swing at something in the dark. His flashlight goes tumbling as he draws his gun. Shots ring out. You flinch at the first one, cowering as MacTavish unloads his weapon.

There is silence, and a groan.

"MacTavish!"

Price and Garrick go down on their knees beside their coworker. MacTavish is on his back attempting to sit up.

But where is Simon?

His name forms on your lips, and then you feel hands on your arms. You shriek and swing out.

“It’s me. It’s me.”

You throw yourself into Simon’s arm, chest heaving.

“We gotta get him back to the car. Lift in one…two…”

Sergeant MacTavish howls as they lift him. “My bloody fucking ankle. Goddamn it!”

The five of you shuffle toward the exit only to find that there is no escape. At least, not by car.

“You’re fucking joking,” mutters Sheriff Price.

Sergeant Garrick sighs. “Tires are flat.”

Price turns to you and Simon. "Where can we hole up until morning?"

"My office," replies Simon automatically. "I have a first aid kit."

When you arrive, Price barricades the door and checks the windows while Simon and Sergeant Garrick lift MacTavish onto the desk.

“Just twisting. I’m fine,” mutters MacTavish.

Price lifts MacTavish’s pant leg, revealing the bruised and swollen skin. “You can’t fucking walk on that.”

Simon opens up a nearby cabinet. From it, he removes a hunting rifle. He turns to you, and you realize that you might not see him again.

“You’re staying here. With him.

“Simon—”

“Stay. We can move faster with three of us. You don’t leave this room. Not unless one of us comes to the door. You understand?”

You nod. “I understand.”

Staying is hard. But you do it, because what other choice is there? At some point, you help MacTavish off the desk and into a chair, elevating his leg. All you can do is pace, tapping the side of the baseball bat Simon left for you against your leg.

"Where are they?" you murmur to yourself.

MacTavish grunts. "They'll be fine."

"What if there's more than one out there!"

He shrugs. "It's possible, but I doubt it. Killers don't like to hunt in packs. They're lone wolves."

In the distance, you hear a gunshot. You and MacTavish both jump.

Another shot. Distant.

“What if that’s them?” you whisper. “We should check.”

“We are staying here,” replies MacTavish. “I have to protect you.”

“With that ankle?” you counter.

MacTavish snorts, and then flinches when another shot rings out.

“That sounds like Simon’s hunting rifle,” you murmur, saddling up to the window. You partially open the blinds, but see nothing in the empty dark. You quickly close them and back away.

MacTavish has a deep frown on his face.

“We should—”

You hear you name. It’s shouted, but muffled as if from a distance. You and MacTavish’s heads snap in the direction of the noise.

The two of you remain quiet, lingering in expectation.

Your name, again. Closer now. And clearly Simon’s voice.

“Stay here,” you insist, handing MacTavish the baseball bat.

“You can’t leave,” he replies sharply, attempting to get out of his chair but failing as the pain radiates up his leg, causing him to fall right back in it.

“It’s fine. He said not to come out unless one of them called for us. I’ll be right back.”

Hope blooms in your chest. Unlocking the door, you step outside, and into the utter dark. The reality of the darkness begins to creep in, invading all your senses. The forest is eerie at night without light. Simon may have called out to you but he’s nowhere to be seen.

You linger on the small stoop, listening for anything. When you’re greeted with silence, you plaster yourself against the side of the shed, moving slowly, unwilling to step away. If he calls out to you again, you might be able to discern direction. Part of you longs to call his name, but another part knows better.

The killer might still be loose.

As you approach the north side of the shed, the darkness moves. It is human shaped and tall. Towering.

A flashlight clicks on, but the light does not illuminate the figure. It’s pointed at you, the beam incredibly bright and blinding. They have it aimed at your face, causing to shrink away from the light and squint.

“Simon?”

The beam lingers on your face, and then it arcs up, illuminating the figure before you.

“Simon,” you sigh with relief.

Your limbs relax, and you start to reach for him, but hesitate at the last moment. There is something strange about him. His demeanor has changed. And there’s…blood. Lots of blood.

“Simon,” you whisper, eyes widening as you notice just how much there is. He’s nearly soaked to the bone but he stands tall and unafraid.

This isn’t his. It’s not his blood.

As you glance up to meet his gaze, you find only coldness there. A deadness.

A scream sticks in your throat as he reaches out with one bloodied hand. It wraps around your forearm and squeezes. Like iron, there is so much strength behind it. With a yank, Simon tugs you away from the wall of the shed, shoes sliding and skidding against the ground as you resist the pull.

“Simon!” This time you do shriek. This time you yell. “Let me go!”

Has it been him all this time? And where are Price and Garrick?

When you swing out at him, Simon gives your arm a firm yank. It sends you spinning, twisting until you’re pressed into his side. He hooks you against his body, half-dragging you in the direction he’s walking.

“Was it you?” you whisper. “Did you do all this?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Why?” you ask. “Why?”

taglist:

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[wasawattpadkid]

Housewife

Part - 19

Summery: Billy and Stu have been planning these murders for quite some time. Everything is going to plan until you show up. What happens when they meet someone who is just as mentally deluded as they are?

Pairing: Poly! ghostface x fem!reader

Warnings for this series: murder, blood, smut (will be more in depth on smut chapters), power dynamics, a dash of sexism, knives, stalking, perverse behavior, cheating,

Part 1

Dewey looked at the boy with pity. Billy's right hand was wrapped in a white cast. He had spent an hour in the hospital setting his broken hand back in place. It was way worse than getting stabbed according to him. The officers on duty all thought the boy was hilarious. The makeup paired with the outfit he was a walking joke. Dewey only made matters worse. His coworkers almost died laughing watching the deputy sign his name on Billy's cast.

"I hear Batman is getting released," Todd said leaning on Dewey's desk. "Yes, Billy is being released I already called someone to pick him up." The deputy left his seat on his way to talk to the inmate.

"Stu said he's on his way," Dewey said taking a seat outside of the holding cell. Billy hadn't spoken much. The few times he did it was to give his statement on what happened or ask if you were okay. He didn't care about anything else. Billy was too busy planning on killing the fucker that laid his hands on you. "Did he say how Y/n was doing?" The boy's gaze stayed glued to the moldy ceiling. "No, just that he'd be on his way to pick you up. I told him about your hand." Billy looked at the deputy with a scoff. "That's great."

"What did you think he's going to miss that when he shows up to get you?" Billy had begged the doctor just to set his hand and leave it be. Turns out they can't do that. Now he was stuck with a heavy cast with Dewey's name on it. He didn't even agree to that the deputy just grabbed a marker and did it.

"I know seeing that mask set you off. That and what happened to Y/n. Look, you're not in any trouble. If Daniel decides to press charges the county won't prosecute you. It'd be a waste of time. You were protecting her and after all that's happened you don't need to worry about this." Dewey's change of heart confused Billy. Every time he's run into the officer he's been met with nothing but disdain and hostility. Now Dewey wants to act like his friend. "What happened to you? You hated me just days ago." Billy sat up on the bench making eye contact with the man.

Dewey realized what you said that day in the office was true. The three of you needed to look out for each other. At the end of the day, he felt bad for all of you. The ghost of the massacre would follow the survivors for as long as they lived. They were just kids. No one deserved what happened to them that night. Dewey hated himself for living through it and he was sure the three of you felt similarly. Survivor's guilt they call it. He read a book about it.

He pulled off his hat sitting it neatly on his lap. "It's been 26 days since I lost Tatum... Even less since the funeral. I can still hear her sometimes." His eyes focused on his shoes as he talked. "I couldn't save her. For a while I blamed Stu. How could her boyfriend who loves her let that happen? I know that Neil was the one who took her but I guess I needed someone else to blame." Dewey leaned forward looking up at Billy through the bars.

"I care about Y/n like I know you do. I treated you and Stu poorly because I saw what happened to the people you loved. That was messed up, I get that now and I'm sorry. I don't want her to go through what my sister did. You did a damn good job of taking care of her tonight."

Billy sat in silence. He didn't feel bad about what he did to Tatum. Neither did he feel bad about what he did to Sydney. It was necessary to move on with his life to start over. He felt It was fair considering what the Prescott family took from him. Maureen's choices shouldn't have fucked up his whole life but they did. Billy just leveled the playing field.

Listening to Dewey's sob story almost made the boy sick to his stomach. He didn't feel bad about what he did rather he felt horrible that he didn't care. Dewey wasn't his friend or his brother, he shouldn't care about his feelings. Yet here he was feeling sorry for the officer. "I can't lose her," Billy spoke in something akin to a whisper. His voice was broken almost as much as his hand.

"You've got a good head on your shoulders. You won't. After the stunt you pulled tonight I'd say she's in good hands." Dewey did think it was odd that Billy was able to move on so quickly from Sydney. He guessed that the boy was trying to fill the hole that abruptly appeared. Dewey couldn't blame him. He was doing the same thing. Where did that leave you though? After all of this, he didn't want you to get more hurt than you already had been. "You think so?" Billy asked loving the idea of protecting you. What he did at the party felt good. Feeling that fuckers bones crack beneath his hand was exhilarating. Of course, he wished he didn't have to do it. He hated the fact he let it happen. The details of your attack were lost on Billy. All he saw was the masked boy pining you to the wall as his hands pulled at your dress.

"I do. Just maybe take it easy for a while?" Dewey smiled lighting up the conversation. "I'll try." Billy nodded. "Deputy, Can I speak to you for a moment?" Another officer called Dewey away leaving Billy alone in the cell.

Billy looked down at his cast trying not to pick at it. He didn't like having it on. It was a nuisance to put it lightly. The doctor told him he'd have to wear it for at least six weeks. Frankly, he didn't think he could make it that long mainly because of the name written in black ink on the cast. "Billy?" Dewey spoke walking into the room. His keys jangled as he opened up the cell door. "Stu's here to pick you up."

Once all the paperwork was done and signed Billy was finally allowed to leave the county jail. "Oh, she's going to kill you," Billy said looking at your car in the parking lot. Stu was upset. Billy hadn't said one word to him. Not a "thank you," "glad to see ya," "go fuck yourself," nothing. "Me? What about you?" Stu spat getting into the driver's seat.

"What about me? I saved her from that creep." Billy thought he was your knight in shining armor. You kept him fed and he kept you safe. After all, that's what you wanted right?

"You told the whole town you two were dating. Billy, you knew she wanted to wait." Stu drove while Billy rolled his eyes. "They were going to find out eventually. Everyone already thinks you two were fucking behind Tatum's back." Stu kept his eyes on the road. "Don't talk about her." After his talk with Dewey, Stu felt differently about a few things. "Jesus, what crawled up your ass tonight?" Stu hit the brakes making Billy's head hit the dash. "What the fuck!" The boy yelled holding his now bleeding head. "It's four in the morning. I just had to drive across town to pick you up from jail and you haven't said thank you. I begged Dewey not to call your dad to save you from the fight that was bound to happen and still, no thank you. Do you give a shit about me at all? Cause lately I feel like the only one you pay attention to is little Miss Betty Crocker. If I have to put on an apron for you to give a fuck I will. Is that what it's going to take?"

Billy's head pounded and Stu's yelling didn't help. "I'm sorry. Is that what you want to hear? My fucking hand is broken and you're upset that I didn't say thank you? You didn't even give me the chance. Where were you when she was getting attacked?" Stu's demeanor changed as he seemed to shrink. "You told me to get water-"

"That's right you were getting her water because you just had to give her alcohol. If you would've just gotten me and you a beer none of this would've happened. Don't jump my ass because all of this is your fault." Stu's face was red as tears weld up in his eyes. He gassed up the car driving in silence. The streetlights were smeared by his tears making it harder to see. This was his fault. That was what he told himself over and over. He was the one being selfish. He hadn't even noticed the bright white cast covering his partner's hand.

While Stu beat himself up over something he had no control over Billy cursed himself for yelling. "I'm sorry for shouting." Billy broke the silence. Stu sniffled trying to compose himself. "I'm sorry for jumping your ass." He responded quietly.

Billy turned towards the driver sighing at the sight. "It's not your fault. If it's anyone's fault it's Daniel's." Stu rounded the corner sending a glance to Billy. He didn't know his partner knew your assailant. "Daniel?" Stu asked. "Daniel Lawson. I heard Dewey say his name when talking to some other asshole." Stu looked over at his friend seeing that gleam in his eyes he hadn't seen for a while. "What are you thinking?" Billy smirked already having a plan. "I'm thinking we're about to have one less student attending Woodsboro high school."

By the time Stu pulled into the garage both men had smiles on their faces. Stu was happy to have his partner in crime back. It was probably unhealthy that the time he felt closest to Billy was when they were planning a murder. This was something only the two of them shared. Billy didn't want to include you because he saw you as too innocent to partake in such a depraved act. Even after what you did that night at Stu's place. To put it simply it was men's work.

Stu didn't want to include you because he had Billy to himself. It was their little secret this time. Stu would make sure you wouldn't find out about it. It was a win for everyone involved. Your attacker would disappear and Stu got to spend quality time with his boyfriend. It was a win win scenario.

"I'm going to take a shower and get something to eat before I head to bed." Billy pulled his boots off sitting them by the door. Stu stood behind his lover starting to kiss his neck softly. All the planning had stirred something inside of the short-haired boy. "Stu..." Billy warned not really in the mood. That didn't stop him however as his hand slowly slid down the front of Billy's outfit. "I'm tired." He spoke trying not to hurt Stu's feelings. His hand slipped underneath Billy's pants making him pull away. "Enough, alright? I'm tired and I'm hungry. I'm not in the mood right now."

Billy's hand was still killing him and his stomach was fighting for attention. Not to mention the throbbing headache he now had thanks to Stu. The last thing on his mind was sex unfortunately for his partner. Billy didn't mean anything by it. It wasn't personal but Stu took it as such.

"Whatever I'm going to sleep. You'll probably have more room on the couch than the bed." Stu walked upstairs leaving Billy with a headache. He was used to Stu's mood swings they happened ever so often. That along with an occasional manic episode. If he was lucky Stu would wake up in a better mood. Billy rubbed his face stopping halfway realizing too late he had makeup on. "Fuck..." He cursed.

Billy walked into the kitchen fixing himself a sandwich. He decided he would eat first and then take a shower. It was a funny sight. The man covered in makeup and blood stains was sitting at the kitchen table trying his best to eat a sandwich with his left hand. Once it was gone he put his plate in the sink, he'd wash it later. Billy decided to use the downstairs bathroom not about to suffer Stu's wrath once again.

Showering was more difficult than anticipated. The more he struggled to get his shirt off the more aggravated he got. "God damnit!" He cursed a little too loud. "Stupid..." He whispered to himself. With a couple of deep breaths, he went into the kitchen grabbing a pair of scissors. It wasn't an easy task to cut the shirt from his body. The doctor at the hospital cut the duct tape and the sleeve of his shirt off leaving room to put on the cast. Funny enough he left Billy to suffer with the rest of the fabric. His hand fumbled with the scissors struggling to get them to cut anything.

His yelling had woken you up. You could still feel the effects of the alcohol coursing through your veins. Thankfully it was less aggressive than before. Stu was laying sideways in the bed drooling onto your pillows. "Guess everyone had a rough night." You grumbled pulling yourself up from the bed.

You threw on your robe before heading down the stairs. Billy was home. His cursing and mumbling gave him away. "What are you doing?" Your eyes were squinted, offended by the white light in the bathroom. "Babe thank fuck. Cut this." He held the scissors towards you while you just stood confused. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust.

"What happened to your face?" You moved forward to run a finger over the dried blood. "Police brutality." He raised his eyebrows at the joke which didn't make you laugh. "Your arm..." You noticed the cast branded with Dewey's name. Gently you reached out inspecting the cast. "Don't ask." Billy shook his head at the signature. "How bad did you break it?" Just like that the whole scene replayed in your head. For a minute or two you watched your boyfriend turn into something you couldn't describe.

It was scary. You remembered how he looked when he was chasing you in the mall a few days after you moved. It was that same terrifying look just directed at someone else.

"They said I broke four knuckles, nothing too horrible." It was horrible. Some of the worst pain that boy ever felt but he wouldn't tell you that. You huffed a laugh. "How are you feeling?" He asked running his left hand over your head. Billy's eyes looked you up and down. You knew what he was wondering. "I'm okay. He didn't get that far if that's what you're asking." Billy shook his head. "It doesn't matter how far he got Y/n he shouldn't have touched you at all."

You grabbed the scissors slowly cutting the fabric off his body. "Are you upset that he touched me or are you upset that he hurt me?" The question was asked calmly. Billy didn't understand the difference between the two questions. To you however the difference was great. You seriously doubted Billy would've acted that same way if it was some other girl.

Billy chose his words carefully seeing you had scissors and all. "I'm not upset, I'm furious." His fingers grabbed your jaw lifting your chin. Your hands stopped, waiting for him to say something. Billy's eyes wandered your face his heart squeezed at the thought of anything happening to you. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you tonight. I didn't know what he was doing. I heard you say my name and I saw his hand under your dress. I blacked out for a second." It was a bullshit excuse. He remembered every thought that flew through his brain. Billy could recite the boy's pained pleas if you asked him to. Now was the time to play up the boyfriend act. As days went on it got easier for him to do.

