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pr1ncessm00n · 3 years

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for sale or wanted — jean kirstein x fem! reader

series masterlist

prev | next , part two

warnings: cursing, porco being toxic lol. dates are wrong once again sorry !!

[ playlist : love again - dua lipa ]

eight.

Half asleep and ready to go to bed, Y/N fell back into her bed. She picked up her phone, hoping to mindlessly scroll through some TikToks. Instead, she was met with two messages. Audibly gasping as she read Porco’s name, she dropped her phone, hitting herself in the face in the process. “Ow!”

Porco? Y/N thought incredulously. What the hell does he want?

Contemplating asking Ymir and Sasha for advice, Y/N then decided against it. This was her life, she couldn’t expect her friends to guide her though it. But God, was she such a coward when it came to Porco. It wasn’t like he was Prince Charming, but Y/N had an extreme loyalty complex. She couldn’t ever allow herself to let go of people. Porco used to berate her for that constantly.

Why are you so clingy? He would ask.

Who’s the clingy one now? Y/N thought bitterly. She decided to ignore Porco’s text until she could think of a reply that wasn’t along the lines of “No, fuck you.” She slid her thumb over to Jean’s message.

Great. Another text asking to talk. Why couldn’t people just send their question and save a girl the anxiety? Y/N scolded herself for allowing her egotistical ex to ruin her mood. Jean didn’t deserve her snappiness.

Jean sighed in relief. Thank God she replied. He didn’t know if he could handle the mortification if she didn’t.

Y/N pondered for a bit.

Y/N laughed quietly to herself. So Jean could in fact match her sense of humor. She exited out of their chat, mindlessly scrolling through social media. She actively avoided Porco’s message, not wanting to burden herself with the chore of responding to him. What could he possibly have to say? She headed to Twitter, hopefully finding something relatable to retweet. As Y/N scrolled, she saw a familiar face appear on her timeline.

Recommended for you from contacts, the header read. Below it was about 3 profiles of people in her contacts she had not followed yet. Among them, was Jean.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Should I? She questioned. Would she be overstepping some unspoken boundary? What if she hurt her own feelings by stalking and seeing something she wouldn’t like/had no business seeing? Maybe she should just ignore it. She doubted Jean was some internet creep… but wouldn’t it be good to know if he was? Curiosity getting the better of her, Y/N decided to invade that boundary and look at his account.

He didn’t have much content from what Y/N could see. He just retweeted fancy cars and some funny memes. She spotted Connie, Sasha’s lifelong friend and Jean’s infamous roomie. She mentally hoped Jean didn’t tweet like Connie. That would be the ultimate ick.

Y/N’s thumb stopped scrolling, hovering over a tweet. Her heart beated ten times more rapidly.

well she is pretty lol, Jean’s tweet read. Tweeted just an hour after he met Y/N.

Could it be? Y/N wondered. No way. There’s no way it’s about me. I’m just jumping to conclusions. Why would he say that about me? I’m just being self absorbed.

She brushed off her inquiries, deciding to just stop stalking his account entirely. From what she already saw, there wasn’t anything suspicious or icky enough to make her want to not interact with him. And she was already paranoid, so every tweet she saw she would begin to assume it was about her as well. She was just getting her hopes up.

Rolling over on her side, Y/N placed her phone to charge and went to sleep. It was late, which was probably what was causing her mind to become fuddled.

——

“You should’ve told me Sasha’s third roomie was Y/N,” Reiner had said to Jean in the truck. “I totally blindsided her. Top ten worst encounters of my life.”

“Uh, care to enlighten me? Do you guys have beef or something?” Jean asked, perusing the radio stations.

Reiner sighed. “She’s dating- was dating- my childhood friend, Porco.”

Jean felt his stomach drop. “Oh.”

Reiner glanced at him before stopping at a red light. “I said dating. He dumped her like a week ago. It was pretty trash.”

Jean secretly felt more at peace hearing that. Poor Y/N, but.. she could probably do better than this Porco person.

“So what does that have to do with you?” Jean asked.

Reiner shrugged. “I guess I didn’t really help. She said she felt a little betrayed. Like I agreed with Porco and my friends that she’s the crazy one.”

Jean nodded. “So you were a bystander.”

Reiner sighed again, tilting his head in an I guess motion. “It’s just hard. Porco’s like my brother, and I don’t agree with how he acted… but maybe I should have spoken up sooner.”

Jean patted his shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, man. That was between them.”

“Yeah. I could have at least told Porco to step it up, though.” Reiner murmured.

I’m glad you didn’t. Jean snickered to himself.

“So, you think she’s cute?” Reiner shot Jean a devilish grin. Jean rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess. You goin’ to Historia’s birthday?” He slyly changed the subject.

“Is it open invite?” Reiner’s eyebrows scrunched up.

Jean shrugged. “I have an invite. Maybe you can be my plus one.”

Reiner made a “Hmm” sound in response, weary at Jean’s invite. “What are you dressing as if you go?”

“I was thinking swag era Justin Bieber.” Jean replied, smiling widely.

Reiner gave him a look. “You for real?”

Jean’s smile dropped. “What?”

Reiner laughed. “I’d pay money to see how badly you embarrass yourself with that.”

“It’s a 2000’s party?” Jean was confused.

“Yeah, but everyone does like, early 2000s. Think Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake.”

Jean shot him a curious look.

“What? Pop culture is my guilty pleasure.” Reiner explained himself. “And everyone knows Britney Spears.”

Jean hummed in response. “I just think you got a thing for pop girls.” He referenced the earlier Becky G mishap.

“I’m not even gonna deny it anymore.” Reiner agreed, defeated.

——

“Guys,” Y/N said the next morning. Ymir and Sasha were at the breakfast “nook” (a corner of their miniature kitchen designated for a small table that barely fit all three of them), Sasha eating cereal and Ymir chomping on an apple while scrolling on her phone. “Porco texted me last night.”

Ymir continued scrolling, unfazed. Sasha’s eyes widened and she swallowed her food before speaking. “What? Why?” Y/N glared at Ymir.

“Thanks for your interest YMIR, but as i was telling Sasha-“

“I’m Sasha.” Sasha cut in, obviously confused.

Y/N gave Sasha a look.

“Did you say something?” Ymir said, bored. She still hadn’t looked up from her phone.

“Ymir!” Sasha scolded. “Y/N’s telling us Porco texted her!”

“Who’s Porco?” Ymir replied, monotonous.

Y/N sighed in exasperation. “Are you stalking Eren again? I already told you to stop comparing your subscribers-“

“I’m not stalking Eren!” Ymir snapped defensively. “I’m…” She mumbled the next part incoherently.

“Huh?” Sasha and Y/N asked in unison.

“I SAID,” Ymir repeated, annoyed. “I’m looking up Britney Spears outfits. Historia wanted us to go as different eras of her. But I can’t find anything that matches my style.” She grumbled.

Y/N’s heart melted. It was adorable watching Ymir struggle to find a matching costume for Historia. It was like Marilyn Manson wanting to get along with a CareBear.

“Just go as JT,” Sasha said, chewing her cereal.

“One, close your mouth, and two, Historia asked for us to go as Brittney. I can’t just show up like a dude.” Ymir visibly deflated as she scrolled through countless pictures of a younger Spear’s iconic looks.

“Why don’t you try her bandanna phase? That wasn’t so over the top, and she wore mostly jeans.” Y/N suggested as she squeezed into the corner chair.

Ymir sighed. “I don’t want to wear a skirt or some bimbo shit. That’s y’alls look.”

“How do you manage to sound endearing trying to please your girlfriend while simultaneously insulting us?” Y/N wondered aloud.

“It’s a talent.” Ymir waved her off. “What did you guys get her though?”

“A giftcard to Urban Outfitters,” Sasha replied. “I got tired of searchin’. I put $50 on it. I think that should be enough for like, a shirt and a half. She better like it, too. ‘Cus I’m broke.” Sasha pointed her spoon at Ymir accusingly.

“I got her the Taylor Swift vinyl she’s been wanting. And some pink film for her camera.” Y/N added. Ymir nodded approvingly.

“I hope she likes my gift. I don’t know if I’m moving too fast though?” For the first time since Y/N mer Ymir, Y/N hadn’t ever seen her this distraught.

“Calm down,” Y/N reassured her. “You’ve been together for years now. I don’t think you can move any slower.”

Ymir rolled her eyes, leaning back im her chair with arms crossed. “It’s a small trip to Seoul. I know she’s been dying to go. It’s not like it’s anything she hasn’t seen before with her family… but I figure it’d be different with just us.” Y/N’s heart melted.

“That’s so sweet!” Sasha exclaimed, eyes watery. “I want an Ymir!”

“Well, you can’t have me!” Ymir laughed. “It’s not a big deal. The sponsorship I managed to land gave me a decent payout.” Ymir sheepishly replied, her cheeks a faint red

Y/N nudged her. “Look at you, being modest.”

Ymir waved her hand. “Shut up. How does this look?” She turned her phone to Y/N, showing a picture of Britney Spears clad in low waist jeans, a black tank top and sure enough, a yellow bandanna.

“That’s perfect.”

Ymir smirked, smug. “Just like me.”

“Y/N!” Sasha shouted. “Go back to the Porco thing!”

“Oh, yeah. What did Oinky want?” The girls turned to face Y/N, who shrank a bit back in her seat.

“That’s a new one,” Y/N chuckled. “I thought of one last night, too,” She paued for dramatic effect. “Porker!” She gasped out, giggling, hitting the table in a slight fit of laughter. Sasha and Ymir gave Y/N a blank stare, unamused at Y/N’s mediocre roast.

“Not funny, didn’t laugh.” Sasha spat.

“If your career was stand up you’d be living in a box.” Ymir deadpanned.

“Tough crowd,” Y/N sighed, wiping imaginary tears from her eyes. “But if you must know…” She purposely stalled a bit, knowing it would send an impatient, jittery Sasha over the edge and annoy Ymir even more, even if she pretended she was not interested in the relationship drama between Y/N and her disgraced ex.

“Just say it already!” Sasha begged.

“I…don’t know. I haven’t responded.” Y/N finally admitted, putting her head in her hands. “I just-“ Her words were muffled by her hands.

Ymir removed her hands from her face. “Your words, darling.” She scolded, voice oozing sarcasm.

“Ugh,” Y/N groaned. “I’m too pussy to respond. He just asked if we could talk. What could he possibly want? What if he wants the couch? It’s just too much.”

Sasha gave her a sympathetic gaze. “Just leave him on read! If he wants to talk so badly he’ll find a way to say what he needs to.”

“For once, I agree.” Ymir added.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Y/N stretched. “But it did keep me up at night wondering what he wanted.”

“Y/N, forget him! Historia’s party is soon, there’s no time to worry about ugly men!” Sasha stood up, rushing to put her bowl in the sink. “I got a lecture in a few, but you need to find your costume! We’re all going as Britney!” She said before disappearing into her room.

“Um, who’s gonna tell her we’re not all dressing as Britney?” Ymir inquired.

Y/N snorted. “Not I. I’m probably going as Suki from Fast and the Furious.”

“Niiceee,” Ymir fist pumped Y/N. “She was my sexual awakening.” Y/N choked on her muffin.

“Ymir, what’d we say about uncalled for horniness?” Y/N reprimanded. Ymir made her way to the coat rack, searching for her car keys in her leather jacket’s pocket.

“If I was gonna be chewed out for liking women I would’ve lived with my parents!” Ymir called out. “I gotta pick up Historia!”

“Will you be back?” Y/N shouted back.

“Get off my dick!” Ymir shut the door. Laughing to herself, Y/N picked up Ymir’s dish to place in the sink. She was, out of the three, the more tidier one. Ymir did the best cleaning, but she was selectively lazy.

“Bye, Y/N!” Sasha shouted before leaving in a rush. One thing Y/N had grown used to was the fairly chaotic mornings. She secretly hoped they would be like this for a long time.

Since Y/N had transferred, Ymir and Sasha had been the best roommates she could ask for. Yes, Ymir was snappy and Sasha was a bit ditzy, but it was the perfect combination and they were respectful. Y/N had transferred from Sina University purely for academic reasons, but she had not expected to fit in so well with the girls or their group of pre establish friends. She worried she would not fit in since they had already been so tight-knit, but found that wasn’t the case at all. They were open, accepting and loyal. Y/N couldn’t be happier where she was, and even though she wouldn’t admit it, she was grateful for how close they had all gotten in their short time together. Who knew randomly assigned rooming would provide her with friendship to last a lifetime?

Which is why every time she thought about Porco she kicked herself. How could she have let some… meathead ruin her freshmen year of college? She should have been having fun, interacting with Ymir and Sasha’s friends more, lived her own life. But no, she chose to become involved with a self absorbed fraternity guy of all people. Now she was semi-heartbroken, extremely humiliated, and about a year’s worth of time and effort short. She had allowed him to take advantage of her so much, that he felt he could contact her still after basically using her. The thought made her want to rip her hair out and scream.

Almost as if through divine intervention, her phone beeped with a notification.

What the actual hell? Y/N thought.

She froze for a second. What does she do? Respond? Ignore? Block?

After a few seconds of mental deliberation, Y/N finally decided. She was fed up with the lack of bravery she showed and decided to just end it once and for all. Typing out a response, she clicked send and decided to go to the mall for the retail therapy she was sure to need after whatever Porco said what he wanted to say. Turning the shower on, she braced herself for his response. What could Porco want? She couldn’t wrap her mind around it.

This better be good, Y/N thought.

taglist : @tsunderehokage @lagrimasdeglitter @snowyseungs @mukeovernetflix @bakugouswh0r3 @punicorn999 @deadlyaffairs @usernamehere91 @calumsfringe

a/n: woohoo!! long chapter. so to recap: i graduated!! i am finally free from the clutches of high school. i might do a face reveal :) bc i loved my grad dress. anywho, my fever cleared up, i have chapter 9 already completed (just need to revise + edit) and this is NOT proof read!! it’s 2 am guys i’m tired. but i hope you enjoyed this :) sorry for the weird cropping too. peace out

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river-bottom-nightmare · 3 years

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Nightwing 79 Review

i said i would and i will. i did like this issue! not as striking and attention grabbing as 78, but i think this issue was meant to be a foundation one, laying out the groundwork for the future. overall, pretty good. also there wasn't enough bitewing. as promised, overly extensive metaphors and me reading too much into things under the cut

i know i've talked about this cover before, but this particular thing is oddly important to me, so i'll talk about it again

this is me, once again screaming about how artists put nightwing in traditionally feminine poses and how every time i see it i just get whiplash. i mean, true, the main reason why is because nightwing is a so often sexualized character, and putting him in these poses just increases the objectification, which is a goal that dc producers have. but there are very few popular male characters that do this. the only one i can think of off the top of my head is deadpool, but that was so obviously a critique and a way to make fun of the media industry. when they draw dick like this, they’re being serious. they’re putting him in appealing poses meant to show him off, and that’s something that’s traditionally only been done to women.

it's a very direct and very loud breaking of traditional gender roles in media, especially for a character as high-profile and historic as dick grayson. colour also plays a factor in this. the entire background is pink. i was absolutely shocked when i first saw it, when the teaser came out, because i cannot think of any comic book covers of male comic heroes this high-profile where pink is even just prevalent in the cover, let alone the majority of the cover. the pink does look beautiful: it offsets and highlights the black and blue of dick's suit gorgeously, but does it with more finesse than orange or red. but the fact that the stylistic choice was made to accent and draw this cover with aesthetic and beauty in mind, completely ignoring traditional hard-set gender rules in art, was a conscious choice and one i wholeheartedly support.

just another example of the sexualization i was talking about. i remember seeing harley quinn in this exact pose in suicide squad.

so far, taylor's been pretty dead-set on bringing alfred to the forefront of importance in this series. he wants people to know how much he loves alfred's character, and how much the butler meant to dick growing up. he was dick's father too. but what i adore is how taylor managed to stress alfred's importance in a way that didn't insult or belittle bruce.

this is one of the best bruce and dick interactions i've seen, and it's done in one simple interaction. in this, bruce is tough and harsh. he knocked dick down hard, but then he reached a hand down and helped pull dick back up. let me analyze their dialogue for a minute

on your feet: this is bruce telling dick to get up. he's trained dick, he knows what the younger boy is capable of, he knows his limits, and he knows what dick can do. this is bruce telling dick i know you're strong enough to get up, so get up and prove me right

are you just going to knock me down again?: surface-level, it looks like dick's complaining. he doesn't like bruce's rough training, and he's tired of bruce knocking him down. but look at his face in this. he's smiling up at bruce, knowledgeable and a little hopeful. he knows that bruce is doing this to help dick better himself, he's completely on board with the rough training, because they both know the rewards are incredible. also, he's teasing. he's bantering with bruce. there's an ease in that joking statement, one that belies affection and intimacy. they've only known each other for a little bit, but they're already slipping into a close familial relationship.

it depends on how fast you learn: this is bruce bantering back. this is bruce not being a stoic, unfeeling asshole. instead, he's shown with the dry humor that a good batman writer knows is a staple of the character. he's teasing dick, telling him he'll basically whoop his ass if dick doesn't learn fast enough. it's incentive for dick to train harder, while also being lighthearted enough to tell dick that believes in dick and doesn't want him to push himself too hard.

gosh i love the titans. also it looks like wally's staring at dick's ass.

this was cute. a prod at dick's silly and playful sense of humor, while not dumbing him down for the sake of a laugh. instead, he's joking about food, which is stuff everyone jokes about. this is the kind of stuff that'll actually make me laugh, instead of just making me vaguely uncomfortable.

bludhaven's almost always portrayed as a cesspool of a city. and to be honest, it really is. but this panel gives the city a meaningful history, while also giving us a reason for why dick moved there.

it talks of a time when people still thought they could beat the monsters. that if they fought hard enough, they could win the fight. it was a tentative hope that you could always overcome hardship.

dick's little "i like that it's still standing" shows how he still believes that, despite what the rest of the world thinks. despite everything that he's been through, dick is still tentatively an optimist, and believes he can fight the monsters of the world and win. it's a beautiful testament to his character, and i'm like that they added his signature element of hope back in. it used to be what he symbolized as robin, and despite his growth and character arc from robin to nightwing, this is one aspect of robin that i'm glad nightwing still has.