His eyes softened as he spoke. It was funny how things came full circle. You met Billy because of some bully trying to see down your shirt. That was the first person he ever hit. Now look at the two of you. Both of you were broken but somehow you were looking out for each other.

"You think you embarrassed me?" You pulled away from his touch. Everyone would be talking about it. You knew that, but Billy almost killed a man with his bare hands and he's worried about the scene he caused.

"You're not embarrassed?" Billy cocked his head to one side. You started to peel off the cut up shirt as you spoke. "No. I'm scared, I-I'm worried but I'm not embarrassed. Do you think I'm embarrassed of you?" That was one of Billy's concerns. That after tonight you wouldn't want anything to do with him. He knew if the roles were reversed he'd probably never leave his house again. Fearful of what people might say. You looked the man up and down. He looked broken literally and figuratively. "The guy wanted to see my scar. I think he had more to drink than I did." You laughed trying to make a joke out of the serious conversation. "It was scary, I thought... something bad was going to happen and it might have. I don't know. You stopped him before anything seriously fucked up happened so thank you."

You tossed the ripped pieces of the shirt in the trash almost falling over from spinning too fast. "Baby," Billy said as he grabbed your arm stabilizing you. "Still feeling it huh?" He smiled. "I'll never do this again." You promised but Billy doubted that. Billy knew by the way you and Stu danced that you two would have partying in common.

"I bet." He said turning on the shower so the water could warm up. "Make sure you scrub your face good. You don't want to break out." Billy nodded at your advice. "Are you going back to bed?" You yawned at the mention of sleep. "I'm exhausted. I'll save you a spot in bed okay?" Billy watched you walk into the hallway. "Okay, I won't be long." You shut the bathroom door behind you going back up to your room.

You tried to be normal about it all. Part of you swooned over what he did. In some sick twisted way, you enjoyed seeing him defend you the way he did. It made you feel invincible which was a dangerous feeling. The other part of you however feared the man you began to love. He could keep you safe from everyone but himself. Stu's behavior at the party was unsettling as well. The violence was more important to him than you. He rushed to your side but his shouting didn't stop. The fight was thrilling for Stu.

With a heavy heart and head, you threw your robe over the chair crawling into bed next to Stu. "Scoot." You shoved the boy forcing him to move to the side of the bed. Stu rolled over his back facing you. Deep in sleep, he grabbed your hand pulling your arm over his waist. With a small smile, you pulled him in effectively snuggling up to the man.

You didn't know how things would go. The headache you had could've been the alcohol or your overthinking. You were scared of the future. For too long you had lived on a day-to-day basis. It was nice for a while but eventually, you'd have to face the music. Something had to give.

Billy pulled on a pair of boxers along with a t-shirt before heading to bed. Stu had you wrapped in his arms leaving plenty of room for Billy. Carefully he climbed into bed not wanting to wake up either of you. He wasn't happy with the way things played out. Daniel should be dead not just concussed with a broken nose. Billy didn't give a shit about the details of your attack. That son of a bitch laid a finger on you, the one thing Billy promised to prevent. Daniel didn't know it yet but he was a dead man walking.

Taglist (closed): @katie-tibo @agustdeeyaa @bowlofceral @gonnapermashift @tati-the-fangirl @kozumewhore @tatijoestar @illyanam1011 @c4rved-pumpk1n @msghostface @gojosbucket @sammanna @lokigirlszendaya @reneki @fetusharryluvr @kadu-5607 @pumpk1n-writes @zeysartzone @life-of-music3 @flyestvenustrap @littleblondesoprano @loomiscorpse @nicciekawegosblog @reneemunson @miss-puregotti @ksgsfsgaj @zoleea-exultant @briefwinnerpersonaturtle @mistydreamscape @l4venderia @nex-crowley @ashreblogsnow @brynaa223 @your-desire666 @billyloomiswhore4 @holyladyofsorrows @megluv1 @ellieswifeiya @yoluvrz @forallthstarsinthesky @madsothree @youcantbesirius @lubunnii @captainhowdysseptum @geekygremlin @madneedshelp

[allbark-no-bite]

who are you mad at.

topper thornton x reader (wc: 3.4k)

summary: Topper doesn’t appreciate John B’s friendship with his girlfriend. sometimes all it takes is a blowjob and a little bit of forgiveness

warnings: 18+ smut, blow jobs, mentions of blood, over possessive boyfriend

author’s note: not me actually writing something with plot lol. i cannot believe all of the support i got on my last post, thank you all! i’m know that this isn’t Rafe lol, but i hope you’ll all give it a shot!

————————————————————————

As a little girl, I could never understand why the sheriff and the judge always drank coffee on my grandads front porch. It took me a few years to realize that it was probably for the same reason that the judge's grandson was always so sweet on me.

Politics in a small town like Kildare run deep on family ties and favors. It's all about who's blood is running through who and who's bed you wake up in when the sun comes up. As my best friend Sarah has often laughed about, it's all about how you know or who you'll blow.

Speaking of which, Topper's zipping up the fly on his jeans, fingers fumbling as he misses the hole for the button and has to try again. His cheeks are noticeably flushed, blue eyes distracted as he fidgets with his shaggy but nevertheless, neat crop of hair. No one would expect anything less of Figure Eight's golden boy.

I can't help but smile, biting my lip in an effort to conceal it from where I'm knelt on the floor. He's stupidly pretty. Blue eyes, straight nose, chin that dimples when he smiles.

He must feel my gaze on him because he catches my eye as he's buckling his belt and looks back at me. "What?" he laughs, breaking out into a bashful smile that matches my own.

"I don't know," I say, still smiling, and accept the hand he offers to pull me to my feet.

I don't remember when exactly Topper and I stopped being friends and started actually dating. It all happened so naturally that I don't know if we ever really distinguished between the two. One day we were just friends hanging out, getting drunk at the Boneyard, and then the next week he's kissing me at a party for everyone to see, like it wasn't a big deal that my best friend was kissing me. In some ways I guess it wasn't. It had never occurred to me that I would date anyone else. Sure Topper had dated Sarah for a while, but even that was short lived, and he had always been very upfront with me about it.

"Just you, I guess," I propose, grinning wider as he circles his arms around my waist, pulling me into him.

He's dressed up nicer than usual this evening for the Carrera's anniversary party in a billowy blue and white button up and khakis. The light colors pale in comparison to his bronzed skin, a likely permanent feature that the Carolina sun has given him.

"Really?" he hums, pecking my lips as my head tilts back to look up at him. My lips purse pliantly in response. Topper brushes aside the hair from my shoulder and hums, immediately pleased with the amount of exposed skin that he is rewarded with. The tank top that I'm wearing gives him the opportunity to ghost his lips along my shoulder until he settles on placing a kiss to the crevice of my neck.

My fingers curl into the brunette roots at the base of his neck at the attention. "It's not often I get you to myself."

With Topper's mom being the overbearing mother that she was, and the pressure that came with being the Judge's grandson, it was hard to get him out of their sights. However, if either bothered him, he never confessed such qualms to me. Such reasons are also why I think he was more privy to the political concept of our relationship than I was.

I remember being sixteen when a neighbor called the cops on one of Kelce's parties well after midnight. Of course no one knew this until Shoupe and a couple of his deputies showed up, sirens blaring. Most definitely a little buzzed and close to sobbing in the backseat of Shoupe's patrol car, I couldn't understand why Topper was so calm at the time. He just kept repeating, 'Don't worry about it, baby' and 'It'll all be fine'. At the time I hadn't noticed we were the only ones not in handcuffs. I thought for sure I was going to spent the night in jail and then my parents were going to kill me the next morning. He obviously knew something I didn't because twenty minutes later the patrol car was pulling into my driveway, Judge Thornton waiting on the porch with my grandad to take Topper home. The three of them shook hands and not a word was uttered about the incident again.

Topper dips his head to capture my mouth again, his teeth catching on the pout of my bottom lip.

Pressed to the front of my body, I feel his dick twitch in interest. I'm half compelled to drop to my knees and suck him off a second time just for the hell of it. The only problem is that he's got lipstick smeared on his mouth and his shirt is wrinkled and he's going to be late.

"Topper—" I begin.

"I know—I know—I know," he stresses, leaning down to kiss behind my ear again and then my cheek. "I'm going, I'm going."

Just when he pulls back and I go to step away, he grabs my face again, drawing my mouth back for another kiss.

"Topper—"

"I love you," he mumbles quickly after what is probably his hundredth kiss. "Okay. I'm going. I'll see you in a minute."

I watch him slip out the back door of the pool house we'd escaped to momentarily. I look over at the clock. What was supposed to be a quick five minute make out had turned into nearly half an hour. Thankfully, no one had been sent to look for us — namely my friends. Besides Kie and Sarah, the boys were off treasure hunting with Big John.

With all of the craziness going on in the past week, I was glad for the occasion to celebrate and enjoy the party. The evening air is cool and people are chattering excitedly, laughing and enjoying drinks. I spot Kie with her parents as I move throughout the crowd and she waves me over with a smile. Once I’m close enough, she latches onto my arm.

“We’ve got to get out of here. Big John was kidnapped, the boys are running off to South America to save him, and my parents won’t let me out of their sight,” she whispers through gritted teeth.

“Shit,” I whisper.

“Yeah, shit,” Kie stresses.

“Okay, okay. Don’t worry, I’m on it.” Turning to her dad with the brightest smile I can muster, I link arms with Kie. Thankfully, I fit in the with standard of friends Kid’s dad wants her to have, and he seems to be thankful I hang around.

“Hey, Mr. Carrera. I’m just going to steal Kie away for a moment. I promise we’ll be right back!”

He blinks, as if thinking about it for a moment before nodding. “Okay, just stay out of trouble you two.”

“We will!” I take off, dragging her with me as soon as the words leave his mouth. We haul it through throngs of tipsy guests, dodging anyone who might think to stop us.

“Wait!” Kie yelps snagging my arm before we reach the dock. Out of breath, I skid to a stop beside her.

“What—”

“Oh God,” she breathes.

Heart racing with adrenaline, I take another step towards the dock, dragging her along with me. “Kie, whatever it is, we have to go—”

“It’s John B. He’s talking to Topper.”

Straight ahead of us, I can make out John B’s wild head of hair and dingy yellow shirt. Him being the taller of the two, I glimpse the familiar white of Topper’s shirt just in front of him. Their voices are escalating by the moment, and I can make out the sound of Topper saying, “I want to know why you’re looking for my fucking girlfriend—”

“Oh God,” I repeat this time.

“(y/n), you need to go,” Kie stresses.

I take off before she even finishes her sentence, not even excusing myself as I dash past unsuspecting guests. People have started to stare and a sizable crowd has formed around them.

“— just because she’s your girlfriend doesn’t mean she can’t have friends without you.”

Topper scoffs. “Oh I see. This is about your little treasure hunting bullshit. So you think you can just run around with my girlfriend, do whatever the hell you want with her without me knowing?”

John B shoves him backwards, hard. “That’s not true!”

“John B, stop!” I shout, shoving my way to the front of the crowd as Topper catches himself. But it’s too late, John B is already grabbing the front of Topper’s shirt and yanking him to his feet.

The thing is, it’s not that Topper can’t defend himself, he’s more than capable of holding his own. It’s that he won’t. He won’t ruin his reputation in front of half the town. All he does is sneer, breathing hard as his blue eyes glint with hate. Topper had never liked my friends, only tolerated them for my sake — up until now.

“You think I don’t know?” Topper jeers. “All you’ve ever wanted is to get with (y/n).”

That’s all it takes for John B to swing. I scream as Topper stumbles backwards to the ground. Chaos erupts around us. I see Mr. Carrera hoist Topper to his feet, and my heart clenches at the sight. Blood is leaking from his nose and a dark rouge colored ring has already begun to form around his eye. When I move forward to help him, John B grabs my arm.

“We have to go. Now.”

My feet planted into the ground, I glance down at his split knuckles, and then back at Topper. Who do I choose? My best friend or my boyfriend?

Voice strained, I turn to John B. “I can’t just leave—”

“HELLO!! Now or never, guys!” JJ is on the dock with Kiara, and Sarah. Pope and Cleo are already in the boat.

“Go!” John B urges, shoving me in front of him. With one last look over my shoulder at Topper’s bloody face, I take off running down the dock with John B behind me.

—

I know he's mad before he even yanks the passenger side door open and drags me by my elbow to the car. Although his scowl and matching black eye are pretty heavy indicators, it's the stalk from the drivers side and around the front of the Jeep that tips me off.

"Get in the car, (y/n)," he barks without so much as a second glance at me.

John B and Pope glance at each other apprehensively. JJ and Kiara share similar looks.

With the passenger side door now open and Topper waiting for me to march myself over there, I hesitantly stand my ground. Anxiously, I swallow back the swell in my throat. "Go home, Top."

He throws his hands up in exasperation and shakes his head. "This—this is fucking ridiculous. Get in the car, (y/n)."

When I don't make a move either way, Cleo speaks up. "Leave her alone, man. She ain't gotta go nowhere wit' you." Her thick accent rings out loud and clear, but Topper pretends as though he doesn't hear her.

Having enough of our back and forth game, Topper strides over and grabs a firm hold of my elbow, intending to move me himself. Although I take a reflexive step backwards, I don't fight him off. At the same time, John B steps forward, ready to give Topper a black eye to match the other.

"John B, no," I immediately blurt out, twisting as best I can in Topper's grasp. "It's fine. It's fine." Sighing I turn back to Topper. "Okay," I relent. "Let's go."

We drive in silence for a while, waiting for the other to speak. I'm half hoping he won't and we'll make the entirety of the trip without uttering a word. Across the seat, we make eye contact and I scowl at him for the split second our eyes meet. Then I turn away and cross my arms with an air of defiance.

When I glance sideways at him, his jaw is clenched, eyes fixed on the road. I know him well enough to know that he's weighing out his options on what to say, determining what kind of conversation we're going to have.

He opens his mouth, starting to say something, then closes it and drags a hand over his jaw. "How many times did I call you?"

I shrug. "I don't know—"

"God dammit, (y/n). How many times did I call you!??" He slams his hand down on the console this time.

"I DON'T KNOW, TOPPER."

I do. Twenty-seven. He called twenty-seven times in addition to the missed texts and multiple question marks. I don't admit that though because it's easier to scream back at him than to admit that I was purposely avoiding his calls.

"You have got to stop hanging around with the wrong people. Start making better decisions." He's lowered his voice to a more appropriate volume now.

I glance over at him, a narrowed look on my face. "Who are you mad at, Topper?" I question. "Because I don't think it's me."

In the drivers seat, he continues to stare ahead at the road. "It's always fucking John B, isn't it. You always have to go to his rescue."

I set my jaw, knowing where his mind is and where this is going. "I didn't sleep with him, Topper."

Topper scoffs as if to make light of the situation. "Oh, for sure. You really expect me to believe that?"

"It's not like that. He's my friend."

We pull into his driveway, and Topper finally turns to me after parking the car. "Yeah? Well I'm your friend too, (y/n). You ever fucking think about that? Why do you think you're not sitting in jail right now with the rest of your so called friends?" He jabs a finger into his chest. "Me. Because I care about you!"

My back pressed up against the passenger side door, all I can do is blink in surprise. I'm not used to Topper yelling at me, and I'm not so sure I like it. I'd never thought about it that way before and guilt begins to creep into the pit of my stomach. My eyes suddenly sting and my nose burns with the threat of tears.

"I'm sorry," I whisper barley audible, my voice cracking.

Topper falls back heavily into his seat and sighs, running a hand over his face. Without a word, he gathers his keys from the truck's ignition and steps out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Teary eyed, I watch him take the steps up the porch and pace up and down the length of it while repeatedly running a frustrated hand through his hair. I get out of his truck and walk up the steps after a few minutes. Confident that he's done yelling but unsure of where we stand at the moment, I stop just short of him.

Hands in his pockets, Topper runs his gaze over me from head to toe after coming to a stop in front of me before he emits another heavy sigh and curls his hand around my jaw, forcing me to look upwards at him. "Answer me when I call you, alright?"

Nodding, I swallow under the weight of his hand as his fingers travel down to my throat. His blue eyes are focused and yet lack their usual jubilance. I nearly whine in relief when he leans down to kiss me.

He tastes fresh, like he always does, a mix between peppermint gum and mint toothpaste. The taste resonates within me a type of unspoken forgiveness that I sense is being granted as his other hand presses my body into his. I can feel the rigid outline of his cock through the thin fabric of his shorts, and it sends my heart racing in anticipation.

The thing about Topper is that he's always been able to read me impossibly well, and so when he disconnects our mouths by using the leverage of his hand on my throat to hold me back, he chuckles airily. "Feel me? That's what you do to me, you little tease."

I paw at him, grabbing at the waistband of his shorts to pull his body closer. Topper is nearly a foot taller than me, and I have to crane my neck to look up at him.

"I'm sorry, Top."

He hums, the thumb of his hand moving to tug at the swollen pout of my bottom lip. "Are you? He's only giving me a hard time now, not even allowing me to answer before his thumb slips into my mouth, pressing down on my tongue. "Going to be good for me then?"

The weight of his thumb is so soothingly familiar that I forget to respond in favor of suckling around the digit.

"Baby." He's quick to remind me, drawing his thumb from my mouth and swiping it wetly across my cheek to grip my jaw again.

My flushed cheeks forced into a pout, I nod as much as his hold on me will allow. "Mhm."

Topper glances over his shoulder, briefly surveying the closed blinds of the windows looking out on to the front porch, and then back to me.

"Alright, on your knees, pretty girl."

He doesn't have to ask twice. He's undoing his belt with one experienced hand and gathering a fist full of my hair at the back of my head with the other. Once removed from the confines of his boxers, his cock bobs at the freedom.

If there's one thing myself and multiple other girls in the Outer Banks can attest to, it's that sucking off Topper Thornton is a pleasure. I'd heard the rumors whispered around school even before we started dating. It was weird at the time, having to hear that kind of thing about my best friend, but once we started dating, I understood where they were coming from. With some guys, blowing them is an outright chore, but not Topper. He knows exactly what he's working with and how to use it.

Once again, he's heavy in my mouth. This time in a pleasurably aching way. His tip nudges the back of my throat, and I have to remind myself to relax and breathe through my nose as tears spring to my eyes. He swipes away a stray tear before it can fall.

"There you go, baby. Good."

He doesn't buck up into my throat, forcing me to gag and sputter as I try to accommodate his length — at least not this time. Topper just fists my hair and rocks slowly back and forth, eyes rolling as my throat clenches around him. My nose nearly digs into his pelvis by the time he's satisfied that his cock is nestled as far as it can get into the heat of my throat.

With the makeshift ponytail, Topper pulls almost all of the way out of my mouth before guiding himself back in. Each time the mushroomed tip kisses the back of my throat, he pulls his cock out of my mouth again. All it takes is a few good strokes before he's spilling into my mouth, moaning while I struggle to take him all. He pulls out when he's finished.

"Swallow," he instructs, tilting my jaw back so that I have but one option. Not that I would argue with him anyhow. I'm used to how he tastes, salty and strangely satisfying, His hot release slides down my throat. At first I would have wrinkled my nose at the thought of such a thing, but strangely, I've become accustomed to the taste. It's uniquely Topper, as odd as that sounds.

He helps me to my feet and plants another slow kiss to my swollen lips. I keen at the attention, my brain feeling sluggish and wishing he would just wrap his large hand around my throat again.

"I love you," he finally murmurs, pressing a find kiss to my forehead; a stark contrast to his manhandling moments before.

"Love you too."

Around us, the porch goes dark for a split second and I bolt into Topper's arms before the lights flicker back on. This repeats a few more times; long enough for us to realize that his dad is likely on the other side of the front door.

Topper groans. "Shit."

"Shit."

[spooky-pomegranate]

So I found your “Violence and Timing” fic which led me to ao3 and I binge read every chapter. It is really good. Like really good. Like really fucking good. Like I was up all night last night just reading through those chapters because it’s so good. I just had to let you know because wow. I’m kinda sad I finished all the chapters so far because I feel like I just finished a tv show and I always get sad whenever I finish those. So yeah… just letting you know your writing is top tier.

It Was Supposed to Be Simple:

Captain Price x F Reader Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: For Price, it was supposed to be a simple mission. For you, it was supposed to be the most important meeting of your life. But nothing ever goes to plan, does it? (A/N: Thank you so much @peepawsbeardhair ! That's incredibly sweet to say. I've put a lot of excerpts from that story on Tumblr and people seem to eat it up, but I've never posted the first chapter. Maybe it's time?! )

--------------------- RUSSIA. DECEMBER 2022 ---------------------

“Bravo 5 how copy?”

Captain Price’s surveillance crackled to life in his ear as Gaz responded, “Approaching Building 1 from the west now sir.”

“Rog. Ghost what’s your status?” The bitter winds burned his lunges with each deep breath.

Another crackle, “In position on the east. Ready to breach on your order Captain.”

The blizzard had made for good cover. In the ten minutes Price had occupied his overwatch position nearly half an inch of snow had gathered on his back. His fingers ached as he pinched his radio.

“Alright lads. On my order in 3, 2, 1. Go!”

For the next several minutes gun smoke, fire, and blood filled the air. The mission was simple. Enter the building, kill any armed guards, and secure the intel.

The location, albeit currently freezing Price to his very core, hadn’t been a complicated one either. An old remote KGB intelligence outpost deep in the heart of Siberia; small, run-down, minimally guarded.

“Nothing that’ll win you chest candy.” Ghost had quipped when Laswell briefed the trio on the mission.

While Price fired another sniper round into the building, he thought back to the last words Laswell had said to him before he had boarded the helo at base.

“We have solid intel the Russians are planning something John. Something big. I know this isn’t the type of job I usually ask of you boys, but we need this intel and we need it now.”

Price didn’t mind that it was a straightforward mission. In fact, he was looking forward to something simpler. Scars and nightmares often reminded Price of his more complicated missions. He hoped this trip wouldn’t add to either of his unwanted collections.

Another cackle over the comms, “Captain, the building is clear.”

“Copy you Lieutenant. You have eyes on the intel?”

“Yes sir. But Captain…” Price heard Ghost’s voice waver ever so slightly. The most minute change in pitch.

“Bloody hell Price, you’re gonna want to see this.”

--------------------- LONDON. DECEMBER 2022 ---------------------

“Just a hot coffee black. You know what actually, can you add a shot of espresso in there? Sorry, yeah thanks.”

“One red-eye. Anything else today?”

“No, no that’s all thanks.”

You knew the caffeine wouldn’t help your shaky hands. The extra shot certainly wouldn’t quell your uneasy and empty stomach either, but you moved onward, grabbing your order and heading out to the street. You had more important things to worry about today.

As you took your first sip a text came through on your cell.

“In the lobby now. They want to move meeting w/ Deputy CTO up. Didn’t say why. Can you be here in 10?”

Luckily you’d been pacing around the same three London blocks for 20 minutes now.

“Be there in 2.”

You crossed the street and made your way into the towering high-rise lobby. It was crowded with businessmen. You tried to scan the room for your boss. Where the hell was he? Damn it, all these men in suits looked the same.

“Didn’t get me a coffee then?”

“Jesus! Oh my god, I didn’t see you sitting there. Why the hell did you scare me like that!?”

You nearly spilled your coffee whirling around to face your boss. He’d been quietly sitting in a corner, briefcase and winning smile in tow.

“And why are there so many people in this goddamn building right now anyway?”

You tried to calm yourself a bit. The espresso was a bad choice. Your nerves were on fire.

“Did you forget who we’re meeting with today? Half the people in here are Secret Service. We’re lucky the CTO has a few minutes to spare for us between these international summit meetings. ”

You looked around the room. Now that he’d said it, you realized there weren’t a lot of grey hair men in the lobby. Most of these guys were younger, closer to 30, and their posture was straighter than anyone who normally spent 8 hours a day slumped over a desk.

“Right, yeah that makes sense.”

“Hey.”

You looked back at your boss. He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

“We got this okay. Don’t be nervous. You’ve made something that’s gonna change the world, so let’s change it okay.”

You took a deep breath and nodded.

“Okay. You’re right.”

“I’m always right.” He huffed out a low chuckle. “Let’s head to the elevators. We’re meeting on the 56th floor.”

Your boss grabbed his briefcase, you clutched your coffee, and the two of you made your way across the room. As you waited for an elevator you took a final look over the cramped lobby when you thought you saw… him. He was in a black jacket, dark jeans, boots, and a hat pulled low over his face. You were sure it was him. It couldn’t be. But it…

“You coming or what?” Your boss’s voice cut through your racing thoughts.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m coming” You entered the elevator and tried to put the man’s image out of your mind. It was probably just the coffee and your nerves. A mirage brought on by stress and anxiety. You really didn’t need that extra shot.

A very official-looking staffer met you on the 56th floor. She led you to the meeting space, a modern but sterile-looking conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows, tinted glass separating the room from the hallway, and a massive oak table with a dozen chairs.

“The Vice President and Deputy Chief Technology Officer will be with you both shortly. Please have a seat.”

“Wait the Vice President? Like the Vice President of the United States? He’s coming to our meeting? I thought we were just meeting with the Deputy?” The sentences jumped out of your mouth quicker than you would have liked.

“Yes, as you may know, the Vice President has made technology and anti-terrorism efforts a focus of his office for several years now. He’s been briefed on your work by the CTO and is eager to discuss further details with you both.”

And with that sudden news, the staffer disappeared, slipping back out into the hallway.

As you watched her figure move down the hall behind the tinted glass, the walls felt like they were starting to push in on you. Could the ceiling be dropping in on you too? You took another sip of your coffee, nerves fully on fire again.

Several more minutes of pacing and pep talks occurred before the conference room door opened again. The staffer was back with important friends this time.

After the most formal introductions of your life, your boss took over with his presentation. It’d been decided a long time ago he’d handle the flashy intro and you’d seal the deal with the demo. This was your baby after all and no one knew it better than you.

As your boss finished the pitch you stood from your chair, resting your hands firmly on the briefcase he’d brought. The leather was cool and soft.

You locked eyes with your boss. His eyes crinkled at you again. You felt the air come back into your lungs and the walls didn’t feel so close anymore. You could do this.

As you slipped your hands inside the briefcase the sound of heavy boots echoed outside. Black shadows in the shape of half a dozen men darkened the tinted glass separating the conference room and the hallway. Then came the voices; deep, angry, decidedly unAmerican.

“If you fucking muppets don’t let me into that room I promise you you’ll regret ever stepping foot in this bloody country.”

An agent whipped opened the conference door, nearly tumbling over as four combat-clad men pushed their way inside.

“Diaz, what’s going on?” The Vice President eyed the fumbling agent.

“Sir, we need to move you to…”

The agent's voice was cut off as the windows behind you exploded rocking you forward. Shards of glass rained down on your back as your ribs collided with the oak table. Every ounce of air was knocked from your lungs as you crumbled to the floor. The table toppled over onto its side in front of you while behind you the room opened up to the London skyline.

Total silence enveloped the room except for a high pitch buzzing that felt like it was crawling its way out from deep inside your ear.

Enormous pain rippled throughout your chest as you reached above you for the briefcase now precariously dangling off the edge of the table. You pulled the smooth leather to your chest.

As your braced your forearms on the ground and pushed yourself up to your full height you heard a murmur of a deep voice. Someone was trying to penetrate the ringing in your ears, but you couldn’t understand. The buzzing was still too loud.

Fully upright you came face to face with one of the foreign soldiers. He towered several inches above you, a British flag squarely on his chest. His steely blue irises glanced over your body and when his eyes came back to rest on your face his pupils were nearly double in size.

Then the soldier lunged at you.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Price wrapped one of his hands around your waist and the other on the back of your head as he tackled you to the floor. He didn’t care about the bruises he’d leave on your hip as he pressed his full weight roughly against you. He needed you on the ground now.

“Get down! Sniper on the roof across the street. Soap take him out now!”

“On it!”

Before Soap could pull out his rifle the first shot rings throughout the conference room. Price watches as it slams into a businessman’s chest ripping flesh and bone. He can taste the terribly familiar scent of coppery blood in the air.

Before the crimson cloud can even reach the carpet, another shot. This one takes down the stubborn agent who delayed Price getting into this room. A mist of blood plumes where the man once stood. Price grits his teeth.

Then another bang. This time the staffer is down.

Soap fires next. His Scottish timbre yells out, “Sniper down.”

Ropes drop down outside the building. Price knows this means the fight is just beginning. He quickly kneels removing himself from you and grabs your hand, yanking you to a seated position. He can see tears forming in your eyes. He can’t worry about exfiltrating a civilian now. Secure the high-value officials and eliminate the threat, those words repeat in his mind like a command he’s ordering to himself. There are only seconds before this room will be invaded.

But he won’t leave you here out in the open, he can’t watch another civilian die if he can stop it. So without saying a word he looks at you and points to a spot behind the overturned table. He hopes you’ll understand his wordless intention. You hadn’t answered him when he’d asked if you were alright after the blast, a shot eardrum from the blast most likely.

Price lets out a small breath as he watches you scurry to cover behind the overturned table.

He reminds himself of his own order, secure the officials. Price barks, “Gaz, Ghost get the VP and CTO out of here now! Roof’s compromised take the stairs. Go!”

“Moving now sir.” Ghost answers.

Then comes the smoke, the Russian voices, and the sound of boots crunching on carpet and broken glass. Prices slides in next to you behind the cover of the large overturned oak table, shoulders and thighs pressing up against each other. He can feel your body shaking. He doesn’t need to see your face to know that tears are down your cheeks by now.

Price peers around the table. The smoke is thick. Wait, he tells himself. The haze will thin out soon with the windows blown away. Wait … for the moment to strike. Wait… for the enemy to compromise themselves. Wait… because everything in Price’s life depends on the perfect balance of violence and timing.

One of the Russians get’s impatient and fires a rogue round into the ceiling. Patience pays off and Price shoots his pistol. One down.

The smoke is clearing fast now. Price moves from his cover behind the table. Soap emerges from the receding smoke with him. They fire and fight together, pushing their way forward toward the London skyline with bullets, knives, and brute force. Russians falling one by one in their wake.

There’s no one left in front of Price to gun down when he hears a scream from behind him. You’re standing by the door, briefcase clutched to your chest, and knife to your throat. One of the Russians must have taken the stairs from the roof down, sneaking into the room during the fighting.

Price tries to remind himself to wait. To wait for the right moment. To pair his violence with perfect timing… but your eyes. Your eyes beg him not to. Your eyes beg Price to move now, to fight now, to save you now.

So he moves. Price raises his pistol and fires. But at that same moment, you move and two bodies hit the floor.

Fuck. What had Price done?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

(Read the rest of this story here)

[stillwintering]

All's Fair in Love and Politics (a modern Nessian AU - where Rhys is running for president)

Summary: A modern AU set in the throes of a political campaign. Rhys is running for president. Feyre asks her estranged sister Nesta to join the campaign team. Nesta couldn't turn down a front-row seat to one of the most compelling political stories of the year: a promising upstart with a dream, running a long-shot campaign for president. Little does she know that she's going to have to work closely with Cassian, one of Rhys' top deputies, who infuriates her to no end.

Of course, Nesta and Cassian fall for each other despite themselves. There is drama and politics and idiots in love.

(Nessian focused but lots of Feysand to keep things interesting.)

Read on AO3

Chapter 1

Nesta took a moment to consider the job offer.

"Well?" Feyre asked, her eyes hopeful. "What are you thinking?"

Nesta knew she couldn't refuse. It was a golden opportunity, too good to pass up. She weighed the pros and cons in her head. Joining the campaign would mean she worked for Rhys and Feyre. Nesta loved her sister, but their relationship had been strained since their father passed. Nesta hasn't been an active part of Feyre's life for years. She didn't know how to relate to Feyre as her sister, let alone as her boss. A wave of guilt hits her.

"I don't know," Nesta finally offered. "I'm flattered Rhys wants me as his communications director."

"But?" Feyre prompted.

Nesta picked up the porcelain cup and saucer in front of her, swirling her tea around. Professionally, this was the best offer she had in years. But personally, it was a minefield. She had never taken a liking to her brother-in-law. Rhys had been born with a silver spoon, practically political royalty -- too privileged, too arrogant. They tolerated each other, at best. She's not sure how well he will take it when she has to challenge him in order to do her job as his campaign's communication director. She wasn't going to be another Washington sycophant.

"Feyre, I --"

"We -- I need someone I trust on the campaign," Feyre offered. She chewed her lower lip. "Nesta, please. I don't think we can do this without you."

Nesta hesitated. "I'm just not sure if we should," she gestured between them, "make things more complicated."

"Nesta, I haven't seen you for 2 years," Feyre said softly. "I know things aren't... great between us. But we both know you are the right person -- the best person for this job. Why do you find it so hard to believe that I trust you?"

Nesta winced. She looked at her little sister, once so small and doe-eyed, now radiating power. She nodded, back straightening, and looked away.

"When do you need me to start?"

---

Rhysand Starborn was running for president. He is entering the race as the long-shot candidate: a young 3-term congressman, still green. But the Starborn name held sway. Rhys had grown up part of a political dynasty: 2 senators, 3 governors, and at least 2 Secretaries of State. Rhys' father had served over 30 years in the Senate and had been one of the most influential power brokers on Capitol Hill.

Rhys had fought against his family's expectations all his life. His father, while beloved by the public, had been a cruel man in private. Rhys understood, better than most, the price politics exacted on one's soul and saw firsthand how his own father traded his decency for power.