remember when i said "things that make me vaguely uncomfortable??" yeahhhh,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Shooketh Dick: A Sequel

(the expressions in this series are just,,,,on point)

this was an incredibly sweet and kindhearted thing for dick to do, but i found it kind of,,,,,,,,desperate? maybe that's just me, but let me explain.

dick's suddenly a billionaire, and he has entirely too much money that he knows what to do with. it's also alfred's money, what the man left to him, so dick forever links it with alfred. in addition to that, he's back and bludhaven and looking at it with "fresh" eyes. (at least, from a different point of view since he got shot in the head. then mind controlled.) he's desperate to do something with the money and he's desperate to help the people around him that so obviously needs up, so he comes up with an on-the-fly solution that's a little impractical and a little crazy, but it still helps and still does some good.

to me, dick seems a little lost. he hasn't completely found his balance yet, and he's trying to do things that will. he tries charity, because that's what bruce did and it's what he knows, even though he admitted that he always thought bruce could have done more as bruce wayne than batman.

they have a family group chat guys yall were right.

also, do i think that dick would ever actually get his wallet stolen?? no way in hell, he’d notice someone getting ready to pickpocket him a mile away. but i suppose it’s important to the Plot.

okay this is getting interesting. first blockbuster, now maroni (+ the weird heart stealer guy). i can officially say that i am intruiged

this particular artistic quirk is shown a lot in this issue, and from this art team in general, but i feel like this panel is one of the best examples of it. it was stunning enough to take up a full page, and it’s well deserved.

the way they show dick moving is absolutely brilliant. as a reader, i like seeing these smaller versions of dick getting clearer and in more detail as they come closer to the screen. not only do they show depth in the picture beyond what a simple 3 dimensional piece of art does, it also shows the passage of time.

in addition, it showcases dick’s skill. dick spots these mobsters running after a group of petty thieves. he then, and follow me here, leaps off the roof of one building feet first, springboards backwards off the side of the adjacent building with his feet, gracefully continues his backflip, rights himself, shoots a line with perfect timing: just in time to soften his landing but not slow him down, execute said landing on top of a moving bus, keep running on the moving bus without missing a beat, shoot his grapple, use the grapple to swing, use the swing to build up momentum, then use the momentum to deliver a powerful blow to the mobsters. and he did all that fast enough to catch up with the mobsters, even though he was a ROOFTOP OVER.

d a m n s o n

this panel, the very first in the issue, is also another example of that art style, but a little more distinctive. i love the way they showed dick’s different costumes through the ages, along with him simply growing up. it’s a little heartbreaking, but a lot uplifting to see how far he’s come. thank god he got rid of the red. now all we need is the fingerstripes, and we’ll be golden

discowing my beloved. also i can’t clearly see discowing’s hair but it definitely looks like it’s pulled back. it looks like he put it in a ponytail. guys. guys. dick had a ponytail omg.

he’s having a Hero Moment

are you talking about the city, dick, or are you talking about you? the kgbeast, the court, the joker. dick fell to each one of them, no matter how hard he fought. he won in the end, eventually and with his family’s help. but i think he’s feeling a little low, a little defeated right now. it’s almost like he needs a win, he needs to feel victorious, he needs to feel like he helped someone (hence the food and the hotel room), just because he needs to remember what it feels like.

these lines were supposed to resonate with you, and goddamn they did.

i looked at it from two ways. first, it’s the girl asking, begging nightwing not to hurt them. bludhaven doesn’t know dick the way gotham does, they’re still a little frightened of him. this child was brave enough to step in front of all of the other hurt and homeless kids and ask, to a strange man in a mask, if he was going to hurt them like the other men had. it’s heartbreaking, but commendable, and an echo of the city itself that dick’s decided to protect. they’re bloody and broken and terrified, but still gritty and brave enough to stare what they fear in the eye and ask it not to hurt them.

second, it’s dick seeing the question reflected in himself. recently, he got shot in the head and lost all his memories. while i think that the way ric reacted was a perfectly valid and human response to the situation, i think dick still regrets how callously and rudely he treated his family. then, he was manipulated by the court of owls, then he was brainwashed with a magic crystal by the joker. dick does have a guilt complex. it’s not a big as bruce’s, but it’s there. and right now, with this girl begging her not to hurt them, dick is probably thinking about all the times he hurt people, in control of his own actions or not, bc he “didn’t have a heart.”

little ambitious don’t you think, dick?

also just look at the sunset colours loOK at the they could not make this any more obvious oh my godddddddddddddddddddddddd

in conclusion, i need more of her

#dick grayson #nightwing #nightwing 79 #nightwing 79 spoilers #dc #dick grayson meta #nightwing meta #nightwing 79 meta #dc meta #river thinks too hard

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mdawritings · 3 years

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Wanna Be Yours: Ch. 12

II.I

Masterlist

Warnings: References to violence, canon-typical descriptions of violence, crime scenes, and death.

Song(s): "Bruises" by Lewis Capaldi and "I Almost Do" by Taylor Swift

It’s almost eight years until you hear the name Aaron Hotchner again.

You’re anxiously awaiting the call about your reassignment within the FBI. You had completed your year of mandated leave, gone through the required psych evaluations, gone through the training protocols. You’re ready to get back into the action, or, at least, you’re ready enough to get back to work. That’s when you receive the final message.

Your reinstatement was to be within the Quantico headquarters. This way, the brass could keep a close eye on you, while still utilizing your skills in the best possible way. So you flew into Quantico late Saturday night, moving into the cheapest apartment you could find. It was in a terrible area but being out of work for a year leaves you without much spare cash to live lavishly. Without your government-issued weapon, you check the deadlock every time you turn your back to the door for too long.

You have hardly any furniture in the apartment, most of the decor being the piles and piles of boxes in the center of your living room. You’re exhausted, in every possible way, so you settle for a fast shower, during which you’re entirely paranoid someone is going to break into your apartment. You collapse onto your bed, barely having the energy to even put the sheets on the bed to make it. The call comes through your phone shortly after you fall asleep, which means you don’t check your messages until early Sunday.

“This is Erin Strauss of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m calling to inform you that the council has processed your psych evaluation and administered a new gun registration and badge for you. You will now be working under me as a profiler within the BAU. It is my understanding that you’ve taken quite a few profiling classes in your training as a negotiator and you’re well equipped for this job. There will be a slight adjustment period but nothing that I do not believe you are capable of handling. You will start in your new position on Monday. Meet me at my office and I can brief you about the basics and then Agent Aaron Hotchner, BAU Unit Chief, will take it from there.”

You practically drop the phone. Your hands shake slightly, as you click off the phone and place it back onto your bedside table. You write Strauss an email in response, apologizing for missing her call, accepting the position, thanking her for the opportunity, and expressing your immense gratitude for such an esteemed position with such a great team. But that’s a lie. For a split second, you believe it's possible that this Aaron Hotchner is a completely different one than your Aaron Hotchner. You’ve never been a believer in fate or destiny. But for this to be a coincidence is simply unbelievable. Isn’t he supposed to be tormenting more students, torturing more girls, breaking more hearts? How did he end up as the BAU Unit Chief within the FBI?

You’re in shock, Strauss only leaving you about 24 hours to process it all and prepare for a new job. There’s no way you could request reassignment to a different unit. You’ve already been given your second chance. It’s now or never to get back into the FBI.

You’ve been out of work for a year. For a year, you’ve been struggling to cope with the loss of coworkers and innocent people. A loss that’s completely on your shoulders. Blood that’s on your hands. It was enough of an adjustment to get back to normal. Well as close to normal as can be. Your government-issued therapist, as you like to call her, attempted to dismantle this idea. She tried her best to remove the guilt from your mind, but after the government aid for the sessions ran out, you abandoned all hope of restoring yourself to the mental state you were in before. Everything in your life now is the after. You can’t live in the before. It’s too painful.

But now? Now it feels like all the work you’ve done to heal, to move on, to continue your life is rapidly unraveling in front of you. How would you adjust to seeing Aaron Hotchner once again? You hope that by now, he won’t have as much of an impact on you. You’ve experienced so much life, so much living, so much loss since then.

You’ve had other relationships, loved other people, slept with other people, but the impact that Hotch had on your life is permanent. When you think about it too long it feels ridiculous, the fact that a silly little fling in your early 20s has managed to change you so much. So much so, that now, at 29, you can still sense remnants of his impact on your life. They’re small moments, in which you realize that your behavior has changed so drastically over the years because of him. Your tongue is sharper. You stand up for yourself more often, and you never ever let anyone walk all over you the way he did.

You spend the day worrying yourself sick about the new position. You can’t turn it down. This job is your last chance.

Monday morning, your alarm rings wildly next to you in bed, but your eyes are already open. You’ve been staring at the ceiling for the past hour unable to sleep. You’ve been tossing and turning restlessly, unable to focus on anything else but the last few memories you have of Aaron Hotchner. Your mind first goes to that last day of classes, thinking about the way he smiled at you from across his desk. The way that damn leather-bound book felt in your hands. The way that he kissed you. He made you feel so special. Your mind then travels to the rest of that weekend, one in which he managed to rip your heart out of your chest and tear it into a million little pieces.

You think of the last thing you heard from him. Those same words he had spoken to you once before, but spoken to someone else. At that moment, you realized that you were nothing special. You were just another girl Professor Hotchner used for sex.

You’re hopeful that you will be able to move forward with professionalism. There’s a second where you consider the possibility of becoming friends with Aaron Hotchner, but you know that’s impossible. You can’t look at him and ignore all the hurt he caused you. You can, however, be professional. You know you can work with him. It might just tear you up inside, but you can do it. You have to.

However, you wonder what kind of person he’s become in the past eight years. You know you’ve changed dramatically, but what has happened to him? How has his life gone? How did he end up in the FBI?

You wonder if he’s learned to love. The man that you knew was one who was seemingly incapable of ever loving anyone. It’s clear to you that back then he was too selfish, too wrapped up in his own head to dedicate anything real to anyone else. And if he ever did feel anything real for you, he was too emotionally damaged to handle it, work through it, or to tell you about it.

Your alarm rings again. You snooze it again. What will you say to him? What do you want your first words to be to him? Will you tell him off? Should you even acknowledge the past? Or should you just put on your best air of professionalism and approach this as you would any new job? It seems impossible to push aside the past and treat him as a new person. Because he’s not a new person. He’s a man who has shaped every decision you’ve made in your life since knowing him.

You eventually convince yourself to get out of bed, reminding yourself that it’s pointless to fight inevitables. You dig through the moving boxes, pulling out your coffee maker and a thermos, filling it up to the top, already expecting the Quantico office coffee to be bad. You haven’t worked in a year, but you do remember always having to make your own coffee before work.

While the coffee brews, you pack a go-bag, an item that Strauss heavily emphasized the importance of for this job. You would be traveling a lot for each case, and you have to be ready to leave at any moment. You’re not sure why your reassignment is with the BAU. Your therapist emphasized a lifestyle of structure and predictability. If there’s one thing you’ve heard about the life of these profilers, it’s that the hours are irregular.

You get dressed, slipping on a clean pressed, black pair of slacks and a white button-down blouse. You slide on a comfortable pair of boots, ones that look nice and professional but don’t hinder your movement in the event that you get called away on a case.

One benefit of the irregular hours is that your personal time is limited. If you can occupy your mind with work, you can avoid getting sucked up into your own head. Like right now. You grip your bag as it jostles against your side on the bus. You drink your coffee a little too fast, which doesn’t ease the unnatural level of fear coursing through you.

This shouldn’t scare you so much. But the old wounds that you fought so hard to turn to scar tissue are reopening and they hurt just as much as the day Hotch inflicted them upon you.

You get to the Quantico headquarters a few minutes early, giving you enough time to get your new ID from the front desk. You get into the elevator, rocking back and forth on your toes anxiously. He’s here. He could be anywhere. Every time the elevator doors open to a different floor, you fear that you’ll come face to face with him. You’re sure that he’s probably on the sixth floor. The BAU floor. He’s probably in his office waiting to welcome the new agent. Does he know that you’re the new agent? Does he know who you are? Does he know what’s happened to you this past year?

You were assured that most of the details of your ‘leave’ were kept confidential. All that was publicized was a tragic bombing. The bomber sacrificed himself for the cause. Only a few people were able to escape, but all with severe injuries. The FBI didn’t want to admit their involvement. Their failure to save those people. Your failure to save those people.

You get to Strauss’s office, struggling to pay attention as she walks you through the basics, hands you your new badge, and a new gun. You holster the weapon, pulling your go-bag onto your shoulder, fiddling with the straps nervously.

Strauss finishes her introductory speech and takes a moment to look you over, “Agent, are you sure you’re ready to get back to work?” It doesn’t take a profiler to notice your nerves. Ever since the start of your leave, nerves and anxiety aren’t an uncommon occurrence, but this is more than usual. Your body is practically vibrating.

Despite the sick feeling in your stomach, you manage a nod, “I’m sorry.” You apologize for appearing distracted, “Yes ma’am. I’m ready.”

You can tell she’s unconvinced. Strauss leads you through the relatively crowded bullpen. You spot an empty desk across from a woman with long black hair, who is too busy laughing with the blonde sitting on top of her desk to notice that the tall skinny one across from them has just spilled coffee all over himself and his paperwork. You assume that the empty one is to be your desk. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest as you glance up at the two offices on the catwalk. One of them has the blinds tightly drawn and through the other, you can just barely see an older gentleman working on his laptop. David Rossi. You know him. You read just about every single one of his books on Sunday in preparation for this new job.

Your profiling skills are mediocre at best. Strauss argues that out of all possible candidates you had the most office experience and field experience. You’re really not sure how that helps. How could a traumatized and failed crisis negotiator who hasn’t been in the field in nearly a year provide anything helpful for the BAU?

Old habits resurfaced and you buried yourself in published literature and textbooks and research. You weren’t about to walk into a new job feeling unprepared, especially not one in which Aaron Hotchner would be your new boss. Now, at this moment, trailing behind Straus, as your body seems detached from your mind, dreading the moment that she opens that door to Aaron’s office, no amount of studying or preparation seems sufficient.

Rossi steps out of his office just as you and Strauss reach the top of the stairs. You lock eyes with him and despite not even knowing who you are, he gives you a reassuring nod. Damn profilers. Your body language is probably a dead giveaway. Strauss knocks on the door.

“Come in.” That voice. You could never forget it. Strauss reaches for the handle and you’re tempted to run away. Turn around and walk away. At least then you could leave with your sanity semi-intact. However, your curiosity has been piqued at this point. You have to know. You have to see him. You step through the doorway into the office and finally get a good look at the man.

He's hunched over, body turned slightly away from the desk. He has a phone pressed to his ear and he’s speaking in a gentle, hushed tone, "Yeah I know buddy." He glances over at you and Strauss. As if out of a movie, he does a double-take. It’s almost as if it takes a second for his eyes to really process what he’s really seeing. And what he’s really seeing is you. The look on his face tells you that he barely recognizes you, now eight years older, in professional clothes, and a face that’s just a little more weathered from all that you’ve been through.

Your memories of him are not faint as your eyes stay locked with his. They’re not just faded remnants of your moments together. Staring at him, eyes drinking in every inch of him, it all comes back more vivid than ever. You can practically feel his fluffy hair tangled in your fingers. From your position, you can just faintly smell his cologne. That’s a scent that hasn’t changed. The sensory memories are overwhelming. The passion, the secrecy, the pleasure. But that quickly changes, making the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach grow at an all-consuming rate. That night. That night he grabbed you by the front of your shirt, the way he snapped at you, the completely ice-cold manner in which you spoke those last few words to him, I’m done.

That Aaron Hotchner is not the man sitting in front of you. You barely recognize him. His hair is shorter, more strictly gelled in place. His white shirt is buttoned all the way up. He has a suit jacket on. His tie is done up perfectly. You can’t help but take note of the bags under his eyes, the increase of lines on his face. Obviously, he’s aged, but the way his face has changed, it’s not just age. You can see his eyes are dull, glossed over. For as neatly put together he is from the neck down, his face looks tired.

Hotch seems to forget he was just on the phone, entirely taken aback by the fact that you’re actually there, standing in front of him. "I’m sorry I can’t be with you right now but get a lot of rest and I’ll be home before you know it. I have to go. I love you too." He hangs up and you try to hide the shock on your face as those words come out of his mouth. Words you dreamt of him saying. Words that haunted you for months nearly a decade ago.

"Agent Hotchner, this is the crisis negotiation transfer I was discussing with you," Strauss nods at you, and Hotch stands up, smoothing out his tie, placing his hands flat on the desk. "This is Agent—"

"Y/N." His voice is firm. Hearing his name fall from your lips is enough to send you running in the opposite direction. Fear and anxiety overcome you, your legs going weak as he sticks out a hand to shake yours, but you can’t seem to get yourself to move forward to touch his hand, "I’m sorry, Agent Y/L/N." He corrects his mistake.

His hand hovers in the air for a moment, waiting for you to reach forward to shake it. Your shoes drag across the carpet, as you reach forward to shake his hand. His warm, rough hand envelops yours. At one point in your life, just the touch of his skin against yours would send sparks up and down your arm. Just that handshake would’ve been enough to ignite your skin and make you feel alive.

You feel nothing. Just a simple handshake. Your heart is attempting to jump out of your throat, beating rapidly and pounding against your ribcage so hard you think your chest visibly moves. However, his touch no longer thrills you. Maybe you are finally over Aaron Hotchner.

"You two know each other?” Strauss gestures between the two of you.

"No," You reply without missing a beat. You shake your head, finally able to get words out. You have to force your eyes off of Hotch and look at Strauss, "Well, yes. Agent Hotchner lectured at my law school a few times. When he was a federal prosecutor.”

Strauss gives a small nod of acknowledgment, “Agent Hotchner can show you the ropes from here. I expect updates from the field,” Her eyes shoot over to you. Updates about you, she means. In case you manage to fuck up again.