His father died many years ago, from a long illness that he hid from his constituents until the end. Never show any weakness -- that was one of his father's lessons. Rhys had been a disappointment, too soft, showed too much weakness. His father died full of disdain for his only son.

"For those of us climbing to the top of the food chain, there can be no mercy," Rhys can still hear his father say. "There is but one rule: hunt or be hunted."

Rhys was running for president. Because he has a dream for the country. Because his father's ghost still weighed on him. Because Rhys wanted to be a better man, a better husband, a better father. But not because of power, never just for power. Rhys tells himself.

---

It took Nesta two weeks to find an apartment in Washington DC, a small one-bedroom in a renovated Art Deco building. The move was easy enough. Nesta had never put down roots, opting to live wherever the story she was writing was going to take her.

Nesta worked as a writer, reporter, and political commentator. Her writing was witty and sharp -- always discerning. She had a way of reading people, seeing through everyone's masks and lies. She can spend 10 minutes with someone in a room and know exactly what made them tick, and what buttons to push. It was a skill that was both a blessing and a liability.

Last year, Nesta wrote a searing profile of the British Prime Minister for The Economist that was credited for torpedoing his re-election campaign. She had spent a week shadowing and interviewing him and by the end, saw him exactly for the power-hungry viper he was. She had made a name for herself as a political truth-teller, always holding power to account. Nesta was really good at her job.

Her years of reporting on and writing about politics have made her cynical of politicians. In journalism school, everyone has been taught Lord Acton's axiom: all power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. Nesta believed that when she first started out, at her first reporting job, but after all these years, she doesn't believe it's always true anymore. Power doesn't always corrupt. Power can cleanse.

Now, what Nesta believes is always true about power is that power reveals.

Nesta waits by the door of Starborn's congressional office. It was her first day on the Starborn campaign. She was eager to find out what power would finally reveal about Rhysand.

---

Feyre's face lit up when she spied Nesta by the door.

"Let me introduce you to the team!" Feyre gestured for her to come inside.

The office was bigger than Nesta expected. Most junior congressmen were relegated to the cramped basement offices of the House office buildings along Independence Avenue. Space was always scarce on Capitol Hill. The size and location of Rhys' office indicated that he had some influence in the House, no doubt helped by his family connections.

Nesta surveyed the front room, which had several rows of desks for the half dozen staffers buzzing about -- no windows. In the back, a pair of French doors open to a decent-sized office with an imposing desk in front of a tall window. Several people stood around Rhys, leaning against his desk, sitting by the chairs flanked on either side. They were deep in conversation when she stepped inside.

Rhys stood up from his seat behind the desk to greet her. "Nesta," he held out his hand to shake hers. "It's good to see you again. Thank you for joining us."

Nesta took his hand and noted the firm squeeze he gave her. "Rhys," she said, pointedly not returning the welcoming smile he flashed her.

Rhys was devastatingly handsome: striking violet eyes and a face that was not easily forgotten. He had an effortless grace about him -- something Nesta knew took other politicians years on the campaign trail to hone and perfect -- but Rhys welded his charm like it was second nature. It put Nesta on edge, made her apprehensive.

If Rhys noticed Nesta's wariness in his presence, he didn't let it show. He turned to a beautiful petite woman standing next to him and said, "This is Amren, my campaign manager."

Amren gave Nesta a perfunctory handshake, her sleek black bob swayed with her movements. Her eyes were silver and cold. Nesta liked Amren immediately.

The two men sitting in the pair of chairs flanking Rhys' desk both stood. Nesta was startled by their height and size as they rose. They must both be over 6'2", all rippling muscles underneath their suits. They looked more like bodyguards than political operatives.

"Azriel," the man on the right introduced himself, extending his hand. He was classically beautiful: sharp jawlines and high cheekbones. If she didn't know better, Nesta would have guessed that he was a runway model for Paris Fashion Week.

"Nesta," she introduced herself again and took his hand. She tried to not react to the long deep scars that she felt and saw across his hands, up his forearms, and disappearing beneath his shirtsleeve. She knew those scars had a story to tell.

"Nesta Archeron," the second man addressed her, a smirk in his voice. "The Prime Minister slayer."

Nesta stiffened and met his gaze. A pair of golden hazel eyes held her. His hand slipped around hers, firm and warm. Nesta's breath caught.

"This is Cassian," Feyre cut in. She rolled her eyes at him.

His eyes seemed to pin Nesta in her place. "I'm a big fan. The hit piece you wrote about the President's last Supreme Court nominee was brilliant. I can't believe you got a hold of his tax returns."

Hit piece! Nesta's temper flared. She pulled her hand away. "He was corrupt," her voice was clipped.

Cassian chuckled -- it was a warm, affectionate sound. "Rhys, you got to look out for this one," he said, turning towards the desk.

Nesta had rarely ever been rendered speechless. When he looked back at her again with those golden hazel eyes, she met them boldly and assessed him.

There was something entirely wild, but still very handsome about Cassian. His features were more rugged, weather-worn, like the north face of a mountain -- a scar notched one of his eyebrows, his skin golden brown. He had long dark hair that he had pulled into a knot, almost bordering on inappropriate for otherwise stuffy and conservative Capitol Hill fashion. Something about Cassian both thrilled and disturbed her.

"Welcome to the Starborn presidential campaign," Feyre said, wrapping up their introductions. Her voice pulled Nesta's attention away from Cassian.

"Feyre, darling," Rhys turned towards her, his eyes softening. "Are you sure you want to do this? This is the last exit before our lives change forever."

Feyre entwined their fingers together, giving her husband a reassuring squeeze. "Yes, darling. I am sure."

Amren smiled, taking her cue to begin, and then nodded toward Nesta. "Tell me, girl, what do you know about the Iowa caucuses?"

[krikeymate]

It's been a while since I've watched Wynonna Earp but I just remembered some details and it got me thinkin about the au:

Are we keepin with the show's canon and going with a "Tara's not even a Carpenter (or I guess Loomis in this au)/fully human" twist? If so, how would that go?

(Also do you got any thoughts about who the other characters would be? Like who would be the stand-in for Doc/Nicole/Xavier/etc. Omg wait you could combine this au with the other half-sister au and have a Willa stand-in as well)

SWAGGER. (that's just how i refer to you in my head. i know you have a name. sorry.) THANK YOU FOR ASKING.

So I have virtually no story actually planned out, but like everything else, it will lightly follow the plot and I'll pick and choose what is most fun. I have most of the character's roles planned out.

Tara not being a Loomis is 100% happening. She got that ~ angel ~ blood in her.

(I made Christina's maiden name Carpenter in this, along with several other AUs for simplicity. And like, technically we have nothing in canon that disapproves the idea that it is her surname and her husband took her name. Obviously, that isn't true, but it exists in the area of small things that are never mentioned because why would they.)

SO. Tara was always called Carpenter. Billy never let her take her name, he knew she wasn't his all along. Christina tells Sam it's just because Sam is the heir, not Tara, so only Sam can take the Loomis name. Sam changes her name to Carpenter too after her grandmother Nancy loses it shortly after Billy's death. She wants to distance them from all that.

I really thought hard about whether I wanted a Willa in this AU, and ultimately decided not to. I think Sam has oldest-sibling vibes and fits growing up under the weight of a legacy, and Tara is only going to have Sam on her side vs Waverly who was loved by her mother and Wynonna.

ANYWAY. Some other characters!

Kirby Reed (27), Deputy Marshal of the Black Badge Division, and her lab technician Mindy Meeks-Martin (21). They show up after Sam gets back into town and some bodies start happening. (The Dolls and Jeremy characters, except Mindy is there from day 1.)

Chad (21) is a Mercedes-type character. Just around to serve looks, be catty, and run the family property business after his sister decided to abscond to some secret government lab job.

Stu 'Doc' Macher. Sidekick to the Ghost of the West, and recently, Billy. Billy finds him in the well shortly after Sam is born, and keeps him around to help take down the revenants. Billy throws him back down the well shortly after his wife leaves, blaming him. He'd caught them speaking together in hushed tones shortly before, and acting suspiciously. He even accuses him of being Tara's father. He acted as a bit of an absent uncle to the girls.

There's not really a Nicole figure. What there is is Judy Hicks, fresh into town because Sheriff Dewey Riley needs a deputy. She brings with her her son, Wes (19). Wes works at the station doing grunt work, and when he's not working, he's being sweet on Tara. Judy is ignorant of the supernatural, and even after things start to happen, she remains in denial.

[radiowallet]

4 Days West

Summary: Sheriff Marcus Moreno, lost since the passing of his wife, hears word of a town in need.

Pairing: None in this installment. Eventual Marcus Moreno x OFC (named, no physical descriptors)

Warnings: 18+ Death, gun violence, mentions of a death during labor and stillborn baby, drinking, cursing.

WC: 2K

Author's notes at the end.

> Next

Main Masterlist II Series Masterlist

The town of Sol is small. Too small a town for a name so big. The sun looms large above it, blazing down onto the desert strip, a stray patch of cloud not even enough to protect it from the burn. There were days that very sun took up every inch of sky, unforgiving heat carving out its stake in the land and leaving the ground parched in unrelenting thirst. 

It was a trading outpost, one single street off the main trail, meant for those passing through to rest their feet and fill their bellies. A sign broken and forgotten amongst mounds of dirty rocks and the palest patch of grass, left to guide any foolish visitors in its direction. There was a school that doubled as the church on Sundays, the single room filled with chairs that could easily be mistaken as pews. A saloon, the only one for miles, broken windows and crooked floorboards adding to its messy charm. A row of dusty homes, half-filled with folks either too stubborn or too poor to move on, shutters pulled closed, doors locked as tight as they could manage. 

The little town should be thriving, its borders growing wider with each merchant that passed through, but circumstance was cruel and life was unforgiving, and Sol was left to pay these taxes just like so many towns that had come before it.

Blood coated the streets, dried rust staining the tumble weeds that floated through, the ghosts of what was and still is. Desolate. Overrun and overturned time and time again – bandits and thieves ravaging the streets, taking what wasn’t theirs and leaving nothing but anger and caution behind. 

Sheriff Marcus Moreno was no stranger to the pain of living.

He had heard tales of the bloodshed three full moons after the passing of his wife. She had been taken from him much too soon, the ugly realities of bringing a second child into the world bleeding her dry in his arms, the babe gone before he could even take his first breath. It left Marcus with a heavy heart and a daughter to raise, his bed empty and eyes tired. He and Missy had hit the trails shortly after, his badge handed off to his deputy, leaving only his gun on his hip and his kid at his side. 

It was hard at first. Years in a well-kept home with a good woman to help raise his daughter and warm his bed had made the lawman softer than he cared to admit. He had grown used to fires stoked on cold nights, hot meals on the kitchen table, and her quiet strength to help guide his conscience. Marcus had learned long ago that even a good man needed help finding his way from time to time.

Long days in the saddle and nights beneath a cold sky were buried in his past, his body crumbling beneath the rock bed of a life lost and a broken heart. Odd jobs were traded for money, food, and sometimes board, when the hand offering seemed a trustworthy kind. Missy had shouldered it all with him, her hat snug on her head and her skirt pinned to her waist. Never once did she complain, and Marcus loved her all the more for it.

He could feel the realities of this life creeping closer with each turn of the sun and he couldn’t help but wonder how long they could keep pace with time so scattered? Was this the life he wanted for his daughter, her gaze already caught between shades of dark and light. There had been close calls, glimpses of the ugly truth catching them both unaware, his fast hands never quite fast enough to cover her eyes. 

It was an old acquaintance, a bounty hunter with steady hands and mournful eyes, that brought him word of the town beneath the sun, murmured over the rim of his pint, something like longing coloring his words.

Marcus listened to the man, the rasp of his voice from months on the trail, his own son, much younger than Missy, sitting at the bar beside his dad, kicking his boots and reading from a primer. It was a strange sort of painted glass, looking at the two of them, a version of his family twisted by circumstance and making the best of a cruel world. Marcus had wanted to ask what the man’s plan was– for himself, for his son– but it felt too much of prying. 

So instead he asked, “How far west?”

“Four days' ride. Ask for Lou.”

The road into town was empty, but Marcus could feel eyes on them, pearly white shadows peeking out from behind creaking shutters and swinging doors. Each hoof beat felt heavier than the next, until finally his horse stalled, the dig of his boot not even enough to encourage the animal forward. One hand glued to the handle of his six shooter, the other flung out to stop Missy in her tracks. A glance to his left, and another to his right, brown eyes landing on a saloon, the sunlight catching along the open door, the golden glint offsetting the shadows creeping along the weathered steps. 

“Pa?”

Missy’s voice is gentle, softness bleeding out of her hesitancy, and without even looking Marcus can see the way her eyes shift across the same path as his own. 

“Let’s head in.” 

He makes it one step in before the muzzle of a shotgun meets him right between the eyes. It’s instinct that keeps him standing, the cool metal of his own gun in his hand before the door squeaks shut, the barrel pressed into his assailant’s ribs, a breathy grunt pulled from their lips. 

“Fast hands. Not so sure I like that in a man.”

Marcus takes in the person standing in front of him, a different sight than any other hidden behind the threat of death he’s happened upon before. Bright eyes and dark lashes, a curve of a painted lip and the smooth slope of a shoulder, a silk bodice tied tight and a skirt pulled back, just enough to tease his eye line away from her steady aim and strong stance. 

She takes advantage of her devilish distraction, stepping into him, biting back another grunt of pain when his pistol digs that much deeper, slipping gently along the silk boning holding her ribs in and her chest up. The barrel of her shotgun is warm, a breath of heat catching his forehead, trapped beneath the brim of his hat. Behind him a floorboard creaks and for the first time panic swells, the sound of Missy’s own gun cocking in her small hands reaching his ears. 

Time stops short, only their breathing, matched in angry, humid puffs, tracks the passing of the seconds until finally the woman in front of him steps back, eyes dropping briefly to his daughter then back to Marcus, her cheek still resting on the grip of the shotgun, delicate fingers wrapped sweet and snug around the trigger. 

"Well I guess an outlaw with a kid wouldn't be the strangest thing I've ever seen, but I reckon that's not the case here."

“A fair assessment,” Marcus agrees, voice steady, aim true. 

She takes another step back with a jerk of her chin towards the bar. 

“Saddle up.”

She doesn’t wait to see if he plans on accepting her invitation, instead making herself busy behind the counter. 

“I was told to ask for Lou.”

His mention of the man falls flat on the ground beneath his boots, drowned out by the click of the barmaid’s heels. His reluctant hostess sets her gun down on the bar, a final tap to its chamber before she leaves it behind. She turns gracelessly and starts digging through crates, caring little at how the dust flying through the air sticks to her skirt and the peak of leg hidden just beneath, not a stitch of stocking to protect the bare skin. Marcus does his best to not care much for it either. 

“—know I ordered some…been so long…a kid’s been around…ah ha!” 

There’s a pop and a hiss just before a bottle is slid across the bar, not in his direction, but Missy’s.

“They call it pop. I ordered it back when the town was a bit more lively. Something for the young bucks to drink while their parents talked and tied an extra one or two one. Thought it would be good for business. Now these crates just make a nice spot to rest my legs.”  

Missy accepts the bottle with a hesitant glance of her fingers, but doesn’t raise it to her lips, instead looking in Marcus’s direction. He’s quiet for a moment, eyes tracing the glass bottle, lukewarm and pale in color, before slipping back to the woman across from him. Her gaze is soft, a smile cheating at her lips as she watches his daughter. 

It almost feels of fondness. 

Finally he nods at Missy, and she wastes zero time in taking her first sip, a smile chasing a bubble of laughter. 

The woman doesn’t turn back towards him after, instead busying herself again, this time with an unmarked bottle, amber liquid sloshing as she tips it into an empty glass. Careful eyes gauge her deliberate movements, stray beams of sunlight filtering through the dirty windows and catching along the cream color of her bodice, yellowed from age and what must be years spent behind this very bar. She doesn’t speak, but the air is heavy with all that she won’t say aloud, her lips tight around the rim of the glass as she kicks back the whiskey in one swift swallow. 

She pours one more, eyes shifting to Marcus and back, those same steady fingertips pulling out a second glass, this one filled to the brim and slid towards him. 

“You look like a good man.”

The words are dry, desert sand coating her tongue as she looks at him just the same as she had over the barrel of her shotgun, and Marcus feels at her mercy the worse for it all. 

“I–” “Hey!”

He grins, Missy’s stubborn shout ringing up into the rafters, disturbing the cobwebs clinging to the darkened corners.

“We came to help this town, my daughter and me.”

Silence sits thick between them again, the tick of an eyebrow and the tight grip around the neck of a bottle the only sign she heard him. A peek of pink slips between her teeth, licking away any stray taste of the spirit, her lips slipping down in time with her next statement.

“This town is haunted by good men, each one claiming louder than the next of their intentions to save us. What makes you any different than those who came before?”

Marcus tips his head, the brim of his hat hiding the sharp cut of her eyes framed by the soft pin of her curls, her shotgun still resting on the weathered bar top separating them. The pad of his thumb is heavy and gracious on the rim of his glass, the whiskey poured earlier still untouched. His tongue flicks up over the clean cut of his mustache, the wiry hairs catching the salty tang of his sweat.