You watch as Strauss leaves the office not turning your eyes to Hotch at the desk in front of you. You look out the window, gesturing to the agents in the bullpen you passed, “I’m assuming the extra desk in the bullpen is mine?”

Hotch tilts his head down, letting out a small breath, “Yes. Agent Y/L/N—”

“And everyone in the bullpen, is that the whole team? I know Agent Rossi’s office is next to yours and I only saw three agents in the bullpen but I assume there are more?”

“Yes. We have a technical analyst and another member of the team. You’ll be introduced to them shortly, however–” that’s not what he really wants to talk to you about. Its clear that there’s so much he wants to say, but you don’t give him a chance to speak. You keep your mind focused on the important questions on there about the job. You know that a conversation with him about anything else just might break you.

“And in terms of training, you can see I passed my gun qualifications again. Are there any other evaluations or training protocols? Or will my time from the academy be sufficient preparation for this position?” You rattle off your questions. His face is a mixture of shock and frustration. He has his arms crossed against his chest. He tucks his bottom lip in, biting at it lightly.

“Y/N,” He places his hands firmly down on the desk. This time he doesn’t answer your questions. He’s tired of your avoidance, “What are you doing here?”

You take a pause at the sound of your first name, swallowing slowly, “I’m here on reassignment from crisis negotiation. I’m supposed to be working as a profiler on your team in the BAU.”

“You know what I mean,” Hotch presses the issue a little further.

“With all due respect, I’m not sure what you are searching for from me but if the implication is that I am here for anything other than the job then you are sorely mistaken,” You huff out and cross your arms against your chest, mirroring his closed-off body language. “Sir.”

“That’s not what I was implying,” Hotch places a hand on his forehead, rubbing roughly, trying to ease his frustration. You’re not quite sure where he gets off being so short and snippy with you. “I’m just… The last time I saw you, you were on track to be a lawyer and now you’re standing in front of me, in my office, joining my team. It just all seems very—”

“Sir?” You turn and see a different blonde standing in the doorway. She has a bright pink floral dress on, two large flowers in her hair, a file in her hands, and a pink fuzzy pen tucked behind her ear. “Sorry to interrupt,” She steps forward, stumbling a little in her high heels, sticking her hand out to shake yours, “Penelope Garcia, technical analyst, computer geek, and all-around wizard of the keyboard.”

You smile at her and stick your hand out to introduce yourself, “It’s great to meet you.”

“Sir, you remember that the Indiana PD contacted us about a possible serial?” She lets out a shaky breath, squinting her eyes and looking away as she opens the file, holding it out to Hotch, “Another body.”

Hotch has to reach past you to take the file and you audibly suck in your breath as his arm glides past your torso. “Same signature?” He looks over the photos.

Garcia lets out a small shudder, “Yeah the victim’s hands… the unsub he… don’t make me say it, sir.” She squeaks out.

“Gather the team,” He gives a nod before finally looking back at you, “You think you’re ready to get back to work?”

“Yes Sir,” You sigh, pull your go-bag further up your shoulder. You start to follow him out the door but he stops short in front of you.

“We’ll talk later,” He stumbles over his words a little. You’re making him nervous. You see his hand at his side. His fingers rubbing against one another. There’s one thing that hasn’t changed in years. He still has the same nervous behaviors.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about,” You mumble under your breath as you follow him to the conference room. You speak quietly but from the way he tilts his head, stretches his neck, and takes a deep breath, you know your comment was loud enough for him to hear.

You take a seat at the roundtable, watching as the three agents from earlier are now joined by a tall, muscular black man who ruffles the top of the skinny kid’s head, messing up his hair, “I’m just teasing kid, I like the haircut. Makes you look young.”

“Yeah like I need anything to make me look younger. Everyone already thinks I’m a teenager,” The skinny one tries to smooth his hair back into place, but it doesn’t really help, leaving small strands sticking up in the air.

“Everyone this is Agent Y/L/N, she’s joining us from Crisis Negotiation,” Hotch pulls out his chair, right next to yours. You feel your whole body tense up, as the close proximity really allows you to smell his familiar cologne. Eight years and he still hasn’t bought a new one. Great.

“Joining us?” The muscular one stands just a bit behind you, making himself a cup of coffee but turns and walks to take a seat, giving you a slow once over. It’s not a flirtatious one, but a wary scan of your body. You’re becoming acutely aware of how exposed you feel in a room full of professional profilers.

“Strauss thinks we need the extra help, especially with the recent increase in requests for BAU help, and I don’t disagree with her,” Hotch looks around the table at his coworkers before looking to you, “Agents Prentiss, Morgan, Jareau, Rossi, and Dr. Reid.” Hotch points out each member, who all give you small nods and waves of acknowledgment as he introduces them.

“Crisis negotiation, huh?” Morgan continues to push the subject. You can tell he’s not really happy about a new addition to the team. You’re guessing it’s coming from a place of protectiveness of his team. You understand his hesitance. The team probably works well together, a new person is a whole new dynamic. If you could pick any other position you would, you have no specific interest in the BAU, but it’s a second chance and you’re not going to screw it up, no matter how much you wish that anyone else in the world besides Hotch was unit chief.

“I think the job took a small amount of profiling,” You shrug and give Agent Morgan a smile, hoping to get in his good graces soon, “Obviously not as much as this but it did take a level of interpretation of the behavior of criminals who take hostages in addition to a complex understanding of intergroup dynamics and how that might impact a situation.”

“There’ll be time to play nice and get to know each other later,” Hotch cuts the introductions short. “Garcia, the case?”

“Right,” She clicks on the monitor at the front while Hotch slides a tablet over to you. You take it from him, your fingertips just brushing against his. Everything about the interaction feels like eight years ago. He manages to keep his best poker face, all the while you feel the small sparks shoot across your skin. Those damn sparks. Except you’re very quickly realizing that the Hotch in front of you is nothing like eight years ago.

There’s something deeply broken about his eyes. You could never forget those eyes. When you first met him you thought they were deep brown. Then you spent enough time watching him, studying every detail of his face and learned that they were a beautiful light brown. Small golden flecks in his eyes become more pronounced in the sun. His eyes are different now. First of all, the deep undereye bags that frame them make him look years older than his actual age. His brow seems permanently set in that furrowed position. It’s a familiar expression of his. You had the joy of seeing that brow lift when the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. Smiling seems to be the last thing this current Aaron Hotchner wants to do.

You realize you’re staring a little bit too long and tune back into Garcia’s case briefing, “All three victims were undergraduate students. Indiana’s campus hosts both undergrad and grad students from the law school and med school.”

“Which means a huge suspect pool.” Hotch points out.

“How are we sure that the unsub is from inside the community?” You look around the table. You can see the way that Morgan’s brows raise at the question. How else are you going to learn without asking questions?

Rossi, however, swoops in to save you from embarrassment, “The first victim had mace in her backpack, however, she never used it. The second victim had no defensive wounds on her body. The third victim—”

“Was killed in an office meeting room. To gain access to that building you need a school ID,” You nod, filling in the gaps. “I forget that technology and security have dramatically improved since I was in school.”

“Come on, kid, at least you had cell phones in college,” Rossi gives a small smile, nudging your arm.

“And how do we know these are all connected?” Morgan gestures to his tablet in front of him.

You scoff slightly and look up at Morgan, “I’m sorry, I know it’s important to find common victimology, MO, or signature before connecting the crimes but how many violent crimes occur on college campuses in this short of a time? They have to be connected.”

“Statistically, some of the most dangerous and violent college campuses report that nearly 10 students for every 1000 will be a victim of violent crime. However, that statistic seems to include any form of violent crime meaning murder, negligent manslaughter, aggravated assault, robbery, but most prevalent on most college campuses is rape as a form of violent crime. In terms of how frequent—” The tall skinny one, Reid, rattles off a series of facts at you and you can’t help but smile. He’s cute. He looks about your age, “That was more of a rhetorical question, wasn’t it?”

You fight a smile at Reid’s confused face and nod. “All the victims had the same cuts on their hands,” Prentiss points up at the monitor.

“Weird,” You mumble under your breath.

“What?” JJ turns to you.

“Oh. Nothing it’s just… hands are a weird thing to mutilate. Damage to the face shows high levels of rage and a deep hatred for the victim, removal of eyes or ears or damage to the mouth could symbolize the removal of a sense in order to punish the victims for some misuse of those senses. But hands… hands are different.” You tip your pen back to your mouth, placing the end on your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly as you think. You can feel Hotch’s focus on you. If you turn, you’re sure you’ll just catch him as he looks away.

He’s profiling you. You don’t need to look at him to know that. He was always good at reading you, not that you did much to hide your feelings back then. You felt everything so openly. You were so full of passion, so determined to be the best at everything you set your mind to. Hotch made you realize that feeling everything so deeply, so freely, opens you up to a world of hurt. You put on your best poker face, keeping your body language neutral while you still feel his eyes on you.

“Hands are not inherently symbolic of one thing.” Reid agrees with you.

“So we have to try and decipher why this mutilation is a compulsion for the unsub,” Hotch nods, “Wheels up in 30.” Everyone tucks all their belongings away. Hotch is quick to stand up from his seat at the table, storm down the catwalk back to his office, closing the door loudly. You try to ignore the weird looks from the team as you introduce yourself to all of them.

You watch as Morgan is one of the first to leave the conference room, walking after him, “Hey, Agent Morgan!” You run to catch him at the top of the stairs, “Look I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off so rude in there.” You shake your head.

“No problem,” He states simply, intending to walk down the stairs.

“I get it, I’m new, I’m throwing off the team dynamic and you don’t seem like the type to trust me immediately.” You stick out a hand to shake his, “But I’m committed to this team and I want to earn your respect in time.”

He nods, giving you one of those judgmental once overs again, “From what I can tell, Hotch doesn’t seem too pleased about you being here. Now just because he’s my boss, doesn’t mean I have to always agree with him, but if he’s wary, then I’m wary.” He avoids shaking your hand. Your suspicions about Morgan seem to be proven before your eyes. He doesn’t trust easily. He’s been burned by someone he trusted in the past. You can relate to that. You’re not a very open or trustworthy person anymore either.

“Agent Hotchner and I knew each other a really long time ago. A lifetime ago. Way before his time at the BAU. I’m sure he’s just not thrilled about his past colliding with his present,” You nod taking a few steps back to let Morgan continue down the stairs, “I just hope… I hope you can learn to trust me, and I, you.” You smile softly. Morgan seems stuck in his place. You can’t tell whether or not he’s surprised by your manners, or if you’ve just driven further the wedge between you two.

“See you on the jet,” He speaks up as he walks down the stairs, scooping his go-bag from under his desk and disappearing around a corner down the hallway.

When you turn to walk back to the conference room, you catch Agent Hotchner’s eyeline through the blinds of his office. He’s watching you, studying you, trying to read you. However, he definitely does not get access to you anymore.

You’re determined to keep your animosity towards Hotch private. No reason for the team to detect that anything is wrong. But throughout the case, there are moments it slips. First, it was on the jet...

You step onto the jet, looking around, taking the entire environment in. You were never blessed with a private jet in your time in crisis negotiation, just stuck with driving from place to place. Morgan reaches across you, taking your bag and stowing it away in the back for you. It’s a simple gesture, but from the look in his eye as he does it, you can tell Morgan is already reevaluating his judgment of you.

You’re one of the last on the jet and you see everyone settled around the table and surrounding seats. The only available seat is the one next to Hotch by the window. You’d have to ask him to get up… or squeeze past him. You try to cover it up but nearly everyone notices the way that you eye the seat before deciding against it. You end up leaning against the arm of the sofa that JJ is sitting on. Once again, Hotch’s gaze lingers on you as you do. He’s taking note of the way you’re actively avoiding him, and he’s right. You’re actively avoiding any alone time with him. Minimize the alone time, minimize the pain.

You run through the facts of the case again, Reid rambling on about the significance of hands throughout different cultures, the importance of sensory neurons on the skin of your hands, and how hand size is an indicator for a lot of things. You share a small smirk with Morgan, who is clearly warming up to you because you both know the one thing that hand size is rumored to correlate with.

Morgan shoots you a small smirk before saying what you were both thinking, “That’s interesting and all kid, but any knowledge in that big brain of yours about whether hand size is related to—”

Hotch cuts off Morgan, “Focus, please.” He gestures with his hand to stop the conversation and you have to hide your smile. It’s nice to smile. You weren’t expecting to feel anything but pain today. Hotch puts a fast end to that feeling of happiness.

“When we land, JJ and Rossi head to the local police and talk to the families of the victims. Prentiss and Morgan, you’ll head to the ME, get a better evaluation of the state of the body,” Hotch pauses for a second. He takes in a slow breath as if preparing himself for what he’s about to say. Once he says what’s coming next, it’s all official. You start your first case. He’s your boss, you’re his subordinate. You’re in each other's lives again whether you like it or not. “Y/L/N, Reid, and I will go to the most recent crime scene,” Hotch nods and you feel the blood drain from your face, that sick and twisty knot growing in the pit of your stomach. You knew you’d have to work with him, that’s part of the job, but he’s already keeping you close to him. Maybe he doesn’t trust you.

From the way he spoke to you in his office, it’s clear he thinks you’re here as some sort of revenge. Some convoluted vindictive scheme to ruin his life.

“You look terrified,” Prentiss tries to tease you.

You look around at the team and shake your head, “College campuses,” You scrunch up your face in disgust and shake your head, “Undergrad sucked because I was younger than everyone, so I missed out on all the fun.”

“Damn, we got another kid genius on our hands, don’t we?” Morgan reaches out a hand to high-five you. “Like our own female Einstein.” Your eyes immediately flick to Hotch. That nickname. No one’s called you any form of that nickname since him. “Watch out Reid, you’ve got competition.”

“I was 14 when I was in college,” Reid states in an attempt to one-up you, but it’s clear that he’s just joking. He knows he’s smart but he doesn’t seem like the cocky type, at least what you can tell so far.

“Don’t worry, brainiac,” You laugh at him, “You are the only genius on this team.”

“And grad school?” JJ pipes up, catching onto the way you dropped the sentence.

“I dropped out of law school after my first year,” You clear your throat uncomfortably, “Wasn’t for me I guess.” The air seems suffocating. Your face is burning hot. You feign extreme interest in the crime scene photos on your tablet, knowing that if you look up, your face will give you away to Hotch. The last thing you want is for him to know how much he affected you.

He said it himself: So in 10 years from now, when you're at the top of your career, know that it's all because of me. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Everything that has happened for the past eight years happened because of his impact on your life.

You remind yourself yet again to try and keep the conversations focused on the case. The team wants to get to know you, but every personal conversation seems to lead back to Hotch.

The second slip-up comes when you arrive at the crime scene...

“She told her roommate she was coming here to study, that she had booked the meeting room just for herself.” Reid lifts up the crime scene tape, holding it up for you to slip under. You give a small smile at the gesture.

“But she told her friends she was meeting with her professor here for extra help.” Hotch shakes his head, pulling on a pair of gloves. You glance over at Reid as he does the same.

He looks at you for a second before he raises his brows in realization, letting out a small ‘oh.’ He digs into his pocket and hands you a pair of gloves. “I usually grab them from the crime scene team,” He nods.

You take them from him, “Thank you.” You like Reid. He’s kind and smart and polite. He’s your age, but you can see that he’s worlds ahead of you in terms of knowledge. You wonder just how much is going on inside that brain of his. When you look at him you can see the gears constantly turning, he’s always working over something in his brain, forming theories, or running through facts.

“She was stabbed in the back and the back of the head, correct?” You glance over at Hotch for confirmation.

“Yes.” He plays with the fingertips of his gloves, paying more attention to you rather than the scene. Without the body, there’s not much to go on, it’s your average office space. You see a log on the wall with the names of who has scheduled the room. They haven’t wiped away the victim’s work from the whiteboard. It looks like some form of math.

“Linear algebra,” Reid speaks up as he sorts through some of the papers left on the table in the center of the room.

You nod and smile, “Math never was my strong suit in school. I was definitely more entranced by a book rather than formulas and numbers.”

Reid’s face lights up with joy, “If you ever want any book recommendations, please do ask. I just finished an absolutely amazing biography about Albert Einstein. It’s not that long of a read. It’s only about 1200 pages. You know I’m sure that I have a copy…” He catches sight of Hotch’s stern expression, stopping himself mid-sentence.

You both go silent as you skim through the pages of work scattered on the floor. You then analyze the writing on the whiteboard, leaning in close. Hotch speaks up again tilting his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in confusion at your behavior, “What are you thinking?”

“It wasn’t random. This was planned out. The unsub specifically sought out her.”

“How do you figure that?” Hotch questions you, but not in the hostile accusatory way you’re expecting.

You hesitate, losing your train of thought the longer you look at Hotch, so you look back to the whiteboard, “When you’re waiting to meet someone, you expect someone to come in, right? So if she had her back turned, writing up equations on this whiteboard, she wouldn’t think twice of the door opening. If you’re not expecting someone and you hear the door open.” You point at the whiteboard.

“You would turn around to see who it is,” Hotch finishes your sentence.

“That’s why all her wounds were to the back,” You fall into a rhythm with Hotch. He’s following your train of thought.

“So the unsub had to know she would be here ahead of time,” Hotch sighs and digs in his pocket for his phone, “Garcia, I need your help.” He clicks his phone onto the speaker and places it down on the table.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Her chipper voice comes through the phone. You can picture her office probably matches her appearance. Probably bright, full of color. For a technical analyst, she probably still has a hefty collection of colorful and funky pens. You remember the octopus mug she was holding when she walked into Hotch’s office this morning.

“This building has a key card access system. Can you access the log of everyone who swiped into this building on the day and around the time of the third murder?”

“Sir, it’s not a matter of can or can’t. You know I can,” Her voice is laced with a smile.

“Check that list for the professor that she claimed she was meeting with,” Hotch adds.

“He…” She trails and you hear the ambient sounds of her rapid typing and clicking. There’s a pause. Her voice grows small, “He accessed the building around the time of her death.”

“He’s our prime suspect. We need to bring him in,” Hotch concludes, “Garcia, you’re the best.”

“Aw I know,” She giggles softly, “PG out!”