“The difference, ma’am,” he starts, letting his voice dip slow, a burn of molasses dripping off each one, “is that I don’t believe in ghost stories. Now why don’t we start again. I’m looking for Lou.”

This time she does smile, a flash of teeth and tongue like a cat with a canary in its sights. Her elbows fold in as she leans towards him, the tight lace of her bodice somehow holding her curves in, only the smallest swell of her breast left to steal his attention away. She’s close, just enough for him to taste the whiskey she huffs out with the cut of her laugh, and Marcus suddenly wishes he had taken a sip of his own before now. 

“Well cowboy, you found her.” 

Dedications

I want to give the biggest, most heartfelt thank you to @frannyzooey for graciously reading snippets of this when it was just a silly little daydream and for immediately encouraging me to write this story. She also allowed me to reference her own cowboy and I am eternally grateful I am able to pay homage to TMTC in this small way. Thank you, Kelli for being wonderfully kind and supportive and a light in this fandom. It means more than I am able to say.

A huge thank you to @the-ginger-hedge-witch who is a true friend and encouraged me immediately to jump on the cowboy train. Thank you for double checking the vibes of this silly story and thank you for your support.

Big shout out to @astroboots and @write-and-buried for listening patiently as I screeched incoherent gibberish at them about cowboys and sheriffs and yeehaw honky tonk.

And to my dearest @jazzelsaur for beta reading, for encouraging me always, and for supporting my writing no matter how big or small. Your continued support and friendship continues to be one of the best things that has come out of this hellsite, and I count every day that I know you as better and better. Thank you! For all of it. Whore.

[shootsun]

aha. heh. so. cowboys. I’ve got the second half of the bar tussle - the aftermath really, and then I’ll start the story story bit later? but anyways... just uh... have this

Six chuckles and grabs Wukong’s wrists. “As much as I would love to,” he twists out of the lawman’s grip and steps away out of reach of the fuming sheriff. “I have a job to do.”

He pulls a rumpled poster from an inner pocket of his coat, and Wukong squints at the yellowed paper suspiciously.

“The Monkey King?” Wukong scoffs, digging the toe of his boots into the dust coated floor.

“Everyone knows he got caught years and years ago. That damn thief died serving his sentence.” Wukong looks hard at the bounty hunter, trying to gauge if he needed to bolt or if the other was buying any of the shit he was selling.

There’s an unreadable look on the bounty hunter’s face as Six says, “Maybe. Maybe not. But somebody has been stirring up trouble in a similar way. The crimes and grievances listed recently are too similar to be a coincidence, although most folks think it’s just a copycat. Some dumb kid with grand ideas in his head.”

Wukong has to bite his tongue at that. It had to be MK, hands down. The kid was the only one in the area with enough magic in the area to even attempt to pull half the stunts he had in his youth.

The only question now was, ‘why? What had possessed the kid to act so rashly? To be so stupid and reckless?’ He can guess the answer well enough, but it still leaves him fuming.

He takes a deep breath and focuses on the supernatural in front of him.

“So, what brought you here of all places? Surely, the Monkey King, if he were actually back, would be wreaking havoc on New York or in California. Not here, in Dead End.” Wukong dryly chuckles, hoping he wasn’t coming across as too desperate for any scrap of information.

“I ain’t spilling all my secrets just yet, Lawman.” Six smirks, and tucks the old wanted poster back into his pocket. The bounty hunter knocks his hat against his thigh, knocking off some of the sawdust, and nods his head to Wukong before making his way to the saloon doors.

“Oh, by the by,” The supernatural pauses, one hand on the wooden doors as he looks over his shoulder. “You better keep a closer eye on your deputy. Your kid has a big heart, Wukong. People are just itching to step on it.”

With that, Six steps out into the street, leaving Wukong glaring at his back.    

The lawman rubs his face tiredly and grimaces at the sore spot on his jaw. His face hardens as he thinks over Six’s last words. Wukong grinds his teeth.

‘That kid is in so much trouble when I see him next,’ He thinks to himself as he turns back to the counter.

Minutes later, Pigsy rams his way through the saloon doors, panic written all over his face.

“Wukong!” The ex-con turned bartender all but tackles him. “Did you see? That bounty hunter, the one who took MK, he’s back!” The supernatural hisses as he shakes Wukong by the shoulder.

“I saw.” Wukong carefully pries his oldest living friend’s fingers off his arm.

“Ain’t you gonna do anything? He could try and take the kid again, or-”

The lawman shakes his head, cutting off the bartender mid-panic. “He’s not really here for the kid. He came here looking for Monkey King.”

“You buried that name.” Pigsy’s voice is icy as he steps back from Wukong. “You told me you left that all behind when you took the mantle of Lawman.”

“I did!” Wukong whirls to glare at the shorter supernatural. “He’s just… digging up ghosts, is all. I’ll distract him, and he won’t even notice the kid.” He promises, and Pigsy’s eyes soften a fraction before hardening once more.

“I helped Trip raise that boy. You left, going back on your wild adventures after we got here, and the rest of us made sure he grew up. It’s your turn to keep him safe, Wukong. I ain’t makin’ idle threats when I say if that kid gets hurt on your watch, I’ll be the one to put you in the ground before that bounty hunter even sees hide nor hair of you.” Pigsy pokes a clawed finger into his chest, and he resists the urge to swat the offending appendage away.  

“I’m going to keep him safe,” Wukong promises.

Part 1

Part 3

[cupcakestreets]

Spirit was the beloved child of ex warden/subway boss Ingo and the Diamond Clans Ghost Whisper turned Baker Gateau, they were born in a time of peace in the future where they lived in a duplex house in Nimbasa with his Uncle Emmet and Uncle Piers who lived in the other side of the duplex that the family shared. Spirit was loved by all four adult who took the time to take care of them. Sometimes when his daddy Gateau was busy with running his bakery or having to fill a large order for an event, Spirit would go with his dad Ingo and uncle Emmet to see the trains. Spirit loves being the deputy Subway boss of the day and is the only kid allowed to blow the train whistle (as long as their dad and uncle are there with them). Their dad also would let them watch the battles on the single and multi line until it was nap time or lunch/snack break time. During nap time their dad would sing them a lullaby and let them sleep with their dad’s coat as a comfort item on the couch in their dad and uncle’s office. Spirit knew it wouldn’t be long before they woke up back in their home after their nap, it was like magic one moment they are sleeping on the couch in the gear station, next thing they knew they were tucked into their parents bed at their house and it already is time for dinner. They like telling their dads their amazing teleporting powers that only happens when they’re asleep. Their dad Ingo finds it funny for some reason but says that’s a good power to have. Their Daddy Gateau just smiles ruffling their hair as dinner is now served.

I appreciate this so much!!! 💕💕💕💕 One big happy family!!! Love the idea of Spirit hanging out at the subway! Also Gateau becoming a baker is accurate. He does like baking and after his security job he really would rather do something he likes now. I also just love all 4 adults doting on Spirit. 💕💕💕 This just makes me happy overall!!! Thank you 💞

[cheekygreenty]

Little Witch - Part 22

The Darkling x Reader

'The General is busy' Ivan stood blocking the door, not letting you through. His red silk kefta stood out like a warning sign in the dead of the hallway and his face a stony expression but you didn't miss the slight tinge of a condescending grimace.

'Ivan move away from the door.'

'The General wished to not be disturbed.'

'Ivan I could eat you for breakfast. Now move for your Deputy.' Whether it was your assertion of dominance, the copious amounts of alcohol in your system, or the firey shadows erupting from your hand, Ivan moved away from the door, defeated. You were done playing nice and done playing the diplomat. You were taking the evening off.

The doors were pushed wide open with a mere flick of your fingers, quickly meeting Aleksander's gaze already set on you. No doubt there was no need for such a dramatic entrance, but as you said, you were taking the evening off, Deputy Y/L/N has retired for the night. Y/N is here to play now and she doesn't fight fair.

There was someone right in front of him, a dirty and ragged First-Army soldier. If it weren't for the soldier's slight bow of the head in your direction, you would've guessed you walked in on a pissing contest.

'Hello Soldier'

'Deputy Y/L/N'

'You know who I am'

'Of course'

You smiled and looked at Aleksander, inspecting his face for any sign of emotion but all you were met with was a clenched jaw. 'The Stag?' A map of Ravka lay open next to him on the table but there was no indication on it of a precise location.

'Mr.Oretsev is bargaining. He won't give up the location if not for a meeting with our Sun-Summoner.' Oretsev. As in Mal Oretsev, Alina's tracker?

'And have you started to vet him? Cause from what I can see you're just standing here.'

His hands balled into fists at his side and he quickly moved past the tracker to you, grabbing your elbow tightly and dragging you out of the room and into the adjacent drawing-room. You shrugged him off just as roughly and shut the doors.

'Is this how you treat your second in command?' You brushed off your kefta, adjusting the sleeves.

'I'm getting really tired of you trying to show me up'

'Well I'm sorry I'm naturally more intimidating than you.'

Y/N and Aleksander were completely different from Deputy Y/L/N and General Kirigan. For as long as you could remember, you both kept work and life separate but now things somehow changed. The dynamics were shifting in nobody's favor. You unknowingly kept prodding for dominance which never happened before. Years ago, you were happy to listen to Aleksander, to do as he said, to go to sleep cuddled into his side having forgotten the workday, to put aside the orders he gave that didn't sit well with you. But now you craved to call the shots and he seemed to notice too.

'What do you want? I really do not have time for this.' He started pacing the room impatiently.

'Oh pray tell what is it that's so pressing? You can't get the location out of him without Alina finding out about the letters. Your lies are going to catch up with you' Didn't I tell you so.

'Can you not even pretend to be helpful?'

'No' You pursed your lips and crossed your arms.

'Have you spoken to the Queen?' He stopped pacing and waited for your answer, obviously eager to hear what the Tsaritsa had to say but despite the heartiness of the situation, you chose to stay quiet.

'No, I didn't.'

'Then do your job Deputy.' With that he swung open the door and walked out, the tension visible around him and palpitating as he strode out of view with Ivan trailing him. There it was, his small yet effective remark to remind you of your place. It was as if overnight he came to the conclusion that you were after his Grisha and was making it known you were just a Deputy and he was Aleksander Morozova, the Black Heretic and it angered you beyond reason.

*****

You found yourself right back next to Zoya with another drink in your hand. Although you felt it hitting you and relaxing all the muscles in your body, your mouth was glued shut when it came to spilling out all your problems for a shoulder to lean on.

'Zoya have you ever been proposed to?' You didn't know why you asked, but it slipped out. You could see her momentarily freeze but she covered it well with a flick of her ebony hair.

'All the time. Have you seen me? But it's always the poor and useless ones. The good ones don't want a weapon, they want a housewife'

'Wise words spoken by an even wiser woman'

'I accept credit where it's given' You both laughed and went back to meaningless conversation. Had you known when you arrived at the Little Palace that the sneering Squaler would become one of your closest friends and trusted soldiers, you would've laughed. She was still vexing and shrewd but behind all the remarks, you saw the true Zoya and you liked her.

She was very guarded, her walls built up so high from years in the Second-Army but sometimes her facade slipped. It would be the faintest look of sorrow on her face or a slight pause in her voice that would catch you off guard, slowly letting you piece together who Zoya really was. You had already come to a conclusion; she was the best damn soldier Ravka had ever seen and no doubt will amount to great things. Her fire burned bright and fervid and that's all it takes to be and do good.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see one of the Inferni twins following an oprichniki with a suspicious gaze. The alcohol might've been enough to dull your senses, but your job was still to protect the Palace and so you hastily excused yourself and followed the two from a distance. No doubt you caught the attention of many people as your gown trailed behind you and drew unnecessary attention. You looked ahead of the Inferni and studied the guard, noticing a limp. Now that you thought of it, you could've sworn the same guard had briefly conversed with a female guard too, one strikingly similar to the silks artist that dangled down next to the stairs. You shot a brief glance toward the staircase and sure enough, the silks were there but they were empty. Intruders.

You pursued the two men, noting their direction toward the chapel but another oprichniki suddenly blocked your way.

'Deputy, The General requests your presence right away.' The guard stood in front of you, the panic so vivid on his face it sobered you up substantially.

'What's the matter?' Your voice was short and annoyed as you watched the blue kefta disappear from your line of sight.

'We caught an intruder trying to escape after murdering Marie. The General thinks it is the conductor' At this you froze and your eyes widened twice their size. You suddenly felt a pang of guilt as Marie's name was mentioned. You were in charge of Marie and Alina, and if you had just done your job tonight instead of being in your head then maybe Marie would've been alive.

'And where was Genya Saffin?'

'She fought him off as much as she could but he fired at her'

'Saints' You were mad now. Not only was this man killing Grisha in their home, but he was the conductor. You had read Nina Zenik's reports about him, but knowing he somehow penetrated the walls of the Palace you had so tirelessly tried to fortify angered you beyond compare. The limping man, the silks artist, now this.

'Was he alone?'

'Seems so, Ivan and Zoya are interrogating him now, they wish for you to accompany them.'

'I'll be down momentarily, but for now come with me.' You nodded him to follow you as you hurried to the chapel not giving him a second to object. The noise of the party fizzled out, no foreign dignitary finding it appealing to pray to the Saints at this hour.

Your joined steps echoed through the golden halls and your heart rate picked up. This evening was turning sideways really quickly, maybe you shouldn't have had all those drinks. Maybe you should've told Aleksander about your predicament. Maybe you should have stayed with Marie instead. So many maybes.

You directed more guards your way as you walked, all of them silently obeying your command and not speaking. If you were right, the whole Palace was compromised and you would need reinforcements.

'You three head that way, I'll take this door.' You pointed down the hallway and turned into the door to your left. The chapel was silent and peaceful. The candles were all lit, begging to be witness to prayer, but the room itself screamed danger.

You listened for a heartbeat, felt the air for a body, but came up empty-handed. Still, you couldn't shake that strange creep of unease. Your feet took you behind the altar and between the pews, where with a gasp and a curse, you found the Inferni's body dead and surrounded in a puddle of his own blood. The gash in his head was obviously made with a knife, but the remnants of the blade were gone.

The rage flew through you like a ghost in a graveyard. A Grisha was murdered in a chapel. It felt like both a personal attack and an attack on all Grisha living in the Little Palace. The Inferni lying dead at your feet was killed in his home, murdered in the home of his Saints. You needed to find Aleksander and tell him. You needed to get the King and Queen out of here even though that would be the last thing you wanted to do.

But as soon as you found Aleksander in the courtyard facing Baghra, that unease turned into outright fear. Aleksander loved his mother, but the way he looked at her right now spoke the opposite of love. He always had doubts about her, always assumed she was scheming but she rarely ever acted. The fear pushed you to assume she definitely did something.

'What is it?' You were shivering, the bottom of your gown ruined now with dry leaves and dirt clinging to it as you made your way to the two. 'What have you done Baghra?' So much has already gone wrong.

She looked at you with a smirk, a smile that yelled in triumph 'I won' but uttered no words. You turned to Aleksander for an explanation. The shivering now chattering your teeth and turning your lips blue.

'Alina is gone, the tracker is dead'

All the air in your lungs vanished as your hands unknowingly went to wrap around the old woman's throat. 'You wretched old witch. How could you do this' Your words dripped in venom so vast it made you wince. She didn't respond to your assault in the slightest, just kept that condescending grin stuck on her lips.

You felt his hands grasping at your arms, roughly pulling you back from his mother and your chokehold. 'Y/N stop it' You didn't care about Alina too much, but purposely doing all of this to pull you and Aleksander off the rails was like a thorn in your side that never got pulled out in 98 years.

'Are you the one who killed the Inferni in the chapel too? Or the one who let intruders into my Palace? Huh? ANSWER ME' You pushed his arms away from you and ignored his questioning look. Baghra still said nothing, just shook her head as if in pity. 'Every time you leave that damn hut you cause nothing but trouble'

Taking a step back and then another, you forced yourself to walk to the dungeons to interrogate the conductor not caring if Aleksander followed you or not. If you didn't leave, you would've surely killed her.

-------

Part 23

Masterlist

Taglist (tell me if you want to be added to the Little Witch taglist!!)

@theonelittleone @searching-for-gallifrey @0-artemis @lostysworld @xceafh @fire-in-her-veinz @patdsinner33 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @wizardwheezes @aleksanderwh0r3 @tomhollandisabae @hotleaf-juice @justmesadgirl @exo-1204 @houseofdupree @oberonpascal @eireduchess @lunas1x1 @adoringb @grisha-of-shadow-bone @rosiethefairy @carlywhomever @allisjustok @keepdaydreamingbb @luciadiosa @toujurspure

[thebookwormfairy]

Buzzfeed Unsolved Part 3

Here's my contribution for Spooky season. This will be mainly class salt but there will be a little bit off the maribat team we love and their usual antics

Lila couldn't believe it

The whole point of pushing Marinette out of class life was to isolate her enough so that Lila would be the new class favorite but not enough that she'll leave

Who was suppose to to provide the class with free sweets and plan all the class outings and events

But here Lila was listening to Ms. Bustier as she made the announcement

Ms. Bustier: please take your seats class. We're going to hold elections for Class Representative

Alya: Shouldn't we wait for Marinette, Ms. Bustier? I mean she's the only one running right?