“Imagine that,” You chuckle bitterly, “She comes in here to meet her professor, someone she trusts, and she gets stabbed in the back.” You shake your head, the words slipping out before you even realize the weight of what you’ve implied.

Reid doesn’t catch on to the look that you and Hotch exchange. Hotch looks as if he’s seen a ghost. He’s not shocked by what you’ve said, but by the fact that you even said anything. It’s the first sign of hostility towards him. The first crumb or clue into how you feel about him after all these years. The answer is betrayed. You still feel betrayed.

“We should deliver the profile.” Hotch leaves the crime scene at a brisk pace, leaving Reid clueless, and you and that damned twisting knot of anxiety in your stomach.

The rest of your interactions with Hotch are limited for most of the case, restricted to only group discussions that are entirely professional. No more slip-ups, no more sideways glances. What all your interactions were rife in, was that intrusive look of his eyes. Every few minutes you can feel his eyes on you, scanning your posture, your facial expressions, searching for any idea of what you might be thinking or feeling.

You try your best to avoid it, opting to go check out every lead, just for the opportunity to get some space from him. You feel smothered and suffocated. You’re so on edge, you’ve torn your nail beds to shreds. He is seemingly unfazed by your presence. That is if you don’t consider how often you catch him rubbing his fingers at his side or up by his face or biting his bottom lip. Every time you catch him, however, he stops.

You’re having a difficult time reading how he feels about you being here. You just want to know how he feels about you after all these years. Does he still harbor feelings for you? Does he still care about you? The sleep deprivation from working so hard and the excess caffeine you’ve consumed don’t help to slow down your thoughts which seem to be moving at a million miles a minute. At least while you’re working you can put all your energy into solving the case, helping the team, and parsing through evidence.

It gets worse at night when you’re alone in the hotel room. You try to bring the case file back into the room, working on it in bed until you can barely keep your eyes open, but you find that you don’t get any work done, your brain a continuous stream of questions.

You’ve been able to profile every member of the team pretty efficiently. You have a good understanding of how Reid’s brain works. The comfort that he has with numbers and facts. He uses his intelligence to cover up for his social insecurities. Morgan puts on a tough exterior, but really he’s hesitant to let people in and trust them. Prentiss, similar to Morgan, seems to keep everyone at arm's length, preferring to be the confidant rather than the one doing the confiding in someone else. JJ struggles to separate her emotions from the work, a quality that is not in and of itself a flaw, but you can tell it weighs on her heavily. Rossi has the most experience and constantly feels inclined to be a figure, a leader while trying to balance cooperation rather than individualism. He’s used to being a lone wolf, doing the job on his own.

This new Aaron Hotchner is a mystery. He’s closed off. He is entirely business. Even when Garcia cracks a joke or embarrasses herself. You all laugh and smirk at her, but his face never changes. When you all get off track, he sternly reminds you of the importance of the case at hand. That’s his job, but there’s something more to it that you can’t quite figure out. There’s a sense of urgency, as there usually is with these cases, but almost this feeling that he’s constantly running out of time.

Even his office provided you with very little to profile. You remember a few photos from Hotch’s office. One of him and a small boy. A son, possibly? There was another of him and a blonde woman hugging the little boy. Your first guess is wife, but you don’t remember him wearing a ring.

You can’t profile him. He’s closed himself off to that. Yet you find yourself coming back to the same question over and over again, does he still care about you? You get a glimpse at the answer as you and the team track down the location of your unsub, three days into the case.

You lean forward from the backseat of the SUV, looking between Morgan and Hotch in the front, “What does the profile say about this kind of unsub’s behavior once faced with police and authority like us?”

The two men exchange knowing looks. You have your suspicions but you really just want them to vocalize what you’re thinking, “He won’t let us take him in without a fight.”

“Suicide by cop,” You mutter frustratedly, “Great.”

“It’s likely, but that doesn’t mean we don’t try to talk him out of it.” Hotch clarifies, gesturing with an outstretched palm that he takes off the wheel temporarily. He pulls up to the small house, sirens off. “A big show will just scare him into making sudden moves to get us to shoot to kill. Morgan, you head around the back. Y/L/N and I will take the front.”

You nod, knowing the rest of the team isn’t far behind you all, but they’ve all been instructed to try and appear as discreetly as possible. You get out of the SUV, watching as Morgan runs around back. Both you and Hotch approach the door. Hotch kicks the door down. The unsub sits casually in an armchair, holding a gun that he twirls in his fingers. He knew you were coming.

Then Hotch does something that complicates your questions about him. It’s subtle but you notice it immediately. He instinctively moves a little in front of you. He doesn’t block your line of fire, but he blocks the unsubs. He’s shielding you with his body.

Your profile is right, the unsub doesn’t want to be taken in peacefully, resulting in Morgan putting two bullets in him from behind when he raises his gun to you and Hotch. AT first, you think Hotch put his body in front of yours by accident.

It wasn’t an accident. He gave a small look over his shoulder at your location before taking a few steps right, to block you. Then you assume it was purely because of his status as team leader. He doesn’t want the members of his team to get hurt. That also doesn’t seem to make sense to you. No matter how much he wants the team to be protected he wouldn’t do that. He would trust Morgan to get the shot if you two couldn’t.

So why would he shield you?

Almost everyone but you, Rossi, and Hotch are sleeping on the jet home. You have a book out in front of you, but you’re barely reading, just attempting to look deeply enchanted by the novel to avoid any awkward eye contact or conversation with Hotch. The only sounds in the plane are the whirring of the engines, the wind outside, and Hotch’s typing on his computer as he finishes up the report for the case.

Rossi sits down across from you on the jet, placing down a small glass of some amber liquid, which you assume is whiskey, in front of you.

“Trying to get me drunk, Agent Rossi?” You tease him, tearing your eyes away from the book you weren’t reading.

He laughs heartily, taking a sip from his own glass, “I thought I’d welcome you with something from my own personal stash.”

“Where do you keep it hidden in here? You know… just in case I’m curious,” You smirk and reach for the glass. It’s nice of Rossi to sit with you and talk to you.

Rossi just smiles, shaking his head a little, “You did well out there, kid,” He puts the glass down, to roll his ring around his finger. You’ve noticed he does it a lot when he’s thinking. “You can read all the books in the world, but profiling in the field, thinking on your feet, analyzing a crime scene, it’s all much different than the words on a page.”

“I’m realizing that,” You trail your finger around the rim of the glass, “My previous position incorporated a lot of what you guys do here.”

“I’m sure that makes this job a lot harder. You probably want to put the past behind you.” Your head snaps up to look at him. No one told the team where you came from. Even Hotch doesn’t know. “I remember hearing about the incident.”

“The FBI tried to bury their involvement,” You sigh and finish off the glass, noting how smooth the alcohol goes down. You’ve learned how to handle alcohol really well this past year. “They keep all the details top secret. However, that didn’t stop them from throwing me under the bus.”

“What happened in New York was not your fault.” Rossi’s voice drops in volume as he leans closer, keeping your conversation more private, “The brass has a habit of blaming agents instead of criminals. You couldn’t have stopped it. You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

You exhale loudly, air rushing over your teeth as you give a little shake of your head in disagreement, “Agent Rossi, I’m sure you’re experienced enough to know this, but as reassuring and comforting it is to hear you say those words it doesn’t necessarily—”

“It doesn’t change how you feel. I know. I understand,” He pauses, “Don’t let it consume you. All of us have been where you are right now. Some of us are currently where you are right now, constantly consumed by guilt over something that wasn’t even our fault.” You get the sense that he isn’t talking about himself. You don't need to reply. The both of you sit in silence for a while.

You start up a conversation again, this time about Virginia and DC, where you’re living, when you moved, what you studied in school, where you grew up. Rossi loves to tease you and every few sentences he’ll simply reply, ‘I already knew that’ acting as if he could profile every fact about you.

You like him a lot. You like everyone a lot. Just as the jet lands and you’re all packing up your desks back at Quantico, Rossi offers to drive you home.

“Let me just check in with Agent Hotchner before I leave,” You glance up at the office. You know you have to check in with him, it’s your first case finished, you’re new, he’s your new boss, but so far, you’ve managed to avoid being alone with him and you’d like to keep it that way as long as possible.

You knock lightly on the open door, to which Hotch responds, “Come in.”

“I just wanted to check-in, you know, with it being my first case and everything,” You nod, taking just a few steps into the office, leaving as much distance between you and Hotch. He stands at his desk, focusing intently on your face. You know he’s trying to read your intentions. He’s searching for the hidden meaning behind your words. And for once, in the past few days, you don’t have any meaning behind your words. You have had enough small slip-ups and double meanings. This time, you truly just mean to check-in.

“You did really good work out there, Agent. You’re a fast learner, you pay attention to details, you work well with the team,” He rattles off a series of compliments, “Strauss is going to request a formal evaluation with me and I’ll be sure to report how quickly you’ve adapted.”

“Thank you, sir,” You try your best to function with the utmost composure.

“Hotch,” He corrects you.

You ignore the correction, “Is that all, sir?”

“If you need anything… I mean I’ve read through your psych evaluations and I know the details are classified but–“ Hotch is struggling with his words. You know what he’s trying to say. He wants to tell you he’s here for you. Funny. Really, it is. Funny that he doesn’t realize the one thing that might send you spiraling is being around him. “I just mean if it all gets to be too much, it’s okay to take a step back. I… I understand.”

“You do?” Your words come out more bitter than intended. You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this. You had gone this whole case without snapping. It’s childish and immature. You can be professional. But right now, you can only see one thing: boiling hot rage at Hotch. How could he possibly understand how you feel? You pause to take a breath, “Thank you, but I’m okay. Goodnight, sir.” You walk to the door, wanting to get away from him as fast as possible.

“Y/N—” Hotch calls out, his voice softer, less firm, less professional. “Please,” You beg, finally breaking. Your voice is raw with emotion. You’ve been holding all the pain in for the past three days and your plea comes out sounding more broken than you intend to. You don’t turn around but place a hand on the doorframe. “Please… don’t make this harder than it already is.” You wait for a moment, hoping, praying, that he doesn’t try to talk to you anymore. A moment of silence serves as confirmation that he isn’t going to keep pushing you to talk.

You get down the stairs, meeting Rossi at the elevators. “Thank you… for driving me home.” You try and hide your face from him, hoping he doesn't see the sheen in your eyes as you fight away the tears that have been fighting their way out for the past three days.

“Anytime,” He nods, holding an arm over the elevator doors for you as they open. You think he can sense something is wrong. He’s probably been able to sense something is wrong between you and Hotch since the minute you made eye contact with him your first morning. If he does, however, he also knows not to ask or press the issue.

You flick the lights on in your apartment. You look over the boxes, still left unpacked. Not much of a home yet. You have no place of safety, of comfort yet. You feel like a guest in your own place. However, the thought of unpacking all the boxes right now is way too intimidating.

Deep steady breath in. Shaky breath out. You bite at your lip harshly. You haven’t cried over Aaron Hotchner in years. You drop your bag by the door, kicking your shoes off. You turn to close the door and everything starts to bubble up inside you. The anger, frustration, sadness, heartbreak. It’s all too much. You’ve been through so much these past eight years. This shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. But fuck. It hurts.

You let out a frustrated yell. It’s a scream that feels good to let out but ends up scratching your throat. You slam your fist against the door, ignoring the way it sears your knuckles. You pace your apartment, trying to steady your breathing.

You’ve been suffocating the past three days. Three long days of close quarters with Aaron Hotchner. Even after all these years, he manages to suck all the oxygen out of the room, leaving you breathless. In another life, you remember thinking how much you loved suffocating around him, but now, it tears you up inside. Your chest burns and aches, your head is fuzzy, and his presence is dizzying. It’s not exhilarating. It’s not exciting. It’s not all-consuming in the way you remember. You’re just trying to keep your head above water, but the current is strong and the rapids are relentless. You’re sinking under the surface quickly and you don’t know how to pull yourself up out of it.

You walk over to the stack of boxes, pushing them aside until you find the exact one you’re looking for. You rip open the top, tearing the tape off. The box is full of books, one of many that you brought with you. It’s organized perfectly so that when you unpack it you can set up your personal library just the way you had it back home in New York. So it doesn’t take you long to find that book. That damned book. The cover is faded. The dark brown leather is weathered and much lighter. The spine has lost all structure and the pages have changed color.

You sit down exactly where you stand, cross-legged on the floor, you open to that first page. You look at the all-too-familiar note. You were tempted, over the years, to burn the book, tear that first page out, cross out every one of his notes. But you never could do it. Deep down, no matter how bad he had hurt you, the book seemed to remain separate from that.

Maybe it’s because it’s a constant reminder that you weren’t some naive, foolish, young child. You hadn’t deluded yourself into thinking Hotch cared for you. He did. There was some sense of care and attention to detail. The book is evidence of that. However, it forces you to hold on to an image of Hotch that clearly is not the prevailing personality. Looking at the book reminds you of the bashful, almost embarrassed, man who handed it to you in his office so long ago. The careful way he traced your jawline, the way he tangled his fingers in your hair, pushing it out of the way to really get a good look at your face. That image of him sometimes wins out when you think of Aaron Hotchner. You want to remember him that way, but that only seems to prolong your pain. It makes you want him back.

You lay down on the floor pressing the book close to your heart. You could simply pick up the phone. You could just call him, tell him you want to start all over. But you can’t start all over. Being with Aaron Hotchner was a lifetime ago. That doesn’t change how vividly you can remember being with him. For the first few years, you hated him with every fiber of your being. You thought about what would happen if you ever saw him again. You would scream at him. Tell him off, curse him out. But as the years passed, you stopped hating him. There’s a fine line between love and hate. And as you know, Aaron Hotchner has always been good at keeping lines blurry.

Everything in you is screaming at you to pick up the phone. You’ve dreamed of hearing his voice tell you, “Let’s try again... please.” But you fight the urge. You close your eyes, the cold floor of your apartment sending a chill through you, enough to keep your wits about you.

——

Hotch runs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes forcing himself to stay awake, forcing his attention back to the case report. His attempts to work fail, his mind always traveling back to you. He knew you would be a different person. It’s been eight years. He’s a different person. What he didn’t expect was how much of you is still the same.

That bright look in your eyes while discussing the case was one he had seen so many times while you poured over a novel in his office. You still talk with your hands, punctuating every sentence with a little shake or gesture of your fingers. You crack your knuckles when you’re thinking.

The differences are clear to him too. You don’t hold your tongue. You’re blunt. Brutally honest, almost to a fault. You seem to have pushed aside any attempt at politeness, or social niceties. You no longer feel so openly. He finds it much harder to read your face and body language. Your thoughts are not as clear to him as they used to be. He used to know exactly what you were thinking. He can tell you’ve practiced your poker face. He tried his best the past three days to get a read on how you feel about him. He doesn’t want to dwell on the past. All of that was before Haley. And indulging in thoughts of before is just simply too painful for him.

He walks to the window, looking out at the city. He wonders where you are tonight. Are you thinking about him? Are you hurting? Or has it been so long that he’s unimportant to you? Is someone holding you close to them, pressing soft kisses to your lips, whispering comforting words?

He could just pick up the phone and call you. He could profusely apologize. Not that his apology would mean anything, but it’s a speech he’s been rehearsing for years. He loved Haley with his whole heart. She was his whole world, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t regret how he treated you. Haley showed him a world of love, yet he managed to ruin that as well. He prioritized the job over her. Look where that got him.

Hotch knows you will never forgive him. He has never forgiven himself, but he can’t help but think about what would happen if he showed up on your doorstep. Would you immediately turn him away? Or would you let him in? Would you hear him out?

He shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from the lights of DC. He walks to the kitchen, pouring a fresh mug of coffee. He can’t call you. Too much has happened. He thinks about the sleeping little boy upstairs. Every night he’s tormented by memories. He can still remember what it felt like to hold Haley’s lifeless body in his arms. When he does get sleep, visions of Haley’s dead eyes, his bloodied clothes, Foyet’s knife, invade his dreams. He frequently wakes up coated in sweat, the scars on his chest and stomach stinging with the same intensity as the day Foyet inflicted the stab wounds.

Which is why he feels immense guilt over the fact that three days ago, he shook your hand to welcome you to the team, and it ignited every nerve in his body. Everything has changed, but your hand in his made him feel alive.

Chapter 13: II.II →

#aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #wanna be yours fanfic #hotch #hotchner #hotch x reader

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justice4harwin · 3 years

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Darklina prompt

Inspired by Taylor Swift’s Champagne problems

A/N: TBH, I’m not sure this is the actual assigment, but the lines of the song that I choose are just too lovely for me and I could’t help it. It wrote itself, i swear

I don’t know if this is what you had in mind @mayatried but I hope you like it :)

Set during S&B

“Your Midas touch on the Chevy door

November flush and your flannel cure”

Alina treaded carefully through the dark. Night seemed to be abandoning its deepest cycle, but there was yet time before the sun arose. Everyone at the Little Palace slept, even Baghra in her hut -she suspected the woman slept, at least-, and Alina had begun to take advantage of such lonely hours to practice.

She walked around first, rounding part of the lake before taking a turn into a maze.

She liked the place. The polished bushes bloomed with flowers of various colors carefully planted within by the gardeners, and there were stone benches here and there.

A part of her wanted to get lost in there and never be found.

She shuddered and rubbed her arms, wishing she had taken a thicker kefta with her instead of the one currently upon her more rounded figure.

It was still strange, looking in the mirror and no longer seeing the bones of the ribs through the soft skin, or seeing her cheekbones softer and pink and full.

Her hands went up. She liked her new cheekbones. She felt pretty.

Deep into the maze, she shook her head to rid it of such frivolous thoughts and took a firm stand.

She closed her eyes and called the power inside of her. She had been able to summon after letting it all go at Baghras hut, but her progress was slow.

She supposed once couldn't heal a lifetime wound in a few weeks, but everyone had their eyes on her now, so maybe she'd have to suck it up.

A small bulb of light appeared in her hand, taking the shape of a sphere. She smiled softly, feeling its warmth.

Gently, she disentangled a hand and created another sphere of light.