The rest of the class made sounds of agreement and nodded their heads

Lila tried not to roll her eyes

Ms. Bustier: Marinette will actually no longer be joining our class

Class: WHAT?!

Ms. Bustier: Marinette has been given a great opportunity to go to Gotham Academy one of the top rated schools in the world

Lila seeing a opportunity to spin this in her favor decided to speak up

Lila: So Marinette decided to abandoned us, even though she knew we counted on her. I mean who's going to help with costumes, or babysitting, or give us bake goods?

Alya: That's a good point!

Nino: This is going to mean we're going to have to cut down on our dates

Mylene: Oh no! The next school play is going to be a disaster without Marinette's costumes!

Adrien: How could Marinette just abandon us like this! It's not like her!

Ms. Bustier: Okay class calm down. We don't want any akumas now. Let's focus on the election for the next class representative. Are there any volunteers?

Unsurprisingly Chloe's hand shot up

Ms. Bustier: okay we have Chloe, anybody else?

Alya: how about you Lila? You'd make a great representative

Lila: Oh no I'm far to busy with all my volunteering and obligations, but you should definitely do it Alya. You were Marinette's deputy after all

Alya raising her hand: You're right? I mean how hard could it be?

Alya learned exactly how hard it is when she won the election and was told all her new duties

Alya: Are you serious? Marinette never brought any of these up to me

Ms. Bustier: She didn't want to cut too much into your time

It took awhile but Alya finally got the hang of things

Though none of the class events were as extravagant as when Marinette was in charge

She made Nino her deputy hoping it would give them more time together

And it did but it also meant that a lot of her paperwork was late meaning the class couldn't do as much stuff

But did the class blame Alya for this?

No

They blamed Marinette

Because somehow it was her fault that Alya were too wrapped up in her boyfriend to actually do her job

A couple of months later Lila and Alya watched the Ghoul Gang's (a/n: That's Marinette, Damian, and Jason's group name) first video that somehow had 10k views and already had 25k subscribers

Alya: How is she so popular?

Lila: How does she have so many views?

Alya: How does she have more hits then the Ladyblog?!?

They started scrolling through the short list of other videos that was posted

Adrien: Oh are you watching Marinette's videos?

Alya: You knew about this?

Adrien: Yeah it's not really my taste but I want to support our friend dont you guys?

Lila making her eyes tear up: Why would we want to support somebody who abandoned us

Alya wrapping her arms around Lila: Yeah Adrien she makes a good point. Marinette didn't even say goodbye!

Adrien trying to placate the two: Maybe she didn't have a chance

Lila: Oh please if she really wanted to she would had MADE time to say goodbye, right Alya?

Alya: Yeah!

The two girls showed the rest of the class the videos

And they had to admit they liked them

They were fun to watch and it was nice to see the old Marinette again

Lila could see this and it made her seeth

She had to turn this to her benefit

And she knew just how to do it

Lila: I can't believe you guys would support Marinette! It's obvious that she's just bragging and showing off her new life!

Chloe: I can't believe I'm saying this but Lila's right! It's obvious that Dupen-Cheng is just rubbing her new life in our faces! It's utterly ridiculous!

Alya hated that she agreed with Chloe but she also spoke of her agreement

Some of the other classmates agreed with them, but others like the member of Kitty Section and Nathaniel just thought that Lila and Alya were still a little hurt that Marinette left and Chloe was just jealous

They decided they would still watch the show just not talk about it with the rest of the class

A year later and Lila couldn't stand how popular Marinette's little YouTube channel was

She also couldn't stand that she had a richer boyfriend then her own, Adrien

So with the help of Alya, Nino, and of course her boyfriend Adrien they decided to do their own show

That was SLIGHTLY similar (read: rip off) of the Ghoul Gang's own show

They had Lila and Adrien as the host

Because of course they had to be the host, they were models and had more experience on camera

Nino did all the camera work

And Alya did research and worked sound

A lot of people called them out for being an obvious ripoff of the Ghoul Group's show from their name to their editing

But what people found worst that they were a bad ripoff

Lila and Adrien didn't have the same chemistry as Marinette and Jason

Adrien just agreed with whatever Lila said

There was no fun banter

And because neither of them believed in ghost there were no funny freakouts

Their show was mostly watched just for ripping on

Which both Alya and Lila hated

How could Marinette be so popular!

Lila just had to find some way to prove that her show is superior to Marinette's

And she learned the purest opportunity when she saw Marinette and the rest of the Ghoul Gang filming on some random street

Marinette: now we're back the next day at Rue Des Chantres after our terrifying investigation last night

Jason: What are you talking about it Thumbelina? It wasn't scary here last night. We even ran into the local heroes.

Damian: Which we'll be showing in a special bonus video at the end of our Paris series.

Marinette: Thanks Damian. And it was to scary. Remember what we heard on the spirit box, Green Giant?

Jason: Beep dop ga Apple tatter cre mauf

Marinette: No the other thing

Jason: Do you think we could make apple taters? Could that be a thing?

Damian: Focus Todd

Marinette: Anyway thanks for watching and join us next time to see us explore the famous catacombs under Paris. And for now weither the Rue Des Chantres is haunted will remain...

Marinette/Jason: Unsolved

Damian: And cut! Great job guys!

Marinette going over to hug Damian: Thanks honey. Great job filming as usual

Marinette gave Damian a peck on the lips

Jason: Seriously are Apple tatters possible? They sound good

Marinette: Maybe we can do some experimenting when we get back to the bakery.

Jason pumping his fist: Awesome!

Damian: We just have to finish on time to head to the catacombs. You wouldn't believe what I had to go through to get the catacombs to ourselves tonight

Jason laughing: Calm down demon spawn besides this will be a nice bonus video

The trio walked away and Lils felt a smirk grow on her face

If she and her lackies could best those losers to the catacombs they could have a episode before them and it would look like they ripped off her group instead of the other way around

Later that night the Ghoul Group showed up at the Catacombs fully expecting to be let in only to be stopped by secruity

Secruity: Sorry folks the catacombs are close tonight. Apparently their filming something tonight

Lila looking smug: Yes that will be us we're the Ghoul Group.

Secruity: I'm sorry but the filming permit is under the name Damian Wayne. Is that one of you?

Alya: No, but their must he some mistake. Lila said she called and we were clear to film here tonight

Secruity: Sorry but without a permit you can't film here. Please move along

Lila: How dare you?! Do you no who I am?

Marinette from behind the group: No, but I do

Alya, Lila, Adrien, and Nino turned around to see Marinette, Damian, and Jason standing behind them

Damian walked forward to show secruity his ID

Alya, Nino, and Adrien: MARINETTE!

Marinette: Why are you trying to steal our filming location?

Alya: Why did you abandon us?

Marinette: What are you talking about?

Alya: You abandoned us! You left without saying a word! Who did you expect to pick up the slack after you left?! Who did you expect to do costumes for the school play, or run fundraisers or babysit Chris or the twins?! You completely left us in the lurch

Marinette felt any guilt about leaving without telling anybody melt away

Marinette glaring: I thought that the people who I thought were my friends only saw me as an employee, and you just proved it

Ayla rolling her eyes: What are you talking about Marinette? You're being over dramatic as usual

Marinette: That is what I'm talking about! Think back to the final couple of months I was in Paris. The only time anybody in the class talked to me was to ask me to do something for them, not even asking if I have time to do it just demanding that I complete what ever they wanted me to do! And you know what leaving was the best decision I ever made!

Marinette didn't wait to hear what Alya had to say she joined Jason and Damian at the entrance and followed them inside never giving thought to the friends she left behind again

3 months later the Ghoul Group broke up.

After Lila was shown to be working with Hawkmoth she was sent to juvenal hall

Lila, Nino, Adrien, and the rest of the class were left wondering how they could lose such a great friend because of a liar who tricked all of them

[whatdamiwatched]

Max & Helen - From the Beginning...

In preparation for the sharpwin ship sailing next week, I went and rewatched season 1 to really contextualise the way their relationship has developed, and I have to say it was quite eye opening.

The Introduction

We are introduced to Georgia in the first scene with Max via his phone screen, there’s a photo of her as his background photo. Their first conversation on screen happens when he calls her in the middle of this day just after he speaks to Helen for the first time

Max- Just calling to say hi

Georgia- Really?

Max- isn’t that what people do?

Georgia- people, yes. You…not so much.

Max- I’m trying, I’m going to change, I’m going to win you back

Georgia- well you have 12 weeks.

It isn’t until later that we find out fully that this marriage is failing and being held together by guilt and a difficult pregnancy, which makes it even worse that Max’s attempt at “trying” was calling her in the middle of the day to say nothing compelling.

Enter Helen- confident, smart, an asset to the hospital and the only doctor Max personally seeks out on his first day- to insist that she immediately cut down on travel or get fired. While the other doctors are stats and figures to him when he starts at New Amsterdam, Helen is Dr Helen. Already their relationship is being established as different from his relationship with the other doctors. In a throat biopsy, he’s distracted by her on tv- so distracted in fact, that he’s pushed to give her another ultimatum even though the first one hasn’t expired.

Max’s ultimatum was significant for Helen because for the first time since she had been running and hiding from the pain in her life, someone saw her and cared enough to make her stop. Even though it was a medical director she just met, and it was because of work, it was grounding for her for someone to see her and need her in that way.

Her choosing to come back was significant, not just because of Max, but because it was the catalyst for facing the emotional baggage she had been trying to escape.

So here we are- Max in the hospital where his sister died and donated her organs, trying to find closure and Helen- weighed down by emotional baggage that she’s ready to face.

Tell Me One True Thing

Georgia and Max meet in the hospital where he works- her energy is light and energetic; their connection is fun and their first date is in the hospital cafeteria. From that scene, their banter is fun and flirty, but Max is relaxed – they both are, it’s an easy connection. When Max proposes, he does it by the hospital when he’s on call! He’s in his scrubs and not only does he think that’s okay- she thinks that’s okay.

Their relationship never really existed outside of his career, he never put her first, and she points this out when she finds out about the medical director job. She knows that he will not choose her over the hospital, especially not the hospital where Luna died. The thing is, Max doesn’t even really try. He never chooses her, and she never actually expects him to.

When he almost dies at the lake and has the temporary epiphany that he has to take his cancer seriously, she doesn’t advocate for him to leave his job- even though…he almost died. She knows the job still comes first. Georgia and Max’s relationship thrived on emotional distance- when Georgia begs him in her hospital bed to tell her one true thing- he could only say- I love you. While he and Helen debated his cancer treatment, her only input was going with what Max wanted? When he woke up from his minor tooth surgery, his first thought wasn’t how the surgery chain went, it was what helen said specifically.

I love my doctor

Before Helen, Max had likely never felt true intimacy and vulnerability. He had likely never been able to be himself completely with a partner. We don’t know much about his relationship with his parents, but we can deduce that he’s not close to them.

Although the physical chemistry was palpable from their first scene, Max and Helen built a friendship based on trust and honesty since they let each other in very early. This relationship was built with the best intentions but every relationship comes to a point where emotion supersedes emotion and that’s where we ended up at 1x 16 where the clairvoyant tells Max that he’s going to lose someone close to hum. As soon as she assured him that it wasn’t his wife, he pulls Helen aside to reassure her and try to explain how he feels about her ending by saying “I love my doctor”.IN THE MIDDLE OF TREATING A PATIENT IN THE MIDDLE OF A STORM WHILE MARRIED. At this point, both Max and Helen are at a crossroads of the undeniability of their connection, even though they are both too principled and respectful to call it anything other than “this thing between us”.

At the lake, when he goes to spread ashes for Luna, he says to her- or to the wind that he’s addressing as her- everything I do is because of you. I just keep trying to save you , over and over that’s all I do and I never, never will.

Now where did we end up hearing those EXACT words before?

In that moment, it’s Max admitting that he’s been consumed with emotions that are clouding his judgment and he has to let go.

When Helen uses those words in 2x16, the subtext is the same. By that time, she had saved his life and even Georgia’s life- multiple times. She even saved his life twice in one episode! She saved his life by taking on his cancer in the first place, she saved his life by choosing to pass him off to another doctor when he was using their relationship as an opportunity to not take his cancer seriously and she saved his life by making the decision for him to stop that treatment when it wasn’t working. She took on the role of deputy medical director- which let’s face it was more or less the medical director, she found him, not one but two trials, she gave up half her department that she loved more than anything. She gave up her romantic relationship- she meant it when she said everything I’ve done I’ve done for you- just like Max meant it when he said it to Luna. Max and Helen had have both poured themselves into people that couldn’t pour back, one because she was dead, and the other because he had too many warring emotions to deal with.

Helen could have let Max save her more- he definitely was willing to be that person and showed it many times, but we have to accept that she was in a very difficult position. Just as soon as she felt settled, started a new relationship, made a decision about freezing her eggs, she’s hit with a consuming, intimate relationship with someone that’s married. She had to leave some walls up.  

Everything I Do Is For You

Their characters have gone through a lot- Helen has a dead parent and a dead fiancée, fertility issues and a fear of vulnerability and the feeling of running out of time- Max has a dead wife, who he had outgrown emotionally, raising a child alone, battling with grandparents that blame him for their daughter’s death and parents that by all indications don’t play a significant role in his life, plus a dead sister he has carried with him his whole life. Finding each other was in many ways, the catalyst each of them needed to move forward with life at so many points. For Max, he could have very well died without Helen- Georgia could have died in the bedroom without Helen- his grieving process would definitely have been longer and more complicated without Helen – it wasn’t insignificant that she was the one that pushed the ghost of Georgia out of the apartment, she was an anchor through it all.

For Helen, she was pushed to come back to the hospital and by having that anchor to a place and her patients, she was able to explore romantic relationships and face her fertility and wanting a child head on, she was able to explore how much of herself she could give to another person again after Mohammed died and try another relationship. In turn, she was able to be in a different position when Mina came to live with her.

By Max receiving the kind of selfless love he had never gotten before (from the parts of his story we’ve been told), he was finally able to heal, from so much of the stuff he’d been carrying to come to a place where he feels able to match Helen’s energy. To come to a point where he’s able to see himself as a WHOLE person, not just a flawed one- not just a guilty one- not just an overworked or crazy or erratic one. The speech at the end of 3x13 to Luna’s parents showed just how far he’s come; how much he’s changed and how much his relationship with Helen has changed him. The confidence that he was enough as- is a Max that we had never seen before.

And Helen- naming them- before now, it’s always been Max with his double meanings  and his “I want to build something better for you and Mina” and “It helps not to be alone” and “I can’t do this without you”, but this time it’s Helen- Helen who is saying “us”- Helen who is putting them together as a family and is relaxed and comfortable doing so. Helen who isn’t simply giving him advice as a friend or listening to him but giving him advice as an anchor- we are here and we are fine and you need to fight for our family because it’s worth it.

I see you

The decon shower. His hand trailing down her neck. Those voicemails. Here they are finally, trying to get into an ADULT relationship. Moving beyond the cute hand holding and lingering looks, to hopefully many kisses, many distractions and many mornings waking up next to each other.

Sharpwin is coming and I’m ready!

[jonsa101]

Max Goodwin and Randall Pearson: The Well-Meaning, Incredibly Self-Centered Leading Men We’ve Grown to Love.

Hey fam! Like I said, I’ve been writing a ton of meta lately and this is another one that’s just been sitting in my drafts. It’s basically a This Is Us and a New Amsterdam meta which is something I haven’t done before but something I want do more of. In my Game of Thrones days I used to write a lot of meta about shows and characters that had similarities so this is fun for me. I hope y’all enjoy this. ALSO THIS HAS SPOILERS FOR BOTH SHOWS!!!!!!!

Without a doubt the two most popular shows on NBC is This is Us and New Amsterdam. And what’s not to love? They’re both emotionally driven, heartfelt, shows that focus on incredibly deep and complex topics. Though one show focuses on family dynamics and the other focuses on the healthcare system, these shows are very similar in more ways than one. Case in point, Max Goodwin and Randall Pearson. The more I watch these two shows, the more I realize how these two characters are so alike!!! These two men are kind-hearted, well intentioned, individuals who genuinely want to make some sort of positive difference. They are incredibly ambitious and always have “bright ideas” and “goals” they want to accomplish and somehow they’re able to meet those goals without ever having to sacrifice their wants and needs. By every definition these men are the “main characters” or the ultimate “protagonists.” These are the folks that we are supposed to root for. At the same time, though these men have many traits to be admired, when you truly look at it both of them can be incredibly self centered and selfish especially when it pertains to their romantic partners and love interests. No matter how appealing you make these characters out to be these men clearly fall under the Behind Every Great Man trope.

The Behind Every Great Man trope has been used countless of times throughout Cinema and TV History that I’m sure that I don’t even have to explain it to you but for the sake of this meta this is how it’s defined.

“Behind Every Great Man...stands an even greater woman! Or in about a hundred variations is a Stock Phrase referring to how people rarely achieve greatness without support structures that go generally unappreciated, and said support structure is a traditionally female role via being the wife, mother, or sometimes another relation. This trope is specifically about a man who is credited with something important, but owes much of his success to the woman in his life.”

This trope usually has a negative connotation (and rightfully so) because the man who often benefits from this is an asshole and unworthy of this type of support!

For example:

Oliva and Fitz

Cristina Yang and Burke

Cookie and Lucious

Ghost and Tasha

There are countless others but these are a few of the couples that come to mind for me. Randall and Max aren’t comparable to any of these men that are listed above but they are still operating under the same trope. It just looks nicer because Max and Randall are inherently good and inspirational. They are the heroes of the story. I would even argue and say that both men fall under the Chronic Hero Syndrome trope which is defined as

“Chronic Hero Syndrome is an "affliction" of cleaner heroes where for them, every wrong within earshot must be righted, and everyone in need must be helped, preferably by Our Hero themself. While certainly admirable, this may have a few negative side-effects on the hero and those around them. Such heroes could wear themselves out in their attempts to help everyone or become distraught and blame themselves for the one time that they're unable to save the day. Spending so much time and effort saving everyone else can also put a strain on the hero's personal or dating life.”

Just because Max and Randall have these incredibly inspiring aspirations, is it fair that their wives and love interests are always expected to rise to the occasion and support them. Is it ok for their partners to continuously sacrifice their wants and needs because they love these men? 

Let’s dive into it. 

Truth be told, Beth Pearson, Helen Sharpe and Georgia Goodwin had to endure a GREAT DEAL to emotionally support the dreams and aspirations of these men while sacrificing so much of themselves in the process. In media we often see women sacrificing so much of their wants and needs out of love for these male leads and rarely do men do the same thing for their romantic partners and love interests. All three of these women clearly fall under the Act of True Love trope defined as

“The Act of True Love proves beyond doubt that you are ready to put your loved one's interests before your own, that you are truly loyal and devoted to them. Usually this involves a sacrifice on your part, at the very least a considerable effort and/or a great risk. The action must be motivated, not by morals or principle or expectation of future reward, but by sheer personal affection.When your beloved is in dire need of your help, or in great danger, and you do something, at great expense to yourself, for the sake of their safety, their welfare, or their happiness, thus proving beyond any doubt that you put their interest ahead of yours.”

Over the past few seasons we have seen all three of these women truly live up to this trope without any true consequences or accountability from the men they’re making all these sacrifices for. For example, in Beth and Randall’s marriage, how many times did Randall spring an idea on Beth without truly talking to her or considering her wants first? Everyone thinks these two are an ideal couple but she has endured A LOT for Randall.

Randall has spontaneously quit his job, moved his dying biological dad into their home, bought his biological dad’s old apartment building, fostered and adopted a child and also ran for city councilman outside of his district. In all of these decisions, Randall “consulted” Beth about it but at the same time didn’t really consult her. In a way there has always been this expectation of Beth to just go along for the ride with what Randall wants. Is anyone else exhausted from reading that list?! That’s a lot for partner to endure and lovingly support. But Beth has endured and has been Randall’s rock through it all!!! What worries me is that the one time Beth spoke out about her wants and needs of pursuing dance again, he couldn’t match the same energy she was giving him and eventually it led to world war three between them. Though things are looking up in their relationship  and he’s starting to support her more, has Randall nearly given to Beth as much as she’s given to him? Absolutely not!

Similar to Randall, Max also had a wife who was a dancer. in fact, she was a prima ballerina. Unlike Randall and Beth, Max relationship with Georgia was rocky from the start. When we were first introduced to them Max and Georgia were separated and rightfully so. Georgia was never Max’s first priority. The hospital always came first in their relationship. He couldn’t even dedicate a full night to her for their proposal. In order to “save” their marriage they decide to have a baby and they both committed to taking a step back in their careers in order to do so. The problem was Max didn’t keep his side of their commitment and took a job to become the medical director at the biggest public hospital in the U.S. She gave up her career to start a family and he totally and completely betrayed her trust. So throughout season one we see them trying to rebuild their marriage but even in the midst of trying to rebuild a marriage based on trust and mutual respect Max still keeps things from Georgia. For several episodes he didn’t tell her that he had advance stages of throat cancer. He only told her when Georgia asked him to move back home. That’s fucked up! Then throughout their pregnancy he was never fully there for Georgia because he was either to preoccupied with the hospital or himself. At the end of it all, Georgia died tragically at the beginning of season two and really had nothing to show for it in her relationship with Max other than her daughter Luna.

Now let’s bring Helen Sharpe into the fold. While all of this stuff was going on with Max and his wife in season one, Max was developing a deep friendship, borderline emotional affair with Helen. Their relationship started out with Helen being his oncologist. As the new Medical Director of New Amsterdam, he swore Helen to secrecy about his diagnosis so that he could still run the hospital. Through that secrecy they eventually formed a deep bond but as his cancer got worse his secret was let out of the bag. He realistically needed someone to step up and run the hospital when he was going through chemo and though Helen already had commitments she stepped up and became his deputy medical director. Somewhere along the lines Max and Helen started developing feelings for each other. As Helen becomes aware of those feelings, she made a choice and decides to remove herself as Max’s doctor. He BITCHES about it but eventually accepts the boundary she’s clearly trying to set. Mind you, as this is unfolding, like Max, Helen is also in a new relationship with her boyfriend Panthaki. As Max’s cancer seems to be getting worse with his new doctor, she goes back on her boundary and decides to be his doctor again. This pisses her boyfriend off because he could already peep the vibe between them and he breaks up with her. When we get into season two, Max’s wife died and Helen set him up in a clinical trail (with a doctor she previously fired) that’s helping his cancer.  Unbeknownst to Max, this doctor ends up holding his life saving treatment plan over Helen’s head and in order for his treatment to continue she gives this doctor half of her department!

Helen has sacrificed a lot for Max and now in season three she’s finally prioritizing her current wants and needs first! Like Randall, Max is starting to turn a page and is starting to support Helen and truly listen to the wants and needs that she has. All of this is good but my question is did any of these women have to sacrifice so much for the men in their lives to get a clue?

Why is it that this is a trope we see in media time and time and time again? Even if these men are good, why don’t we still keep these male characters accountable when they put their significant others in these situations that are clearly not fair? I’ve watched countless tv shows and I’ve seen a lot of tv couples but I think I have only come across one couple where the male counterpart has selflessly loved his significant other and has always put her needs above his own. 

That character my friend is none other than PACEY WITTER

I might be mistaken but I think Joey and Pacey are the most popular ship in tv history and honestly, rightfully so! This is only example I can think of where the male in the relationship so willingly puts the wants and needs of his partner first. It is a completely selfless and sacrificial love. He never wants to hold her back and he never asks her to compromise her wants or needs for him. That’s why I think so many women love Pacey because in a sea of TV relationships, Pacey Witter is a fucking unicorn.

So to wrap this up does this mean that I hate Randall Pearson or Max Goodwin? No! I adore them. I love both of their characters so much. I just think that when we see the media continuously play out the sacrificial wife/love interest for the sake of their male counterparts, it should be called out. I’m all about sacrificial and selfless love but it should come from both sides.❤️❤️❤️

Anyway I hope y’all enjoy this! As always my DMs are opening here or on Twitter @oyindaodewale

[moon-light-jukebox]

Stay with me - [Hotch x Reader]

Request prompt: Heyyyyy I was wandering if you still took requests cause I’ve been dying to have this written. I’m thinking something about reader being youngest of the bunch at BAU and after a really intense and scary case everyone is kinda shook and in the jet reader can’t stop sobbing by herself in the back and hotch goes and comforts her and when they get home he goes with her home and holds her in her sleep and then they make love at like 3-4 am. I just need details and a lot of feels. I hope you’ll do it

Summary: After a tragic loss that rocks the entire team, Reader turns to her unit chief for comfort. 

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner / Fem!Reader

Word Count:  5.1k

Genre: Overwhelmingly angst. then some smut and fluff. 

Rating: Mature

Content Warning: Angst, mentions of torture suffered by a victim. Normal Criminal minds stuff. Smut. Oral sex (female receiving). Unprotected sex. 

A/n: I hope this is what you had in mind, Anon. This request just jumped out at me. This is set during season 9. 

-- Stay with me --

stay is a sensitive word. we wear who stayed and who left in our skin forever.

- Nayyirah Waheed

-- September 2, 2013 --

Some cases stick with you long after you board the jet home. Some cases crawl inside your skin and hollow you out. Some cases become a part of you.

The team had been called to Broken Arrow, Oklahoma to help catch a serial killer. I had only been a member of the BAU for 4 months, so it wasn’t uncommon for cases to still rattle me. Rossi said that I’d develop a thicker skin over time.

But this case seemed to even rattle him.

Over the past 15 years, on the same day every year, a woman’s body was found in a public place. She had been violently assaulted and tortured. The local M.E. always said the torture took place over the span of at least 10 months.

I felt my stomach roll when I read over the case file. I don’t think there was a form of pain he didn’t inflict on these women.

We had his prints; we had his DNA. None of that mattered, this man was a ghost.

September 1st had been fast approaching, and the local police knew they most likely couldn’t save the woman that had already spent the last several months with him. One deputy said that killing the woman would be a mercy, because “who could ever recover from that.”

We spent a week in Oklahoma; we started at the very beginning. I poured over the lives of 15 women, praying that maybe I could help us find 16 in time, praying I could save 17 before he ever touched her.

-- August 30, 2013 –

“Morgan,” Hotch said, his eyes scanning over the document in front of him. “I want you and y/n to interview Heather Pruitt’s brother.”

Derek’s eyebrows went up. “We’ve already talked to him, Hotch. He has an alibi. Do you think he knows something else?”

The unit chief nodded. “Heather was our first victim. She was important to the unsub.”

“Probably the most important,” Rossi chimed in.

Hotch nodded. “Understanding why Heather was so special to him is how we catch him.”

Morgan clicked his tongue against his teeth, nodding in agreement. “Okay…” he trailed off. “Are you sure y/n is up for this?” He turned to me; hands raised. “No offense, it’s just that…”

“I’m young,” I finished for him. Dr. Spencer Reid was the youngest person to ever join the BAU…and I was the second. I was 25 years old. The closest person in age to me was the resident genius, Dr. Reid, who was almost 32. I had earned my spot in the team, but I was no Spencer.

Morgan nodded, not looking abashed in the slightest. “Maybe Blake would be a better choice, Hotch.”

His dark eyes ran over me, considering Morgan’s words. “I’m sending her in because she’s so young. People don’t perceive her as a threat.”

“They never saw me as one,” Spencer said softly.

JJ laughed, swatting his arm. “You’re still not a threat, Spence.”

-- August 31, 2013 –

“Mr. Pruitt,” I said brightly, extending my hand. “Thank you so much for coming to speak with us.”

The older man nodded, meeting my gaze evenly. “Anything to help you catch this son of a bitch.” He turned to the woman beside him. “Rachel, darlin’, why don’t you wait right here? I don’t want you to have to…hear about what happened to my sister.”

The woman, Rachel, was small and pale. She had dark brown hair and blue eyes. “Of course,” she said softly, pressing a kiss against David Pruitt’s mouth.

"Do you need anything, ma'am?" I asked her.

“No,” she responded meekly. “I’m fine.”

I looked right into her eyes and smiled warmly at her before I turned away to follow Morgan and Mr. Pruitt into the interview room.

-- September 1, 2013 –

The entire team was standing around the precinct waiting for the call. JJ was gripping her cup of coffee tightly. Reid was staring at a map that was taped on the evidence board. Morgan was looking down at his phone while he talked to Blake. Hotch and Rossi were standing near the Sherriff of Broken Arrow.

We hadn’t stopped him. If he held to pattern, then victim 16 was already gone, and we’d be getting a call about her body soon.

I felt numb. I felt like I had missed something.

The shrill ringing of a phone made all of us tense up, every head in the precinct immediately turning to the receptionist at the front of the room. She spoke for a few moments before she hung up, giving the sheriff a grim nod. “She’s at the park off 6th street, Bruce.”

We all sprang into action, racing out the door to our vehicles. Morgan drove one SUV, Hotch drove the other. We knew we were too late for this girl, but maybe, just maybe, if we got there quick enough and the crime scene was fresh enough, we could find something.

The local police beat us there by a few minutes. Hotch hadn’t even parked before I was opening the door.

I couldn’t explain it then, but I had a feeling that settled in the pit of my stomach. It was a darkness I couldn’t pinpoint, the sort of thing that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

She was on a park bench, her eyes wide and unseeing. “No,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Morgan sighed out before he turned and marched back to his SUV.  

I felt someone’s hands grip my shoulders. “Y/l/n,” Hotch said gently. “I know, but we have to go. He’s revealed himself now. He’s going to try to run.”

And I knew he was right, so I bottled my feelings up as I ran towards the SUVs. We had to find David Pruitt before he left town.

He was our unsub. He killed his sister 16 years ago…and we were certain of that because the 16th victim was his girlfriend.

The same girlfriend that was within our reach yesterday. She was being tortured by this animal…and we had let her go home with him.

-- September 2, 2013 –

The mood on the jet felt heavy. No one was speaking, no one had said much of anything since we found Mary Beth in the park yesterday morning.

Her name wasn’t even Rachel. David Pruitt had to take everything from his victims, including their names. He broke her so badly that not only did she not scream for help in the middle of a police station, she probably couldn’t even remember her own name.

I couldn’t read the entire autopsy report. Rossi and Morgan went to the morgue to speak with the M.E.

Rossi said he was surprised she was even able to stand the day we saw her.

And that was the hardest thing of all. We fucking saw her.

I wasn’t quite sure how the rest of the team managed to keep their emotions so compartmentalized. I saw how this was bothering each of them, but none of them seemed close to breaking.

Not like I was.

I just kept seeing her face over and over again. Her wide eyes, her polite smile. The pictures of her broken body. How different her eyes looked when she was on the park bench. It was all on a loop in my mind.

When we boarded the jet, I sat in the very back, away from the rest of the team. I stared out the window, unseeing. How could I have missed it?

“Y/l/n,” a voice said softly. “Are you okay?”

I hadn’t realized that tears were slipping down my cheeks until I heard Hotch’s voice. I looked up at him. He was my unit chief, the strongest of any of us. If there was anyone I couldn’t afford to break in front of, it was him.

“Yeah,” I said hurriedly, wiping at my eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, y/n.”

I just nodded. Please leave, please leave. If he walked away, maybe I could hold it together a little while longer.

But he didn’t leave. He knelt down beside me in the middle of the aisle. In the months since I joined the BAU, I had made sure to never get too close to SSA Hotchner. There was something about him that fascinated me…and I knew he was a good enough profiler to see it, because I wasn’t skilled enough to hide it.

This was the closest I'd ever physically been to him. I was close enough to notice that his eyes weren’t a flat shade of brown; they were a warm chocolate brown and he had freckles across the bridge of his nose.

“Y/n,” he said softly, reaching out to take one of my hands in his larger one. “It’s okay. This isn’t your fault. This is the job; we can’t save them all.”

“But I saw her,” I whispered, feeling the dam break inside of me. “I talked to her.”

Hotch must have realized I was already too far gone to hold myself together anymore. I just kept seeing her eyes, over and over and over.

He stood abruptly, pulling me up with him. He led me into the back area near the restroom. There was a small countertop here, but most importantly, there was a curtain that could be pulled closed, giving us all the privacy anyone could get on this plane.

I stared up at him in bewilderment while he closed the curtain. By the very nature of the area and given how big he was, our bodies were much closer together than I had ever allowed.

“I know you won’t break down in front of everyone else,” he said quietly. “You still feel like you have something to prove. You don’t, but I understand why you feel that way. You’re a part of this team, y/n.”

I dug my teeth into my bottom lip, holding on to the last threads of my composure.

“Now, I can leave you here and you can pull yourself together,” he continued. “Or I can stay with you.”

This was one of the reasons I hadn’t allowed myself to be near him. There was something in Hotch’s eyes when he looked at me that always made me feel so safe. He was always fierce with a scowl on his face; occasionally he’d surprise me with his dry humor.

I hadn’t known his eyes could look so soft and it pulled on something inside me.  

“I was so close I could have touched her,” I whispered. “And he…he…” I broke off as the first sob ripped out of my throat. Mary Beth was 23 years old. She had a younger brother and two loving parents. Her best friend, Anna, wore Mary Beth’s favorite necklace around her neck. None of them had given up hope.

And I had let her go home with him to die.

I had to watch when her parents got the news that we were so close, but he broke her too badly, she never cried out for help.

I closed my eyes to stop the tears from slipping down my cheeks, desperately trying to pull myself together.