Doing her best to ignore the cold and the sleepiness, she willed the spheres to stretch and join.

Trembling, they did.

It's a start.

She then forced them to unify into one long stick of light, flexible like a whip, and then she stretched her arms, elongating the light.

Next, she tried to grab a solid hold of the light with one hand and let the other drop.

To her surprise, it didn't burn her; it just filled her with a sense of power and surety.

Hesitant, lifted her arm, the light going with her, and slashed.

The flowers on a big stone vase banished as if they had never existed, yet the stone remained practically untouched; a black, long spot its only scar.

"Impressive."

She jumped, turning to see The Darkling stepping forward, that blank expression on his face making it hard for her to believe him.

"I thought it wasn't enough." She said, remembering his words.

"It's not." He said, matter-of-factly, and Alina felt a small sting on her chest. "But you managed to get a solid, physical hold of your power already, however short lived it was, and that was impressive. It should have taken you more time."

She felt herself blushing under his praise.

"How did you find me?"

He remained silent for a moment or two, calculating probably as he always seemed to do. She couldn't really distinguish his features that well in the dark.

"Sometimes I like to sit at the edge of the lake to think. I find the still water most calming."

"You have a lot on your plate, don't you?" She asked, genuinely concerned.

He seemed to have huffed a laugh.

"You don't have to worry about me. Your only job is to strengthen your power."

"But I do!" She hurried to say,cheeks red. "I-I mean, I worry about you."

She looked down, and barely felt him approach as his boots stepped on the grass.

"You do?" She wasn't sure what to make of his tone, but Alina felt the need to reach out and take his hand.

Instead, she took a step forward and summoned her light, delicately running it over his face. He looked perfect, as usual, yet she wondered…

"When was the last time you slept?"

He chuckled, not turning away from her light.

"Do I look tired to you, Summoner?"

"No, but Genya is a miracle worker."

His lips quirked up.

"She is, indeed."

"A pity her talents are wasted on the queen and king." Alina said before she could even think of holding her tongue.

She tensed, but The Darkling nodded slowly, a shadow passing over his face.

"It is. She looks like a candle with her white kefta, but she'd be a walking flame in red."

Alina couldn't hide her surprise. Would he dare to promote her?

The Darkling stretched his arm out.

"But no more talk about that. Come, I shall teach you something."

Learning from The Darkling himself? Alina would never miss the chance.

She eagerly followed him deeper into the maze, into a spacious area occupied only by grass.

Gracefully, he sat down.

"Next to me."

Much less gracefully, she did as he commanded, trying not to get grass or mud on her kefta. She placed her legs underneath her body and her hands on her lap, more than ready to soak in all the information he had to give.

She looked at his profile and felt her breath caught. Even in the dark, his pale face seemed perfectly clear to her.

She leaned her back against the wall of bushes, wincing only slightly as some small sticks pinched her back.

“Now what?”

“Are you afraid of your powers?” he asked.

“No.” she was too quick to reply.

“Do not lie to me, miss Starkov. I don’t take kindly to deceit.” he spoke calmly, yet she felt a small flicker of fear roll over her body.

“I am.” she muttered, so quietly she herself almost didn’t hear the words. She bit down on her lip and then opened her mouth: “I’m scared to not be enough to destroy The Fold. I feel like I’m not advancing fast enough. I’m also scared of how powerful I could get if I,...if I unleash it, and I’m scared it’ll consume me and I’ll let it.”

And that was only part of it. What if she accidentally hurt someone innocent? What if she failed? Why did people keep watching her in such various ways?

“A power, a gift like ours, is not bestowed upon just anyone. We have it because we were meant to wield it; because we are the only ones strong enough.” he leaned towards her, his expression almost gentle. “You will be magnificent, miss Starkov. I am well aware of what you could accomplish, and if you do get too lost, I’ll be right there to pull you back.”

“Do you promise?” she felt silly asking, like a child, but she needed some reassurance.

Everyone was so expectant of her, of great achievements she was terrified of, that having someone who could understand her and seemed to genuinely believe in her capabilities -without making a fuss or calling her a Saint- sent a tidal wave of reassurance that could’ve dropped her on her ass if she hadn’t been already seated.

“I do.” he replied, his voice filling the entire space they occupied. He leaned back, face blank again. “Now, close your eyes.”

Alina did as he said.

“Deep breaths.”

She slowly took in a big gulp of cold, late-autumn air. She shivered.

“Now,” he said, and his voice sounded right by her ear, his beard brushing against her soft skin and threatening to ruin the whole process. “Feel the light.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s inside you, miss Starkov.”

“Alina.”

He said nothing, but she felt him tense. “Feel it.”

She reached down, deep within herself for that almost familiar warmth, and smiled softly when it answered her with an enthusiastic twinkle.

“Now, imagine it all over your body, every inch of it, warm and gold.”

That twinkle in her chest seemed to have steadied, and with the utmost focus, Alina began to picture it covering her chest, travelling down her arms and legs, all the way to the tips of her toes.

She shivered again, the sudden change in temperature taking her body by surprise.

She opened her eyes and looked down, and found a faint glow on her hands. She felt the currents of wind but they didn’t affect her. She was as warm as if she were well sunked in a hot bath.

She looked up at The Darkling, who almost smirked; she was sure of it!

“Well, now I know I won’t freeze to death on the mountains.”

“You plan on going to the mountains?” he asked, almost amused.

She flushed.

“N-no, it was,...um, it was a joke.”

He chuckled silently, and Alina tilted her head as he shifted in his place.

“You’re cold.”

“I am perfectly fine; thank you, Alina.” he answered, the perfect liar.

The use of her name made her falter, and after a second it made her feel more secure, however odd that may sound. She scooted closer to him and again, bought her hand up to his cheek. It was cold.

The Darkling almost seemed startled for a moment, but then, when Alina thought he might push her away, he slowly lifted his arm, bringing her to his side.

She looked up at the stars shining down on them, at the full moon, so beautiful and unreachable, just, or so she thought, as the man next to her.

“Can you feel the warmth too?” she asked softly.

A moment passed and she felt his lips ghost over her hair.

“I can feel you, Alina.”

She couldn’t help but smile and cuddle even closer, daring to press her front to his side and take a hold of his dark cloak.

Slowly, he placed his chin atop of her head.

Alina didn’t move, enjoying the moment. Cheeks red as they could be and her heart beating faster than a rabbit’s. She just enjoyed the silent environment, the quiet rustle of leaves and the voices of night.

Cuddling with the most powerful, dangerous man in all of Ravka, Alina felt the pressure set upon her shoulders since she arrived at the Little Palace fade away, like it didn’t matter. Yes, it was a tough task; but just like with anything that proved difficult, she’d advance little by little.

She dared to wrap an arm around his midsection, his own free arm engulfing her as well as he muttered something.

His breathing had slowed and steadied, his heart beat strong inside its cavity.

Carefully, she lifted her eyes as best she could without moving him, and realized he had fallen asleep.

With a contented sigh, she buried her face into his chest and closed her own eyes.

Somehow, the feel of his cloak around her, his frame against her, and her dim light keeping them warm felt far more comfortable than the luxurious bed all but forgotten in her bedroom.

#shadow and bone #alina starkov #the darkling #aleksander morozova #darklina #alina x darkling #alina x aleksander #taylor swift #champagne problems #evermore #writing prompt #in the middle of the niiiiighhht #theyre so soooooft

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mxndoscyarika · 4 years

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Folklore series: cardigan (Marcus Pike x fem!reader)

Author’s note: Whaaat? Two pieces of writing posted on two consecutive days? Yep, that’s what happens when I have Feelings 😭 I know you guys loved the Marcus fic, so I thought I’d slip a little bit of our favorite FBI agent into this series 👀 Keep in mind that most of these stories will be separate entities; they’re not in the same universe! I hope you guys like itttt ❤️

Summary: You and Marcus fit together like puzzle pieces; taken apart, jumbled up in life, but ultimately reunited.

Like my writing? Here’s my masterlist.

< previous song | next song >

Warning(s): prom, breakups, mention of Lisbon

Song: cardigan by Taylor Swift (Folklore)

---A friend to all is a friend to none

Chase two girls, lose the one

When you are young they assume you know nothing---

“Y/N? Can I ask you something?”

You looked up from your book at your best friend, Marcus. “Yeah, what do you need?”

He sat down, wringing his hands. Smiling bashfully, he said quietly, “It, uh, has to do with prom.”

At that, you felt heat rise to your cheeks. Looking away, you responded, “What about it?”

“There’s this girl I’ve been meaning to ask to go with me…” Your heart raced in your chest. Although you never made a big deal out of your high school’s prom, deep down you wanted to go. Or at least to be asked. To be thought of for such an important milestone in the American lifestyle.

Marcus was your best friend—and a guy, no less—so part of you wished that he’d pick you. That he’d bring you flowers and a poster asking you to be his date to the prom. To a night full of dancing and dressing up and simply having fun.

It was safe to say that you thought of him as more than just a friend. There was just something about you and him that fit together so well, like your favorite cardigan that you’d worn over and over until you couldn’t wear it in public anymore.

“I was thinking of asking Ashley to be my date,” he started, a blush on his cheeks. You wished it was for you. “Do you think I have a chance? How should I ask her?”

Trying to hide your disappointment, you forced yourself to smile for him. Of course it wouldn’t be you. Why would it, when he could have any girl he wanted? He was thoughtful, smart, exceedingly polite, and just….everything. Your childhood summers, weekends filled with games of hide-and-seek. “You should do whatever you think is best, Marcus. She’s a lucky girl, to have you asking her out.”

“But how, exactly?” he asked. Your knees touched as he turned towards you. “I want to make her feel special, even if she says no.”

You shrugged nonchalantly. Frankly, you barely knew her. She wasn’t in any of your classes, only Marcus’s. Which also meant everything you knew was told to you by him. “It depends on what she likes. Some girls want flowers and a poster, others might want to be serenaded or surprised at home.”

“Well, what about you?” he wondered, nudging you with his elbow. “How would Y/N L/N like to be asked to prom?”

Your heart clenched at his soft voice. If only he knew. “Honestly? It wouldn’t matter if it was someone I wanted to go with.” Realizing you might’ve just invited him to ask more questions about your prom journey, you added, “But flowers would be nice. Especially if they were my favorite. But I guess only you would know what they are.”

“Of course,” he nodded. “Well, I’m sure someone will get you flowers. Anyone would be lucky to be your date.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” you muttered, playing with a stray thread on your shirt.

If anyone would be lucky to take you to prom, why wasn’t Marcus asking you to be his date?

It was summer when your heart was broken.

“I just don’t understand.”

Marcus held you close and laid back against the pillows, his hands slipping under your sweatshirt to rub your back. The warmth of his embrace and the soft murmur of his voice was enough to soothe your sobs into hiccups. Squeezing your eyes shut, you hugged him tighter and buried your face against his neck.

“That guy is an idiot,” he said, his hand resting against your lower back. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on. And you know what? He doesn’t deserve to know.”

You’d thought everything was going well. He’d been so nice, so accepting. Your parents loved him, though you knew they preferred your best friend.

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” you contemplated, your hands gripping the back of his shirt. The cotton fabric was soft beneath your fingertips. “We’re going off to college in a few months anyways. It would’ve ended sooner or later.”

“Not necessarily,” Marcus murmured. “Relationships can survive through a distance if the two people love each other enough to put in the work.” His eyes lit up as he thought of something. “Can you sit up for a second? I think I know something that will help you feel better.”

Wordlessly, you pushed yourself into a sitting position. You watched as your best friend in the entire world slid off your bed and slid your closet door open. If he were anyone else, you’d tell them to stop. But this was your Marcus, your best friend. You’d let him do anything.

“Where is it?” he muttered to himself as he sorted through your hanging clothes. Just as he turned to ask you, he spotted the worn fabric in a pile under your bed, the edge sticking out just enough to be noticed. “Ah, there it is.”

Plucking the old cardigan from its spot on the floor, he said, “This should do the trick.”

You couldn’t help giving him a little smile as he draped it around your shoulders before sliding back onto the bed and pulling you into his arms. For a moment, as you laid your head on his chest, you let yourself imagine an alternate reality where you and he were together.

“Thank you.”

---

“Sorry,” you muttered as you squeezed past the lady and her shopping cart that was in the middle of the aisle. Ignoring the annoyed look she gave you, you walked out towards the checkout lines.

You heard a breathy, familiar laugh, making you stop as you placed your groceries on the conveyor belt. It had been years since you heard that laugh. But as you looked around you, there was no sign of him.

Eventually, you and Marcus had split up to go to college, promising to stay in touch. Despite your best efforts, school, relationships, and work took over every aspect of your lives, leaving little room to catch up. Sure, you saw each other’s posts on Facebook, but it wasn’t the same.

Not that it should’ve mattered. People can change and fall out of friendships, you tried to convince yourself. You certainly didn’t stay in touch with some of your friends from college, why should you expect Marcus to make you an exception?

Last you heard, he’d been dating a coworker: Teresa Lisbon. Unable to stop yourself, you’d searched up her profile on Facebook, scrolling through her posts.

They seemed happy. And you were happy for him.

At least one of you was getting a happy ending.

Throughout college and the time after graduating, you’d tried to squash your feelings for him with other relationships. But no matter how nice the person was, they never made you feel as warm and safe as Marcus did. They didn’t understand your quirky habits and didn’t know how to care for you when the weight of existence crushed you. They didn’t know you had a favorite piece of clothing that you kept perpetually stowed away in a box with your high school graduation gown and cap.

They weren’t Marcus.

Part of you wished you had told him about your feelings before he’d left, just so you could have some peace of mind. Nothing would’ve changed; you still would’ve parted ways and gone down your separate paths, but you wondered if anything could have changed. Would he have told you he felt the same? That he cherished those weekends just as much as you did?

As you pulled up to your parent’s house, you noticed an unfamiliar car parked on the driveway. You frowned. Your parents hadn’t told you they were inviting people over.

There was a man standing at the front door talking to your parents, his baritone voice sending shivers down your spine. He was dressed in a suit and had his hands in his pockets, head dipped slightly.

“Oh, Y/N! You’re back already?” your mom asked, smiling. She held out her hands for the bags as you slipped past the man.

Passing them to her, you replied, “Traffic wasn’t too bad and I remembered where everything was. It hasn’t been that long since I’ve been here.”

“Y/N?”

You froze, still facing towards the inside of the house. It couldn’t be him. He was working for the government and had a fiancee. Why would he come home without her? Without Lisbon?

A part of you wanted to cry as you turned to look at Marcus. Your parents took that as their signal to leave, letting you and Marcus navigate the situation on your own. As a team.

“Marcus,” you greeted, smiling softly. Crossing your arms, you asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, chuckling softly. His eyes still twinkled when he laughed, though now the corners crinkled adorably. Although years had passed, and now he bore a scruffy beard, he still looked as handsome as ever. Softly, he said, “It’s been a long time.”

Nodding, you replied, “Yeah, it has been.” You gestured towards him. “I mean, look at you. You’re wearing a suit and tie, you grew a beard, are engaged...A lot of things have changed.”

The smile on his face faded when you mentioned his engagement. “Actually, I’m not engaged anymore.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh...I didn’t know-”

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassured, shaking his head. Though by the way his voice dropped and his eyes glistened, you knew he was still hurting. “It just...wasn’t meant to be.”

“I’m sorry,” you said softly. As if you were moving on instinct, you stepped towards him and pulled him into a hug. A wave of emotions crashed over you as his scent of sandalwood and musk enveloped you. Your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, as if you’d never left each other. “Do you want to come in?”

“Would you mind?” he asked, his voice like velvet.

Slipping your hands into his, you tugged him into the house. “You’re always welcome, Marcus.”

---And when I felt like I was an old cardigan

Under someone’s bed

You put me on and said I was your favorite---

Tagging:

Permanent taglist: @cinewhore @randomness501 @pedropascalisadilf @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catfishingmorales @halfwaythereroyal @fioccodineveautunnale @talesfromtheguild @tortles @ladamari68 @theokatcov @snivellusim @starryluce @inked-poet @this-cat-is-dea @shewritesandplants @chews-erotically @thefandomimagines @emesispo @mindless--ramblings

Folklore series taglist: @cryptkeepersoul...and @agentpike, because I feel like it would be illegal to NOT tag the biggest Marcus stan of all 😂

Let me know if you’d like to be added to either taglist!

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike #agent pike x reader #agent pike #the mentalist #Pedro pascal #Pedro Pascal x reader #my writing

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bi-bard · 2 years

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And Will You Still Want Me When I’m Nothing New? - Emily Prentiss Imagine (Criminal Minds)

Title: And Will You Still Want Me When I’m Nothing New?

Pairing: Emily Prentiss X Reader

Based On: Nothing New

Word Count: 675 words

Warning(s): self-doubt

Summary: (Season 6) (Y/n) was only confident in their abilities for so long before they felt like they were no longer important. What happens when someone feels like they’re on the verge of being replaced?

Author's Note: Why do these keeping ending up being so much shorter than I'm hoping for?

Masterlist for From the Vault - Taylor Swift Writing Challenge

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

I didn't question what it would mean for there to be a new member of the team.

I just smiled and shrugged about it.

I had joined a few years ago. I had followed in about a year after Emily joined the team. We bonded over the fact that we both weren't quite as close as the rest of the team. She made the entire process easier... even before we had gotten together.

A new member of the team should be a good thing. Something to celebrate.

So, when Ashley Seaver walked into the bullpen, I felt like a complete ass for feeling a ping of jealousy. She wasn't even officially an agent. Rossi chose her. Picked her out by name.

The entire thing made my stomach sink more than I would ever care to admit.

It felt like anything I had done or achieved was immediately overshadowed by her mere presence.

I tried to ignore it. I tried to work through any doubts I had forming in my head. I just tried to shrug all of it off. Nothing to worry about. It was all fine. Just had to ignore it.

"(Y/n)."

My head popped up when I heard someone say my name. Emily was standing next to my desk.

"Hey," I replied, putting a smile on my face.

"Hey," she said, seeming suspicious. "You alright?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "Why?"

"You've been staring at that file without moving for like ten minutes."

"It's interesting."