My heart hurt so badly I barely reacted when Hotch’s arms wrapped around me, pulling me against him. I just buried my face against his chest while he rubbed my back. I was taking the comfort he offered, even though I didn’t deserve it. I was vaguely aware of him whispering against my hair, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying.

I failed her.

It took a few minutes for my tears to slow. I was able to bottle my pain back up again and take a few breaths. My arms were trapped between our bodies and when I went to pull them free, Hotch started to release me, no doubt assuming I wanted to end our embrace.

I didn’t.

I took a step forward when he took one back, wrapping my arms around his middle, pressing my cheek against his shirt that I just realized was damp from my tears. “Is this okay?” I whispered.

He had frozen for a moment before his arms tightened around me again. “Of course, sweet girl.”

I was just so content to be in his arms that I didn’t even process the term of endearment. “I got your shirt wet.”

“It’ll dry.”

I hummed against him, still so reluctant to let him go. “You smell nice, Hotch.”

He chuckled quietly. “Thanks. And given our current situation, you can call me Aaron.”

I nodded; my thoughts still somber. “I let her down. I let her go. I could have touched her.”

His hands kept rubbing over my back. “You’ve never let anyone down,” he murmured. “Not even for a single moment.”

--

Aaron didn’t feel like my boss when his arms were wrapped around me. He was just a man who held me for as long as I had needed before finally releasing me, offering me a small smile when I moved int the bathroom to try and fix my face.  

I don’t know what he said to each team member, but none of them paid any attention to me when I walked out. They weren’t ignoring me, they just seemed unaware of what happened, even though I knew they weren’t.

Whatever he had done, I was immensely grateful.

It was just after 10 pm when the jet touched down in Quantico.

“Go home,” Hotch said as we all grabbed our go bags. “The paperwork can wait til tomorrow.”

Rossi clapped our unit chief on the shoulder. “This one was a hard one. I know it’s painful, but we can’t save them all.”

But why couldn’t I just save her? I thought.

When we were walking off the tarmac, Morgan spoke. “Kid, lemme give you a lift home. It’s not far.”

Reid’s brows drew together in confusion. “Yes, it is. You live on the other side of town.”

"Just let me do something nice for you, smartass."

Their banter almost pulled a smile from me, but I couldn’t. Everything still felt so heavy.

“What about you, y/l/n?” JJ asked.

It wasn’t a secret that I took the train like Reid did. I’d only lived in D.C. for the four months I’d been a member of the team. Reid didn’t drive because of car crash statistics; I didn’t drive because I hadn’t gotten around to getting a car.

“The train is still running. Which is probably good,” I muttered to her. “It’ll give me time to think.”

She just nodded, giving my arm a squeeze as we all walked into the bullpen to gather the things we had left before the case.

I stayed in the bullpen longer than everyone else. It’s not that I didn’t love them, I truly did. But I just…I couldn’t be brave right now.

“I know it’s not my place, but I really don’t want you to take the train home.”

My lips pulled into a smile then, even though I couldn’t bring myself to face him. “It’s no big deal, Hotch. I’m a full-grown FBI agent. I’ll be fine taking the train home.”

“You might be,” he conceded. “But I won’t be.”

“What?” I questioned, unable to stop my body from turning towards him.

Hotch stepped closer to me, looking slightly unsure. “I…I’ll be worried.”

His words felt important, and I realized the thought of him worrying bothered me.

He heaved out a great sigh, his eyes looked so tired. “Jack’s already in bed, Jessica is staying with him tonight. Please, let me take you home.”

How could I tell him no?

--

The ride back to my apartment was quiet. Hotch seemed to know where I lived without me having to tell him. He had turned the radio on in his SUV, but the volume was so low it was just background noise.

I watched the raindrops roll down the passenger side window and all I could think about was Mary Beth. I wonder if she liked the rain.

“Don’t do that.”

My entire body froze before I turned to look at the man in the car with me. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are,” he insisted. “Y/n, you did all you could. This isn’t on you. We were all in that precinct. I offered her my hand when she left the station.” His hands were now gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

“Aaron,” I whispered, reaching out to put my hand on his forearm.

“If you blame yourself, you’ll have to blame me too.”

Tears started to fill my eyes again. I didn’t know what to say. “I couldn’t blame you.”

I saw his throat work as he swallowed, his eyes fixed on the building in front of us. I hadn’t even realized we had pulled into my apartment complex.  

“Then you know why I can’t let you blame yourself.” He killed the engine and took his seatbelt off.

“What are you doing?”

He looked at me in confusion, like it should be obvious. “I’m walking you to your door.”

Oh. “Why?”

Aaron paused, considering his next words. “Because I can’t leave you yet.”

He was out of the car and opening my door before my brain could even process his words. I slid out beside him, clutching my jacket around myself. It didn’t help, the chill I felt was coming from inside of my body.

Aaron pulled my go-bag from the back seat then shrugged me off when I tried to take it from him.

Despite all the emotions I was feeling, I couldn’t resist teasing him a bit. “Are you secretly a gentleman, Aaron Hotchner?”

He looked sheepish for a moment. My mean ass, always scowling FBI unit chief that intimidated almost everyone on a daily basis looked sheepish because I called him a gentleman.

“Just don’t tell anyone,” he warned, shutting the car door.

I felt a tiny smile tug up the corners of my lips. The first smile I’d felt since…

Just like that, the guilt hit me again. How could I be smiling?

We had just reached my apartment door when a tiny sob ripped out of my throat.  “Aaron…I can’t stop seeing what he did to her. She was in pain. And she-she fought back. She didn’t want to…and I can’t.”

“Oh, sweetheart don’t do that.” He dropped my go bag and wrapped his arms around me, once again offering me the comfort I didn't deserve.

The only time I had felt right in the past few days was when I was in this man’s arms. My question slipped out of my mouth before I had a chance to think better of it. “Will you stay with me?” I whispered against his chest.

I felt his body stiffen. Fuck. I pulled away from him, quickly wiping at my face. “I’m sorry, Hotch. You’ve got Jack and you’re my boss. It’s inappropriate. I’m so sorry.”

My hands were shaking when I reached to pick up my go-bag from the floor.

“Y/n, it’s not that I don’t want to,” he explained, his hand grabbing mine right before I touched my bag. “It’s not Jack, he went to be hours ago. But I am your supervisor, and I can’t take advantage of you.”

His words hung in the air, feeling almost as heavy as the pain in my chest. “The only time I feel anything good is when I’m with you, Aaron.”

My eyes were fixed on his bigger hand that engulfed mine, but I felt his eyes on me.

“I don’t think I could leave you now even if I wanted to,” he mumbled.

My keys shook when I unlocked the door and once we were inside my tiny apartment, the gravity of everything finally seemed to hit me.  

"I can leave, y/n," he reminded me as if he could tell what I was thinking.

I licked my lips, looking around the room before I could look at him. “I want you to stay,” I pleaded, trying to summon every ounce of courage I had ever felt. “I know it’s not…I’m sure it breaks a million regulations and protocols. But…can you stay with me tonight? I just…I don’t want to be alone.”

What I was asking him for was so much more complicated than just spending the night at my apartment. I think we both knew that if he stayed something was going to change.

“Are you sure it’s what you want?”

I nodded, my eyes never leaving his.

--

I was sitting up in my bed, picking at the threads of my comforter when Aaron got out of the shower. He’d insisted I shower first while he went to grab his go bag and call Jack’s aunt. I felt the energy around me shift the moment he stepped into the room.  

“Are you okay?”

I bit my lip, unsure of how to answer him. "I don't know." I looked up, my eyes meeting his dark ones. "Can-can you stay with me? Just for a little while?"

For a moment I thought he might say no, but his shoulders dropped, and he jerked his head in a tight nod. “Of course.”

He came around to the right side of my bed, looking torn for a moment before I pulled the covers down, indicating I wanted him to get under. I laid my body down while he adjusted himself on to my bed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not in a suit,” I mused, motioning to his t-shirt with a faded FBI logo and his flannel pajama pants.

He scoffed, pulling the covers up to his abdomen. “It’s a rare occurrence.” He had settled on his back, one of his arms bent behind his head, the other one resting on his abdomen.

“Aaron,” I breathed out. “Can I…will you…I don’t want to-“

“Hey,” he said, bringing my attention back to him. “You can ask me anything, y/n.”

“Will you hold me?” I begged, my voice breaking in my effort to suppress my emotions.  

My eyes were shut tight, so I didn’t see the look of agony that washed over Aaron’s face. I only felt his body shift closer to mine before his arms came around me again, bringing me flush against his side.

At that moment, even though I felt terrible about myself, I found some solace in the fact that a man like Aaron Hotchner wouldn’t be holding me like this if I were truly a monster.

His big hand ran up and down my back while my head lay on his chest; I was taking comfort from everything about him, his smell, the feel of him holding me, even the steady beating of his heart under my ear.

I made no move to pull away from him; it was selfish, but I couldn’t let him go.

“Thank you for staying,” I whispered into the darkness. Right before I fell asleep, I think I felt his lips brush against my forehead.

--

Several hours later my eyes snapped open when my body jerked suddenly. The instant my eyes were open the nightmare was gone, I could barely remember any of it, not that I needed to. What else could it have been about?

“Hey,” a voice rasped out. “Are you okay?”

I realized I was still in Aaron’s arms. My head was still on his chest, one of his arms was wrapped around my body.

He had stayed with me.

“Yeah, I think so. Just a nightmare.”

He hummed in understanding. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t think I can.”

Aaron’s arm tightened around me. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

My fingers traced nonsense patterns over his chest, my mind racing. I felt so incredibly young then. I was lost in a sea of guilt and despair, and my only anchor was Aaron Hotchner.

It was easier to ask him in the darkness of my bedroom. “Do you feel this too?” I whispered.

The stillness that overtook his body indicated he knew what I meant. “Y/n…I...”

I lifted my head off of his chest, looking down at his face. “If I’m wrong, it’s okay to tell me.”

I saw those dark brown eyes scan over my face; I saw the indecision behind them. “I’ve felt it for a long time,” he said at last. “But you’re hurting, and I’m your-“

I brought a finger up to press against his lips, effectively silencing him. "Then make me not hurt. Please?" The finger I had on his lips started tracing the shape of them, over his cupid's bow, down to his fuller bottom lip.

With an amount of courage that I didn’t know I had, I pushed myself up, swinging my leg over his body. I leaned over his face bringing my lips so close to his. “Please,” I whispered against his lips. Just be with me. Be here with me, Aaron.”

I felt his self-control crumble a moment before one of his hands gripped my hip while the other slid behind the back of my head. He pulled me down until my lips were against his.

If I had allowed myself to think about kissing Aaron Hotchner before, this wouldn’t have been what I expected. His lips were gentle as the brushed against mine, his tongue wasn’t demanding when it slid against the seam of my mouth, his thumb brushed over my cheek while his tongue slicked against mine.

I was the one that broke our sweet kiss to pull my shirt from my body. Baring myself to him this way was nothing compared to how much of my soul he’d already seen. Those dark brown eyes were filled with heat when they ran over my body, his large hands felt reverent when they brushed over my skin.

He rolled us until I was on my back underneath him. Aaron kissed down the column of my throat, down over my collarbones until he reached my breasts. His mouth felt almost scalding when it covered my nipple. I arched up against him, a strangled moan tore from my throat when his blunt fingers slid into my panties.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered against my skin while he trailed wet kisses down my stomach. “Can I?” he asked when he reached the band of my sleep shorts and panties.

If I had had any doubts that I wanted Aaron Hotchner, that question would have gotten rid of them. I was begging him to take me, to make me feel anything other than the pain in my chest…and he still needed to make sure I wanted this.

I hooked my thumbs into my waistband, pulling them down while those almost black eyes ran over every inch of newly exposed skin. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” I rasped out.

He reached behind his back to grab the neck of his t-shirt, pulling it off of his body. Before I could blink, he had settled between my thighs, his mouth right above where I ached for him. “I can’t believe I get to touch you like this.”

Any response I would have made was broken off by a loud groan when his tongue parted my folds. His tongue circled my clit before moving down to dip inside of me. The moan that vibrated against me when he tasted me was the sexist thing I had ever heard.

I couldn’t feel anything but him.

My fingers threaded through his hair while his mouth worked me over. It didn’t feel like this was the first time we had been together like this. He touched me like he had known me for years.

But I needed more.

“Aaron,” I whimpered, my fingers tugging on his short dark hair. His eyes snapped open, but his mouth didn’t lift from my pussy. “I need to feel you inside me. Please?”

He pressed a final kiss to my pussy before he pulled away, moving up my body. Before he settled against me, he pushed his pants and underwear down his thighs. I felt how hard he was, how much he wanted this, against my pussy while his upper body loomed over me. One of my hands pulled him down to me, crashing his mouth against mine; with the other I reached down to grab his cock, running it up and down my slit.

Aaron moaned into my mouth when I lined him up and he started to press inside of me. He gave a few swallow thrusts, allowing my body to adjust to his size before he slid all the way inside of me.

I had never had sex like this before. Sometimes in the past, it had felt like I was just loaning my body out to someone, taking whatever pleasure I got in return. This felt so different. Aaron moved against me like he needed me, his lips ran over my skin like being allowed to touch me was a gift.

He set a steady rhythm, his hips moving against mine in just the right way. He was kissing my neck, moaning my name against my skin when he brought his thumb down to my clit, massaging me while he moved against me.

“Aaron,” I breathed.

His mouth was against mine again. "I've got you, sweet girl, I've got you."

My nails dug into his back, my body arched against him, and my mouth opened in a silent scream when I flew apart underneath him. His head dropped down against my shoulder as he found his own release inside of me.

Aaron’s big body was settled on top of me, but he didn’t feel crushing, it felt safe.

When we had both started to come down from our orgasms, he rolled us against until I was on top of his body, my head on his chest. He pulled the covers over our bodies and pressed a kiss against the top of my head.

“What happens in the morning?” I whispered out.

His head turned to look at the clock on my bedside table. “It’s technically morning now.”

“You know what I mean.”

I felt him nod. “What do you want to happen?”

I lifted my head up, my eyes meeting his dark coffee-colored ones. "Will you stay with me?"

His hand raised to cradle my face again, pulling me down to press the softest, sweetest kiss against my lips. “For as long as you want.”

--

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[jjofalltrades]

WOLF HUNT:

Gendry stared at the framed photo on his desk of the makeshift wolf pack at the height of their friendship. He usually kept it tucked away in a locked drawer, but today another ghost from his past decided to linger on his mind. The smell of buttered popcorn and cotton candy forced his eyes to close. Beneath his eyelids, the quiet office transformed into a blistering hot summer day. Crowds of people brushed against his bare shoulders, invisible to everyone around him: everyone but the people who mattered most.

"Sleepin' on the job, Bull," he felt the sharp slap to his shoulder before he opened his eyes. Lommy took a seat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Dressed to the nines and nowhere to go," the blond teenager winked. "Think you could hook a guy up?"

A knock on the closed office door interrupted Gendry before he could respond. His friend looked over his shoulder and faked a grimace. "Uh-oh, the po-po," Lommy chuckled and turned to face the older man. He disappeared when Brienne stepped inside; a concerned curiosity marred her features.

"Mr. Baratheon," she greeted him as her gaze inspected the empty room, "you called me."

He continued to stare at the sat where the blond teenager sat moments ago. When she repeated his name, he blinked and turned his attention. "Yes, I-" Gendry glanced at the seat again. Brienne followed, entering the room slowly to investigate the chair. "I need you to find someone for me. Get as much information about them as you can."

"Is this another sibling?" She kicked the office door closed with her foot and removed a notepad from her jacket pocket.

"No," he whispered, which had his bodyguard pausing to look back up at him. Gendry swallowed, putting the framed photo away. "No, it's someone I used to know. He passed some years ago..." HELLO: Arya waited outside the sheriff's vehicle outside the latest victim's residence while he spoke to the others. She remembered the house belonged to an older man at one point and, perhaps, a little girl. When her parents were alive, they often drove by this house on their way to the sept. Now that she recalled, didn't the door used to be a bright red? Arya's grey eyes stared at the blue-painted front door, willing it to shift colors. It always stood out once the snow came. Though, if she remembered correctly, the color red contrasted beautifully with the lemon trees on either side of the entrance.

Sansa would be glued to the back seat window enviously every time they drove past. Disappointment scratched at her insides when neither lemon tree stood proudly. What had happened to the older man and the little girl?

Eventually, the sheriff saddled beside her. "We got any ID on the victim. Dr. Illyrio Mopatis, some head shrink for the vets who came home after the war." Gendry scratched at the fuzzies on his cheek. Apparently, he hadn't the time to shave this morning. "Think I remember Jon mentioning him after he got back."

Arya hadn't been available when Jeyne Poole was discovered. The medical examiner took in a deep breath, toying with the strap of her leather bag on her shoulder. This was technically her first crime scene. Her dancing nerves weren't made any better when a couple of deputies barely made it to the bushes and lost their breakfast.