"(Y/n)," she sighed. "There is only one paragraph on that page."

I stammered for a moment, "One paragraph can be very interesting."

Emily rolled her eyes before grabbing my wrist. I let her drag me away from my desk and through the bullpen. We ended up in the team's meeting room. She closed the blinds and shut the doors before looking at me.

"What," I asked.

"What's going on," she replied. I furrowed my eyebrows, trying to play dumb. "You've been distracted, quieter, trying to do even more work than usual. What's going on?"

"Nothing," I promised. "Nothing's happening."

"I don't believe you at all."

"Emily-"

"Please," she stepped forward and grabbed my hand. "I just want to help you. Please talk to me."

I looked down at our hands. She was just trying to help. She loved me. I knew that. This was all coming from a place of love.

"Please."

"It's... It's Ashley," I muttered, embarrassed about even feeling this way.

"Did she say something to you," Emily's eyebrows furrowed.

"No, no," I shook my head. "She didn't do anything wrong. She's fine. She's nice... and smart... and new... and young as hell... and was requested by Rossi.... and-"

"Hey, hey," Emily's hands moved to the sides of my face. "It's alright. Take a deep breath."

"She's just... better than me."

"Okay, that's just wrong," she replied bluntly. I shook my head. "(Y/n). She's not better than you. You are a kickass profiler. You do an amazing job."

"I just... shit... I feel like an asshole for even feeling like this," I muttered. "She's such a good person and I'm just being stupid and jealous."

"You're human," she replied. "This sucks but it's human. You aren't immune to these emotions."

I let out a sigh and closed my eyes, "Is she going to replace me?"

"No, never," Emily promised. "Don't think she could. Don't think that Rossi and Hotch believe she can."

I placed my hands over hers.

"You are amazing," she continued. "And I will keep saying that until you believe me."

I opened my eyes and looked at her, "And when I'm no longer exciting?"

"That insinuates that I could ever get bored of you," she said. "And that's never going to happen."

I let out another sigh but grinned at her, nevertheless.

"I love you," she dragged her thumbs along my cheekbones.

"I love you too," I mumbled. She leaned over and kissed my forehead.

For just a moment, the sinking feeling dissipated, and every ounce of work was worth it. I was comfortable again.

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

Masterlist (Includes links to All Writing Challenges)

What I Write For

Some Original Characters

#emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss fanfiction #fanfiction #imagine #x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader

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zoe-dinh · 3 years

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Shameless Media: A Start-up's Guide To Digital Stakeholder Engagement

OVERVIEW

Today’s businesses exist in a world where everything is rapidly changing. How organisations communicate with stakeholders, and vice versa, have been transformed by the digital age.

Not only are stakeholders powerful and tech-savvy, thanks to digital media, they now also have direct contact with companies and organisations 24/7 (Ozer 2020).

Companies therefore are much more accountable for their conduct and value (Tench & Yeomans 2017). This can either play to their advantage, or hinder it in a critical way.

As such, businesses need to foster relationships with stakeholders by leveraging the power of digital media. The goal is to have a community of people who support the organisation, who resonates with the brand’s value and message.

An example of modern organisations championing this is Shameless Media. Utilising digital media, Shameless engages with their stakeholders through strategic branding and content marketing.

How can we capture people’s hearts and minds in an attention economy? Let’s learn from this millennial start-up.

CASE STUDY: SHAMELESS MEDIA

Profile

Shameless Media (SM) is a millennial gen Z’s destination for all things digital content. Operated in Melbourne by a team of five young women, the company was founded in 2019 by writers Zara McDonald and Michelle Andrews.

Although relatively young, the podcast venture has accumulated a consumer base of over 20 million listeners, plus a growing community of 220,000+ followers across Facebook, Instagram and LinkedIn. SM also recently created a brand-new agency for content creators and influencers, The Sana Agency.

Stakeholders

Since its inception, the podcast has not had a single episode that has not been sponsored (Forbes 2021). More notably, Shameless listenership is overwhelmingly 94.7% women in their 20s (Gillezeau 2021).

SM's key stakeholder groups thus include:

1. Consumers: audiences, readers, listeners; and

2. Sponsors: collaborators, business partners.

Current digital operations

PLATFORMS

1. Podcast

At first glance: Eye-catching cover. Good tag line (“The pop culture podcast for smart people who love dumb stuff”). Almost always seen in the Top Charts.

My thoughts: I was surprised to discover how new the podcast is. Its popularity, large growing number of listeners and content quality make Shameless seem a lot more established.

Open and honest, the hosts are not afraid to let audience knows where they stand on critical issues (feminism, politics, climate change etc.). New episodes are regularly scheduled which is good for audience retention.

As a consumer, I am drawn to the show/company for their seeming authenticity and relatability. Not to mention the well-balanced research that allows audience to form their own opinions without being spoon-fed. 10/10 recommend.

2. Website

At first glance: Layout is easy to look at. Visually appealing. All relevant info seems to be there.

My thoughts: Nice design, but not as much interactivity as I would have liked. When I tried looking for more information on the founders and organisation, something like an About Us section for example, there was none. Neither was there any resource or material on the business side of things (annual reports or data analytics or anything of the sorts).

One may excuse this considering the age of the organisation. However, I believe SM might benefit from a website update or revamp. It will certainly be helpful for those like me who are curious, who do research on the firm and would therefore like more access to information.

3. Instagram

At first glance: Quite large following. Relatively high audience engagement. Content layout not my personal taste, but appealing overall.

My thoughts: Shameless has great social media presence, especially on Instagram. The company made good efforts in interacting with followers. There are the ‘Your say Fridays’, polls and Q&A every other day on Stories. Users regularly comment on posts (memes, podcast updates & announcement), and many get replies from admin.

Overall, Shameless is doing very well with social media engagement and audience interactions.

4. Facebook

At first glance: Not much to see/do as this is a private group. Nice cover image though.

My thoughts: Large community of readers of nearly 34,000 members. The group has been active since 2019. While discussion threads cannot be publicly viewed, those interested in the content can find related episodes on the Shameless podcast.

Over on Instagram, there are links in bio to the book-selling site for each month’s pick. Makes me wonder whether or not these are affiliate links.

5. LinkedIn

At first glance: Small-to-medium sized following. Appealing visuals, though not too much information.

My thoughts: I have seen the Shameless LinkedIn profile before, but has only started following them recently. The account is not too active, the latest post was from a few months ago. Perhaps this is because the content that circulates on LinkedIn often revolves around business culture, not the usual focus by SM. Most of the posts thus far are general announcement and job openings.

In the future, SM might be benefit from a more active LinkedIn page, so as to not only attract new audience and potential talents, but also to establish their presence more firmly among competitors in the corporate world.

DIGITAL STAKEHOLDER ENGAGEMENT

The corporate brand is constantly being co-created by organisation with their stakeholders. Dialogical communication is said to enhance this along with corporate reputation (Gundolf et al. 2018; Ozer 2020; Rosenberg & Seager 2017).

In reality, what might this look like?

From tactics to dialogic communication in digital media, let’s look at how SM has been engaging with stakeholders.

Dialogical communication in digital media

Tactics

Potential areas of improvement

Lack of strategy

Upscaling the business

Other types of content, especially video

CONCLUSION

So far, leveraging social media has helped Shameless achieve their goal and stay true to their brand. “Win their niche, core audience, nurture specific community of mostly young working women” (Gillezeau 2021).

The company’s success is in no small way thanks to the relationship they have with their audience. SM has intimate understandings of what the audience wants, and are able to deliver it.

This is in large part due to the founders being in the same demographics as their audience. As McDonald put it, “[W]e wanted to tap into a younger demographic that we thought were generally being ignored by mainstream media” (Forbes 2021), which explains the company slogan.

“We make content for ourselves, our mates, and you”.

Branding and content wise, SM is doing a good job capitalising on the trends, particularly with interactive content, content marketing, and online content communities (Clark-Keane 2021; Thomson 2019).

Yet, it is also important to note the fortunate position SM finds themselves in. As a millennial start-up, they are already advantaged by having skills in digital media and technologies.

Nonetheless, through forces of strategic digital communication, Shameless Media has been successfully engaging with their stakeholders through a combination of clever branding and content marketing.

---

REFERENCES

Clark-Keane, C. 2021, ‘7 Content Marketing Trends to Watch in 2021’, Wordstream, https://www.wordstream.com/blog/ws/2020/11/23/content-marketing-trends

Forbes, T. 2021, ‘How I Do It: Shameless Media’s Zara McDonald and Michelle Andrews on building their empire’, Fashion Journal, https://fashionjournal.com.au/life/how-i-do-it-shameless-media/

Gillezeau, N. 2021, ‘Shameless Media: The podcast start-up that’s rejecting big offers’, Australian Financial Review, https://www.afr.com/companies/media-and-marketing/how-they-built-it-shameless-media-20210330-p57fbu

Gundolf, K., Jaouen, A. & Gast, J. 2018, ‘Motives for strategic alliances in cultural and creative industries’, Creative Innovation Management, vol. 27, pp. 148-160, DOI: 10.1111/caim.12255

Johnston, J. & Rowney, K. 2019, ‘Social networks’, Media Strategies: Managing Content, Platforms and Relationships, Taylor & Francis, Sydney, pp. 75-103.

Kim, K. 2021, ‘How to make sure you’re marketing to Gen Z the right way’, Sprout Social, https://sproutsocial.com/insights/marketing-to-gen-z/

Ozer, D. 2020, ‘Organisations’ use of social media from the perspective of dialogical communications and marketing-oriented public relations’, In B.O. Aydin, S. Gurbuz & O, Dugan (eds.), Public Relations in the Networked Publics, Peter Lang, Frankfurt, pp. 211-235.

Rosenberg, M. & Seager, P. H. 2017, ‘The Big Picture: Four Trend that Change Everything’, Managing Media Businesses, Retrieved from ProQuest EBook Central, DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-52021-6_1

Smart Insights 2020, ‘7 ways to reach and influence millennials using social media marketing’, https://www.smartinsights.com/social-media-marketing/social-media-strategy/7-ways-to-reach-millennials-through-social-media-marketing/

Tench, R. & Yeomans, L. 2017, ‘Exploring Public Relations’, Global Strategic Communication, Pearson Education, Harlow, Available from: ProQuest EBook Central (14 August 2021).

Thomson, C. 2019, ‘Top Marketing Trends For 2020’, Forbes, https://www.forbes.com/sites/forbesagencycouncil/2019/10/03/top-marketing-trends-for-2020/#6889ba113d5d

-END-

#shameless media #digital stakeholder #engagement #RMIT #participatory media #strategic communication

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thepapercutpost · 3 years

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Female Artists Fighting For Their Due Are Not Being Greedy; They’re Defending the Futures of Their Industries

"Scarlett Johansson" by Gage Skidmore is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 (left). "File:191125 Taylor Swift at the 2019 American Music Awards (cropped).png" by Cosmopolitan UK is licensed under CC BY 3.0 (right)

In May of 2010, Iron Man 2 introduced Scarlett Johansson’s Black Widow to the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

A few months later, Netflix—whose subscribers were, in majority, still receiving DVDs—began offering a standalone streaming subscription independent from its DVD rentals. It wasn’t until nearly ten years later that Disney, parent company of Marvel Entertainment, would launch its own streaming service, Disney+. And in 2021, after three pandemic-related delays, Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff’s solo film which fans had been demanding for 11 years, was finally released.

The long-awaited film garnered $80 million in North American theaters during its opening weekend, more than any other film released during the pandemic era. (In comparison, MCU’s last pre-pandemic release, Spider-Man: Far From Home, made $185 million). Because of the somewhat mercurial state of indoor gatherings around the world, Disney chose to make Black Widow available simultaneously in theaters and for an additional $30 fee for Disney+ subscribers. After opening weekend, in an unprecedented move in streaming service transparency, Disney revealed the film had grossed $60 million through Disney+’s Premier Access feature.

The next weekend, the film suffered a 67% drop in box office sales. Disney has not since released streaming numbers.

Within a month, news broke that Johansson was suing Disney over the film’s hybrid release. Her suit claims that her contract for the film guaranteed an exclusively theatrical release and that her compensation was largely tied to box office revenue, which was impacted by the film’s simultaneous availability on Disney+. The breach of contract is a serious allegation against the company, and it comes from the embodiment of one of the longest-standing pillars of its most successful franchise.

Disney’s response? Make her the bad guy. Paint her as the greedy, insensitive Hollywood prima donna. Publish her salary to prove it, despite a policy of “never publicly disclos[ing] salaries or deal terms.” And blame the pandemic.

In a statement, the company claimed Johansson’s suit had “no merit whatsoever” and called it “especially sad and distressing in its callous disregard for the horrific and prolonged global effects of the COVID-19 pandemic.”

Their argument here is twofold: 1) the pandemic prevented them from releasing the movie in theaters, and 2) she should be happy with the millions she has already gotten.

We have all had to make concessions due to the pandemic, albeit most of us on a smaller scale. But Disney’s sudden overwhelming concern for public health and safety is less than convincing. Their claim that they couldn’t have released the film in theaters proves baseless on account of it, well, being released in theaters. What they seemingly meant was that the pandemic meant a smaller payday from movie theaters, so they found an additional method of distributing the film that just so happened to free them of the obligation of splitting its revenue with the star, not to mention movie theater companies.

Appealing to the sympathies of the billions of people in the world who can’t even fathom the amount of money Johansson and her movie star peers earn for each film they make is a slightly smarter move. After all, a jury who decides whether she wins her case will likely consist of non-millionaires who may be biased against a woman who out-earns them by two or three digits. Regardless of the amount of money in question or the wealth of the individual, a deal is a deal, and a written contract is legally binding. The bottom line is that Disney failed to honor the agreed-upon contingencies (ie. a theatrical release). Not to mention, this argument expects us to forget that Disney itself is a conglomerate worth hundreds of billions of dollars, hardly a poor, innocent victim of a rich woman’s greed.

In fact, Disney’s mentioning of “the $20 million she has received to date” only broadens the scope in Johansson’s favor. She is a Tony winner, two-time Oscar nominee, and one of the highest-grossing actors in box office history. If she retired today, her entire family would be able to live a life of luxury for generations to come without having to work a day. So why nitpick over the extra $50 million or so she could have earned with a theaters-only release, cause a Hollywood-sized fuss, and risk the company dragging her name through the mud, as they so predictably did?

Let’s ask Taylor Swift. The singer-songwriter shot to international superstardom in 2008, making her the face of pop music. In recent years, she has fiercely advocated for artists’ rights after experiencing her own long and ultimately failed attempt to buy back her master recordings from Big Machine Label Group, which was acquired by music manager Scooter Braun in 2019.

Similarly, Johansson’s representatives attempted to reach out to Disney after the announcement of Black Widow’s hybrid release, which could possibly have amended their agreement and avoided the lawsuit altogether. But, like Swift, she was ignored.

Swift famously writes her own music, often from her own experiences. Scott Borchetta, founder of Big Machine, claims that she had the opportunity to own her masters, but, from both his account and Swift’s, the offer was contingent upon her staying with the company. Seeing as doing business with his company was what landed her in this situation, she was not willing to accept this condition, nor did she later accept Braun’s offer to buy back her music, a deal from which Braun would have profited and which came with its own condition: an NDA.

Her claim that Braun’s deal “stripped [her] of [her] life’s work” ignited a highly publicized feud not just between Swift and Braun but between their friends, loyalists, and supporters. Swift’s team shared her stance on artists’ rights while Braun’s defended his nice guy image. Braun himself didn’t comment, instead allowing his allies to take shots at the singer. His wife, Yael Cohen Braun, in an Instagram post referred to Swift as a “bully” and to her claim as a “temper tantrum,” telling her, “the world has watched you collect and drop friends like wilted flowers.” Justin Bieber, a client of Braun’s, suggested Swift's intention when expressing her disgust over the deal was “to get sympathy.”

Even after selling her masters to a private equity firm for $300 million in November 2020, Braun continues to profit off every CD and every stream of every song from every one of the six studio albums Swift recorded while she was signed with Big Machine, an agreement she first entered into at age 15.

Where Johansson is clearly in the right legally, Swift is morally right. Borshetta and Braun were under no legal obligation to sell her the rights to the songs she wrote and created, but they should have.

Both Swift and Johansson have incited high profile disputes, and both have been called by critics the “wrong person” to serve as the figurehead for the big picture arguments based on how much money they make. Two multi-millionaires are hardly the best representatives of the little guy trying to make it in the entertainment industry. It’s no skin off either of their noses if they don’t revolutionize the way artists and actors are paid.

Actually, it makes them the best voices for their causes. The millions of dollars at stake in each of their deals, while massive amounts to the average onlooker, would be a drop in the bucket of their wealth. Yes, they both have huge platforms and established fanbases they can use to garner support, but the fact that they have no skin in the game is their real strength. They don’t need the money, which proves they’re not doing it for themselves.

Disney is trying to hide behind the pandemic to defend its decision to release Black Widow on Disney+, but the issue was present even before the pandemic started, evident in Johansson’s agreement that the film have an exclusively theatrical release. Her suit claims she insisted upon this contingency when the streaming service was launched.

Streaming changed the game. Johansson is likely not the only one to have lost out on media companies’ failure to compensate talent fairly in the wake of the streaming evolution, but she is the first to draw the amount of attention to it that she has. Her claim opens the eyes of fellow actors, film distributors, and the public to an issue that extends beyond her: if the film industry is capable of adapting their content to this new source of distribution, then they can accommodate the role of actors into the changing environment and pay them, and other individuals who make their films possible, what they’re owed.

Record companies can stand to shake things up, too. Contracts that grant an artist’s masters to the labels that produce their music, such as the one Swift signed with Big Machine in 2004, are the norm in the music industry. Hers is far from the first battle to be fought by artists over the rights to their own music. There was the famous Paul McCartney v. Prince debacle in the 1980s, for example. In most cases, revenue is doled out to the label, the producers, the managers, and, last and least, the artists. It’s a system that assumes the performers are just lucky to be there, to have the opportunity to become the next Taylor Swift.

But streaming isn’t just for the movies—it’s changing the music game, too. Artists used to be entirely dependent on record companies to promote their music and get it into the hands of radio stations, but streaming sites and social media have allowed artists to release music independently. Working with a record company is still highly advantageous to an up-and-coming artist, but the other options available to them leave some breathing room for an artist to negotiate and retain the rights to their own music.

So, will wins for Swift and Johansson mean making two rich people richer? Yes. But it also starts a conversation. It gets the word out to young artists and actors that they should expect more from the publishers and executives they work with. And it sends a message to CEOs and big corporations: change with the times.

Since leaving Big Machine, Swift has signed with Universal Music Publishing Group in an agreement that guarantees her the rights to the music she creates with them, from Lover on. She is also in the process of re-recording her first six albums, an endeavor that began with Fearless (Taylor’s Version) in April and will continue with the scheduled release of Red (Taylor’s Version) in November.

“Hopefully, young artists or kids with musical dreams will read this and learn about how to better protect themselves in a negotiation,” Swift wrote in a post. “You deserve to own the art you make.”

#opinion #entertainment #business #feature

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randomvarious · 4 years

Audio

Freddie Fresh feat. Fatboy Slim - “Badder Badder Schwing” Big Beat Song released in 1998. Compilation released in 1999. Big Beat / Breaks

Let's start this post off with a graf from the preamble of a 2018 Freddy Fresh interview, conducted by Matt Lush in Decoded Magazine:

Freddy Fresh is a name that shouldn't require an introduction. From the vast output of his multiple genre-spanning labels; Analog USA, Electric Music Foundation and Howlin' Records, to winning the ARSC Journalism Award for cataloguing every hip-hop release ever made in a single book, crafting timeless acid and electro under over 15 aliases with the likes of Thomas Heckmann, Woody McBride, Tim Taylor and Paul Birkin, and the rest, big beat with Fat Boy Slim, his soundtrack work...it goes on... yet ironically, in my experience anyway, Freddy Fresh seems to be so often underrated, unconsciously ignored, or even completely unknown in the modern electronic world.

Over the course of his career, Freddy Fresh has had his fingers lodged in many different pies. In fact, those pies are sometimes stacked on top of each other so a single finger can penetrate multiple pies at once. Fresh is a DJ's DJ who can patch together eclectic mixes of house, techno, funk, disco, breaks, hip hop, electro, and more; he's produced music across a panoply of dance genres; he's founded a bunch of different record labels; he's opened for blink-182 on tour; his music has appeared in multiple films, TV shows, and commercials; he's authored indispensable books that document hip hop's early history; he's taught DJing at a local college; and he also sells rare records. Put simply, if you're not familiar with Freddy Fresh, you should be.

Freddy Fresh first found his initial passion for music in hip hop culture, entirely thanks to a 1984 trip from his hometown of St. Paul to the Bronx. From then, he would try to ingratiate himself into the Big Apple's hip hop scene, returning once every year with hopes of impressing the right people. He wasn't all that successful, but he did land a track on a 1988 Boogie Down Productions remix album, which honored the memory of BDP's recently slain co-founder, DJ Scott La Rock. Another fun fact that links Freddy to BDP is that if you look at the cover of BDP's landmark debut album, 1987's Criminal Minded, you'll see a plaque towards the bottom lefthand corner. Know who furnished that plaque for them? Freddy Fresh. His dad owned a trophy shop and Freddy gave them the plaque during one of his yearly New York pilgrimages.

But Freddy would soon find himself gravitating towards other genres, too, like house and techno. From that Decoded interview:

I sent demos to Strictly Rhythm [top tier New York-based house label] and various labels and was always rejected. It was years later that labels like Adrenalin and Experimental stood up and took me under their wings. My first techno 12 inch was on Experimental, under my Modulator name. Maximum Pulse / Timmy's Trance in 1992, that got me into the techno scene and also got me my first international DJ gig in Paris 1993 where I played with Jeff Mills, Joey Beltram and Damon Wild... Damon Wild was the man mainly responsible for my early techno career, God Bless Him.

Freddy Fresh then became a big German techno guy. He played sets at Tresor in Berlin (the techno club of techno clubs) and released records on the legendary Frankfurt-based label, Harthouse.

However, a new current started to emerge in the UK in the mid-90s called big beat, which appeared to match with Freddy Fresh's own hip hop sensibilities. It was a strain of dance music that fused together sampled soul, funk, jazz, and rock breaks, which, along with disco, is what hip hop producers largely used to make their own beats. And when those breaks were properly combined with contemporary electronic sounds, like, for example, Roland TB-303 acid squelches, it yielded a newfangled and fun brand of BIG and brash dance tunes. Norman Cook, better known as Fatboy Slim, would emerge as the genre's rightful king, with his uniquely liberal use of bouncy and surf-twangy 50s and 60s guitar samples. And although Freddy Fresh was still an absurdly prolific techno producer in 1996, his Harthouse album, Accidentally Classic, along with a couple Harthouse 12-inches that were licensed from his own Butterbeat label, saw him trying his hand at the big beat sound, which would eventually lead to him teaming up with Norman Cook in 1998.

A March 2020 profile in Mixmag has more:

While he may have been known in France for techno releases on his Analog label, it was Freddy Fresh's releases on Butterbeat that caught the ears of Norman Cook in Brighton. He was an avid supporter of Fresh's perky updates on the hip hop sound, and that's what brought him over to the British seaside. "I got invited to play the Big Beat Boutique. That's when I first met [Cook] and then he ends up sampling my voice [for 'Fucking in Heaven'], then we worked on 'Badder Badder Schwing' together. I loved Norman because he was authentic. He did everything himself. I was like, 'this fucking guy's just like me!'. He collects breakbeats, he's an amazing DJ, he knows how to put shit together and he knows how to run 303s - and Roland 303s are really hard to program.

That co-production with Cook, "Badder Badder Schwing," would originally appear on Freddy Fresh's album, The Last True Family Man, before being released as a single the following year. The single would then turn into an unexpected British hit, earning the mostly techno producer some well-deserved commercial appeal by reaching #34 in the UK charts. "Badder Badder Schwing" can also be heard in 2002's Austin Powers in Goldmember, although it didn't end up being included on the commercially released official soundtrack.

Dipping into that Decoded interview once again for a tad more backstory to "Badder Badder Schwing":

I did have 90% of that track finished when Norman joined in and took it from a 7 to a 10 with his sheer genius.

By sampling a bunch of 60s songs, including horns and drums from Helen Reddy's "One Way Ticket," vocals and hand claps from The Routers' "Let's Go (Pony)," and more drums from Tommy Roe's "Sweet Pea," Freddy Fresh and Norman Cook were able to cobble together a fantastic piece of late 90s, dancefloor-igniting big beat. However, it would be interesting to know which 90% of the track Freddy Fresh had finished before passing it off to Cook, because the whole thing really sounds like a Fatboy Slim track from start to finish. And that's not to discredit Freddy in any way, because despite what dance music's detractors might think, it's not an easy task to make a good dance tune. But the entirety of "Badder Badder Schwing" appears to have Cook's fingerprints all over it, from his glitching, jammed-up, calling card stutters, to the way the combined horn and drum sampling sounds, to the brief, guitar-sampled detour, to the eerie and overdriven background yowling. The song's main riff is when those Helen Reddy horns play, and you'd have to assume that was part of Freddy's contribution, since according to him, the song was virtually done before he let Cook put on the finishing touches. But still, that part sounds like something Fatboy Slim would make, doesn't it? 🤷‍♂️ 🧐🤔

Then again, Freddy Fresh did say about Cook in that recent Mixmag profile, "the fucking guy's just like me!" so maybe they were on the same exact letter within the same exact word on the same exact page in 1998. In the end, it doesn't really matter all that much. Big beat's passed us by, but throw this on at a party (when we're allowed to party again, of course) and it's guaranteed to still go.

Check out the music video, too, which features a kid magician doing a series of tricks:

youtube

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spn-safeandsound · 4 years

Text

11. Too Many Coincidences

Safe and Sound

Dean Winchester x Original Character

Episode: 1x16; Shadow

Word Count: 8,933

Warning(s): Mature language, canon violence + gore, minor character death, angst

Author’s Note: Introducing the Petersen clan! Tell me what you think of this chapter! Enjoy, reblog, and like!

Find the masterlink pinned on my profile!

Julia could feel their eyes on her every now and then. First it would be Dean; his green eyes would look into the rearview mirror and study her pouring over her bible, head bowed. He would look away and then, not even three minutes later, Sam would turn to check on her, his puppy dog eyes peaking over the back of the seat. She would ignore them and continue on reading, her eyes stinging harshly.

She got the call the night before, just after they rescued Sam from the creepy family that hunted humans for sport. It was Taylor, Beth's husband, that called her, telling her that she needed to come home now. They were supposed to be on their way to Chicago for Beth and Levi's birthday in a day's time; now they were going for a different reason.

Levi was dead. The police had found him in his condo in Chicago after he didn't show up to work for two days. She didn't know how her brother died because at that point, she was a mess. Sam had pulled her into his arms while Dean took the phone, getting the details from Taylor. They were on their way to Chicago as soon as they packed up their things.

Julia had been inconsolable for the first half of the eight-hour drive from Hibbing, Minnesota to Chicago. Dean had stayed with her in the backseat, holding her tightly while Sam drove them. Then Julia fell asleep; when she woke up only an hour later, she was alone in the backseat. She cried silently as she pulled her bible out of her backpack and started reading, trying to find strength from whatever passage she turned to.

Now they were just getting out of the early morning traffic on their way to Winnetka, the village that the Petersen-Alexander family lived in which was only sixteen miles away from Chicago. Beth, Taylor, and Lizzie still lived in the house that the siblings grew up in while keeping rooms for Luke, Abby, Levi, and Julia.

"Jules," Dean spoke up gently as he pulled up to the gates that kept strangers and any enemies off the Petersen property. "We're here."

Julia barely looked up, just enough to give Dean a view of her bloodshot eyes. She looked back down, hearing Dean sigh and roll down his window to speak into the speaker in front of the gate.

"Name?" a gruff voice spoke.

"Dean Winchester," Dean stated. "I'm here with Julia and my brother, Sam."

"Codeword?"

Dean cleared his throat and recited the codeword that Taylor gave him the night before. "Peanut butter cup."

As the gate buzzed and slowly opened, Julia wondered if Lizzie picked the codeword. It had been food before, but Lizzie's favorite candy was a Reese's Peanut Butter cup. She probably insisted that it would be the week's passcode. Her niece was a special one, that was for sure.

The head security guard, a man named Mike that had been with them since Julia was a baby, greeted them at the front of the house. He hardly acknowledged Sam and Dean as Julia got out of the car, immediately pulling her into a tight hug.

Julia felt the tell-tale sting in her eyes as she buried her head in Mike's shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Jules," Mike said hoarsely; he was just as upset as the siblings, considering they considered Mike and his wife, Judy, their family. "Levi was a good man. One of the best."

Dean felt his heart ache for Julia when he saw his shoulders heave, a sign that she had started crying again. He felt so bad for her on top of his own sadness; he and Levi had been good friends since childhood. Everyone was feeling his loss right now.

Julia pulled back from Mike and wiped her eyes, giving him a tired smile while Sam and Dean started getting their stuff out of the trunk. "How's Judy?"

"She's okay," Mike told her, grabbing her bags from Sam and Dean. "We've missed you around here."

"I've missed you guys too," she assured him. Turning to face the house, she sighed heavily. "Is Abby home yet?"

Mike nodded. "Yep. Maggie got here an hour ago."

"And no Dad?"

"Not yet," he frowned; Dean and Sam copied his expression. "Sorry, Jules."

Julia didn't answer verbally; she reached for his hand and squeezed it before climbing up the steps to the front door. She typed the four-digit code in to unlock the door and opened it when the locks unlocked loudly.

"Auntie Jules!" a squeal erupted from the foyer before Julia was almost knocked over by a small force.

"Lizzie!" Julia plastered a smile on her face for her niece, who probably didn't understand what was going on. All she knew was that Aunt Julia and Aunt Abby had come home earlier than they were meant to. She picked Lizzie up and poked the dimple in her right cheek. "Look at you! You're almost as tall as me!"

Although Lizzie was tall for her five years of age, she wasn't almost as tall as Julia. She was the cutest little girl that Julia had seen, though. She got her dad's face full of freckles and height but everything else was Bethany. The wavy brown hair that all Petersen women inherited, the brown eyes, and the pretty smile.

Lizzie giggled. "Yep!" she exclaimed as her eyes left her aunt and found Dean behind her. "Uncle Dean!"

"Hey, kiddo," he greeted her with a grin, reaching forward to tug on one of her braided pigtails. "Lizzie, you remember Sammy?"

"Hi, Uncle Sammy!" even though Sam and Lizzie had only met three or four times, she was always fond of the tall man. "Your hair is silly!"

Dean chuckled in amusement while Sam smiled. "Hey, Lizzie."

Julia shook her head and hid her laugh. Clearing her throat, she gained her niece's attention once again. "Hey, Lizzie, where's your mom?"

"Upstairs in her room," the bright smile fell from Lizzie's face. "With Aunt Abby."

Julia set Lizzie back down. "I'm gonna go check on her, okay? Why don't you bring Dean and Sam to your dad?"

"Okay!" Lizzie chirped, grabbing Dean's outstretched hand. "Nana Maggie is here, too."

Forcing a smile, Julia waited until Lizzie led Sam and Dean out of the foyer. Mike had already gone to put all of their bags in her room and the guest rooms, so all she had to do was go to Beth and Taylor's room.

She knew as soon as she saw her sisters she would break down again. Levi was a quiet man but he had always watched over them. He was protective and the best big brother Julia could have asked for. The three sisters would feel his loss forever.

Julia wandered around the staircase to the hallway at the back of the foyer. The master bedroom, as well as two guest rooms, and her dad's room were on the main level. The closer she got to the master bedroom, the more she could hear gentle sniffling. She gently knocked on the door before opening.

Beth and Abby were laying together on the king-sized bed, their eyes red and faces puffy. They looked up when Julia entered the room and, when she broke into sobs and ran to the bed, they started crying again.

Julia buried her head in Beth's shoulder, inhaling her rose and vanilla scent. She already felt better in her sisters' arms but she'd be perfect if Levi was still there, too.

It was a somber night in the Petersen-Alexander house with all three sisters not coming out of the master bedroom since Julia arrived. Sam and Dean had greeted Taylor and Maggie fondly, knowing both of them quite well, and the four of them made sure that Lizzie was entertained and the sisters were checked on every hour.

In the morning, the news had centered around Levi's death. As one of the most eligible bachelors in Chicago, it was a big deal to hear that Levi Petersen had passed away. Taylor had to turn the channel when Maggie burst into tears over her cup of coffee from the rumors that were going around about her nephew.

Julia was the first of the sisters to emerge. At eight, she was freshly showered and dressed in lounge shorts and a PSC t-shirt. She and Taylor greeted each other fondly and then she and Maggie had an emotional reunion.

Maggie was one of Julia's heroes. Her aunt was a spitting image of Naomi, with the wavy brown hair and dimple, but that wasn't the reason why Julia looked up to her. When Naomi first got sick when Julia was ten, Maggie took over as the CEO of Petersen Sports Co.. She was thirty-two years old and previously the head of sales, much like Levi was. She thrived in her new role and kept the company successful while making sure her sister was taken care of while Luke was out hunting every week. And when Naomi died, Maggie was the one to take care of Julia while grieving her sister and still taking care of the family business. Even if Maggie didn't fight or hunt, she was a badass in her own way. She stepped up when she needed to, was a faithful woman, and she loved her family fiercely. Julia hoped to be half of the woman Maggie was as she aged.

"Julia," Maggie sighed into her hair as they hugged tearfully. "I've been worried about you."

Julia pulled away from the hug and wiped her tears away, giving her a confused look. "Why?"

"Well, you're hunting," Maggie pointed out the obvious. "Without your sister, might I add."

"Sam and Dean are great, Aunt Maggie."

"I know they are," Maggie nodded, sending Sam and Dean a warm smile where they sat on one of the couches in the large living room. "I just worry about you kids."

"I know you do," Julia squeezed Maggie's hand. "but I'll be okay. I promise."

Maggie smiled and kissed the top of Julia's head before going to join Lizzie by the coffee table to color from a princess coloring book.

"So," Julia took a deep breathed and smiled at Sam, Dean, and Taylor. "Who wants blueberry pancakes for breakfast?"

"I do!" Lizzie exclaimed excitedly. "You always make them the best!"

"Hey, I heard that, you rugrat!" Beth entered the living room, giving her daughter a mischievous smile. Abby walked in right behind her, both of them showered and freshly dressed.

While Abby greeted Sam and Dean, Beth picked Lizzie up and kissed her cheek, making her giggle, "Sorry, Momma."

"How about I teach your mom how to make them like Nana Naomi taught me?" Julia asked Lizzie. "Extra blueberries?"

Lizzie nodded jerkily. "Extra blueberries."

Beth shook her head in amusement and set down Lizzie before walking over to Sam and Dean.

"Hey, guys," she pulled Dean into a hug, who returned it easily. The Petersen family were huggers and he was comfortable enough with them to return the affection. "How are you?"

"Hanging in there," Dean smiled sadly. "I'm so sorry, Beth."

Beth's dimple popped out as she frowned but gave him a grateful look. "Thanks, Dean," she turned to Sam, wrapping her arms around him. "Sam, you need a haircut."

Sam pressed his lips together while Dean laughed. "Lizzie said that too."

"Yeah," Sam rolled his eyes as Beth started laughing with his brother. "Laugh it up, guys. Real funny."

Dean and Beth continued to laugh until Julia called over for her sister. "Beth, come on!"

Beth sobered up and grinned at the men she considered her brothers. "I better go before she gets all bossy on me."

Dean looked over Beth's head to where Julia stood with Lizzie on her hip, both of them looking over the oldest sister expectantly. She looked good with a kid on her hip, he realized. It made him think of his dream, of Peter, Jonah, and Levi and their life together.

He didn't know that he had a certain glint to his stare as he watched Julia but Beth did. She quickly looked between the two, noticing that Julia was now staring back at him with a small smile and looked to Sam to see if he noticed too.

She raised her eyebrows at him in a silent question; do Julia and Dean have feelings for each other? Sam nodded back at her; they're both oblivious, but yes.

An amused smirk crossed Beth's face as she crossed the living room to her sister and daughter. "All right," she gave in. "Let's go make breakfast, girlies."

Maggie followed Julia, Beth, and Lizzie into the kitchen, leaving Dean, Sam, Abby, and Taylor. Abby waited until the sound of the mixer started before sitting next to Taylor on the couch and bringing up a difficult subject with all three men.

"Did Taylor give you the details about..." she hesitated for a long second, swallowing the lump in her throat. "about Levi?"

"I didn't," Taylor shook his head. "Not all of them, anyway. I figured you'd have a better perspective about the whole thing."

Abby nodded and Dean gave them a curious look. "What are you talking about?"

"Levi's death wasn't—" Taylor shook his head sadly. "It wasn't from natural causes. Someone—or something—murdered him."

"Something?" Sam raised his eyebrows at Taylor, stomach sinking in dread. "You mean you think something supernatural killed him."

"I do."

"I do, too," Abby added. "His condo was locked and the security system was on without any reported break-ins or tripped alarms."

"Have you seen the condo?" Dean asked; Taylor nodded. "Was there anything weird or any sign of a presence?"

"I took pictures of it," Taylor's face paled immensely as he remembered the crime scene. "It—it was bad. I had to identify the body and, well, Levi put up a fight."

Abby sniffed as tears filled her eyes; Sam and Dean gave her sympathetic looks while Taylor wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders.

"Listen, I looked more into it," she pulled herself together. "There was another death a week or so ago and this morning. Same thing as Levi; locked apartment, no tripped alarms."

"This morning?" Sam asked in shock.

Abby nodded. "Guys, I think this is something," she inhaled deeply. "and I would do this myself but I-I just can't."

"We'll take care of it," Dean assured her quickly; he knew how important this way. This was Levi and he wasn't about to let his friend's little sister look into his murder. "We'll find what did this to Levi."

Abby wiped her eyes and sniffed noisily, taking the tissue Taylor offered her. Dean hadn't seen her cry since Naomi died; Abby was a tough one and didn't wear her heart on her sleeve like her sisters.

"Thank you," she managed to smile at them before standing up. "I'm gonna go see how they're doing in there."

As she left the room, Sam and Dean exchanged serious looks. They had to find out what exactly happened to Levi. They owed it to their friend and his grieving family.

After a delicious breakfast of blueberry pancakes, eggs, sausage—because Lizzie was weird and she didn't like bacon—and bacon, the arrangements for Levi's memorial began. While Maggie was on the phone with the funeral home where Naomi had her memorial—the family knew the home's director, who made sure their family was salted before being cremated—Taylor, Sam, and Dean retreated into the former's study, where they went over the photos of the crime scene in Levi's apartment while Julia, Abby, Beth, and Lizzie went through pictures of Levi to display at the memorial.

There were around twenty photo books to go through since the Petersen family were big on pictures. There were three whole photo albums just on Levi himself, from infancy to adulthood, while there were five books or so of the siblings all together and even more for special events and holidays.

It was heart breaking to go through the books, looking at Levi's smiling face but there was also something calming about it for Julia. Seeing Levi's bright smile in the pictures made her miss him so much but she knew he was happy up in Heaven with their mom. He had been a momma's boy through and through and he was destroyed when Naomi died. Julia would see her big brother again; she was sure of it.

"Look at this one," Beth smiled sadly down at the picture in her hands. She showed Abby and Julia, who were sitting side-by-side across the kitchen table. "Do you remember this?"

"Oh, my God, was that the Easter?" Abby reached for the photo and grinned widely when her question was answered. "It is. God, that was the funniest thing that ever happened to me."

"Yeah, funniest for you, most embarrassing for me," Julia grumbled as she took the picture from her sister; she couldn't help but smile at it anyway. "I tripped and fell at the Easter egg hunt, right in front of the boy I liked."

The picture was from when Julia was ten years old, Abby was thirteen, and Beth and Levi were seventeen. It was Easter and they were all dressed up in their best spring outfits. Right before the picture had been taken by Naomi, there was an Easter egg hunt that Julia participated in while her family watched on. She ended up tripping in the church parking lot in front of Simon Johnson, the boy she liked from her school. Her knees were still bloody and her face was tear-stained in the picture where she was smiling forcefully in front of Levi.

Beth and Abby snickered and Julia tried to glare at them but she couldn't keep it up. "All right, fine," she admitted. "It's kind of funny now."

"It was funny then!" Abby exclaimed before turning to Lizzie who sat next to her mother. "Auntie Jules is clumsy, isn't she?"

Lizzie nodded, her eyes eagerly soaking in the picture as Julia handed it back to Beth. "I like that picture."

"Me too," Beth smiled fondly. "It's going in the sibling pile."

Julia sighed; why must her sister torture her. "Fine."

She grabbed a photo album from the middle of the table and opened, smiling when she realized that it was Levi's teen years. It was full of awkward but sweet pictures. There were some of him with the youth group they all participated in; some from school events like prom and soccer games; there were a lot with Beth, especially when they graduated; and there was even one with Dean by his side, both of them looking at the camera with unamused looks. She saved that one, intending to give it to Dean later.

It was nice to see the pictures and remember times that she may not have on her own. She was seven years younger than Levi and Beth, which meant that some of her memories of them were different with a child's point of view. When she was younger and Levi went to prom with his date, she thought that he needed to hire a stylist. Now, as she looked at the picture, she knew that he dressed as best as he could, considering it was the nineties.

They went through the rest of the photo albums, pulling the pictures they wanted to frame for the memorial. They had to take a few breaks for the sisters to shed some tears. The worst part for them was when they had to decide which picture they needed to blow up for the large frame that would be in front of the church. It hurt them so much to know that the picture was the last representation of their brother.

Lizzie, bless her heart, was a Godsend. Taylor had explained what happened to her Uncle Levi the night before and she was sad but she was smart, too. She understood that her mom and aunts were grieving so she took it upon herself to cheer them up. To distract them, she'd the song that Beth sang to her while tucking her into bed every night.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine..." It made all of them smile.

Lizzie's favorite thing, though, was something she had in common with her Aunt Julia. She was a big fan of corny jokes and it was something so simple that had the sisters crying in laughter.

"What do you call a cow with no legs?" she'd say so innocently. "Ground beef!"

Normally, Beth and Abby would snicker politely but when Julia really got going—and she laughed hard at stupid jokes like that—they couldn't contain themselves. And then, Lizzie would join in, looking very happy that she made her mom and aunts laugh.

It was nice to laugh instead of cry. It felt right; Levi never could bear to see his little sisters cry.

Dean climbed out of the Impala outside of the apartment building of a woman named Meredith, the latest victim that fit the pattern of Levi's death. They had spent the morning and most of the afternoon pouring over the crime scene photos of Levi's condo and more details about Meredith's death. When they found the woman's address, the brothers decided to go check out the apartment for themselves.

"All right, Dean," Sam got out of the passenger seat, allowing Dean to lock up. "This is the place."

Dean nodded and tugged at the jumpsuit Sam insisted he wear so they could pass as workers for the company that provided the security in Meredith's apartment. "You know, I gotta say that Dad and me did just find without these stupid costumes. I feel like a high school drama dork."

Sam gave him his famous bitch face, making Dean chuckle.

"Hey, what was that play you were in?" he asked Sam. "What was it—Our Town," he nodded, grinning when he recalled how adorable Sam looked a the main tree. "Yeah, you were good. It was cute."

Sam sighed in annoyance. "Look, you wanna pull this off or not?"

"I'm just saying," Dean shrugged as they got closer to the building's entrance. "these outfits cost hard-earned money, okay?"

"Whose?"

"Our," Dean answered Sam's skeptical tone with an obvious one. "You think credit card fraud is easy?"

"Just shut up," Sam scoffed, holding back his laugh as he opened the door for his brother.

They spoke to the landlady, Maria, about who they were and why there were there and she led them up to Meredith's apartment.

"Thanks for letting us look around," Sam thanked Maria as she let them into the apartment.

"Well, the police said they were done with the place, so," she trailed off, shrugging as she and Sam moved further into the apartment. Dean closed the door behind them, his eyes looking around the place curiously.

If he closed his eyes, he could still see the gruesome photos that Taylor took of Levi's apartment. It was messy, obviously from when Levi struck up a fight, and it was bloody. Meredith's apartment was bloody, too. The white carpet was absolutely destroyed from the blood that was soaked up in it.

"You guys said you were with the alarm company?" Maria asked them.

"That's right," Dean confirmed.

"Well, no offense, but your alarm's about as useful as boobs on a man."

Dean and Sam exchanged a taken aback look.

"Well, that's why we're here," Dean assured her. "To see what went wrong and stop it from happening again."

As Dean started to look around the living room, Sam asked Maria, "Now, ma'am, you found the body?"

"Yeah."

"Right after it happened?"

"No, just this morning," Maria sighed sadly. "Meredith's work called—she hadn't shown up in a few days. I knocked on the door and that was when I noticed the smell."

Dean nodded and studied the windows, looking for any disturbances. "Any windows open? Any sign of a break-in?"

"No, the windows were locked, the front door bolted," Maria told him. "The chain was on the door and we had to cut it just to get in."

Dean turned back to her. "And the alarm was still on?"

Maria nodded. "Like I said, bang-up job your company's doing."

Dean hummed, his eyes searching the area of the room where it faded into the kitchen. "You see any overturned furniture, broken glass, signs of a struggle?"

"Everything was in perfect condition," Maria's eyes filled with tears. "Except—except Meredith."

"And what condition was Meredith in?" Sam wondered, remembering the police report on Levi.

"Meredith was all over, in pieces. The guy who killed her must have been some kind of whack-job," Maria shook her head in disgust. "But I tell you, if I didn't know any better, I'd have said it was a wild animal that did it."

Dean pressed his lips together and bowed his head; the report had said the same thing about Levi's body. Not about the wild animal, but that he was in pieces. When he read that part of the report, he had to take a minute to pull himself together. He couldn't imagine Levi—who was the closest to a best friend that Dean had—like that.

Sam, seeing the distant look in Dean's eyes, turned to Maria. "Ma'am, do you mind if we take some time to give this place a once-over."

"Oh, well, go right ahead," Maria agreed. "Knock yourself out."

As soon as Maria left the apartment and the door was shut firmly behind her, Dean pulled the EMF meter out of the tool box he brought. "So, a killer walked in and out of the apartment—No weapons, no prints, nothing."

The EMF meter whirled to life as Sam sighed. "Just like Levi's place," he stated. "So, you talked to the cops, right?"

Dean nodded. "Nothing we don't already know," he told his brother. "but the deputy I talked to told me something and it matched right up to Levi's case."

Sam raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Hmm?"

"Meredith's heart was missing."

"Just like Levi's?"

"Just like Levi's," Dean confirmed as he started waving the EMF meter around the room.

"So, what do you think we're dealing with?" Sam wondered he finished his own snooping and met back up with Dean in the middle of the room.

"Well, Maria said that it looked like an animal attacked Meredith," Dean reminded him. "Maybe it was a werewolf?"

"No," Sam shook his head. "No, the lunar cycle's not right. Plus, if it was a creature, it would've left some kind of trace."

Dean nodded in agreement, catching some of Meredith's blood out of the corner of his eye. He looked down at the blood splatter fully, eyebrows furrowing when he saw that the drops were in some kind of pattern.

"See if you can find any masking tape around," he said to Sam.

Sam went searching throughout the apartment and it didn't take long until he found some electrical tape in the junk drawer in the kitchen. Dean got to his knees and started taping the stains together, like a gruesome connect-the-dots challenge.

The tape made out a symbol that Dean had never seen before. There was a circle in the middle with two lines going off either side of it and curving up on one side and down on the other.

Sam studied the symbol with furrowed brows. "Have you ever seen that symbol before?"

Dean shook his head. "Never."

"Me either."

After talking to the bartender at the bar that Amanda worked at, Dean walked back to the table where Sam was waiting for him, pages deep into their dad's journal. He sat on the stool across from his brother and tapped the surface of the table, almost impatiently.

Sam looked up from the journal and Dean sighed, "I talked to the bartender."

"And did you get anything besides her number?"

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother. "No, and I didn't ask for it, either."

"Really?" Dean wanted to punch the bewildered look off of Sam's face. "Why?"

"Dude, one of our friends—who was pretty much family—just died," Dean avoided his brother's eyes; truth was, it didn't feel right drinking and flirting with attractive women while Julia was at her house mourning her older brother.

"Hmm," Sam hummed and Dean looked over at him with narrowed eyes; Sam quickly moved on, "so, what did you find out, then?"

"Meredith worked here; she waited tables," Dean told him something they both already knew. "Everybody here was her friend. Everybody said she was normal. She didn't do or say anything weird before she died, so..."

"Huh..."

"Yep," Dean clicked his tongue. "So, did you find anything out about that symbol?"

"Nope, nothing," Sam shook his head. "It wasn't in Dad's journals or in any of the usual books. I just have to dig a little deeper, I guess."

"Okay..." Dean tapped his fingers on the table again as he tried to think of something that would help. "Well, what about the first victim? The one before Levi?"

"Right, yeah," Sam pulled a newspaper clipping out of his jacket pocket, handing it to Dean. "His name was Ben Swardstrom. Last month he was found mutilated in his town house. Same deal as Levi and Meredith—the door was locked, the alarm was on."

"Was there any connection between the three of them?" Dean asked as he skimmed the article.

"Not that I can tell," Sam sighed. "I mean, not yet, at least. Levi worked for PSC, Ben was a banker, and Meredith was a waitress. None of them met or knew anyone in common."

Dean handed the newspaper clipping back to Sam. "So, we have nothing."

When he didn't get an answer from his brother, he looked over at him. Sam was looking across the bar and, when Dean followed his gaze, he saw that there was a tall woman with short blonde hair seated at a table with a few other people.

"Sam?" he looked back to his brother. "Hello?"

Sam quickly stood up and left the table, heading across the bar to the blonde woman. Dean quickly followed him, watching, bewildered, as Sam hugged the woman fondly.

"Sam," the woman pulled away from the hug. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh, I'm just in town visiting friends," Sam answered her with a half-lie.

The woman looked around Sam, her eyes sliding past Dean without a pause. "Where are they?"

Sam stiffened for a second before he spoke. "Well, they're not here right now. But, what about you, Meg? I thought you were going to California?"

Dean furrowed his eyebrows. Is that how Sam knew this chick? He met her while he was trying to hitchhike his way to California to find their dad?

"Oh, I did," Meg—that was what Sam called her—told him. "I came, I saw, I conquered. Oh, and I met what's-his-name, something Michael Murray at a bar."

"Who?" Sam looked confused.

Dean knew who she was talking about, though. Julia was a big fan of One Tree Hill and watched it every week when a new episode premiered. Chad Michael Murray played one of the main characters that Julia wasn't a fan of because he cheated on Brooke with Peyton and it was a whole thing. He didn't even know he knew exactly what she passionately rambled about until this moment; did this mean he was a fan of One Tree Hill?

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Meg grinned up at Sam. "Anyway, the whole scene got old, so I'm living here for a while."

Having enough of being left out of the conversation, Dean cleared his throat to get their attention. He was promptly ignored.

"You're from Chicago?" Sam asked her in surprise.

"No, Andover, Massachusetts," Meg told him. "God, Sam, what are the odds we'd run into each other?"

"Yeah, I know," Sam smiled. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"Well, I'm glad you were wrong."

From the looks Dean saw coming from Meg to Sam, it looked like those two had a connection. He grinned, amused like he always was when Sam met someone he was interested in, and cleared his throat again.

Meg immediately turned to glare at him. "Dude, cover your mouth."

Sam realized that Dean was there. "Yeah, um, I'm sorry, Meg," he apologized to the blonde. "This is, uh—this is my brother, Dean."

Meg gave him a surprised look. "This is Dean?"

Sam nodded while Dean smiled charmingly. "So, you've heard of me?"

"Oh, yeah, I've heard of you," Meg said; Dean was taken aback by the hostility in her voice. "It's nice, the way you treat your brother like luggage."

Dean furrowed his eyebrows; maybe her head her wrong. "Sorry?"

"Why don't you let him do what he wants to do?" Meg scolded him like she had any right to. "Stop dragging him over God's green earth."

"Meg, it's all right," Sam intervened; Dean gave him a surprised look. Is that what Sam really thought about him?

"Okay, this is awkward," Dean mumbled, wishing Julia was there to break the ice. "I'm gonna go get a drink now."

Dean only got through half a beer when Sam all but dragged him out of the bar. Dean immediately started questioning him, wondering exactly had happened earlier.

"Who the fuck was she?" he asked as they walked through the parking lot.

"I don't really now," Sam admitted. "I only met her once. Meeting up with her again? I don't know, man, it's weird."

Dean didn't pay much attention to Sam's concerns. "And what was she saying, huh? I treat you like luggage? What, were you bitching about me to some chick?"

"Look, I'm sorry, Dean," Sam sighed. "It was when we had that huge fight when I was in that bus stop in Indiana...but that's not important, just listen—"

"Well, is there any truth to what she's saying?" Dean interrupted him worriedly. "I mean, am I keeping you against your will, Sam?"

"No, of course not," Sam assured him. "Now, would you listen?"

"What?" Dean stopped walking once they crossed the street; Sam did the same and faced him.

"I think there's something strange going on here, Dean," Sam stated. "Like, our kind of strange. Maybe even a lead."

Dean blinked at him. "Why do you say that?"

"I met Meg weeks ago, literally on the side of the road and now I run into her in some random bar in Chicago?" Sam pointed out. "I mean, the same bar where a waitress was killed and the same time Levi was slaughtered by something supernatural? You don't think that's a little weird?"

Dean didn't know what to think. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe it couldn't be a coincidence but even if it was, they could still check Meg out to see if she did anything suspicious.

"Okay, so you follow her," Dean suggested. "I'm gonna go back to the house and look through their library. See if they have anything on that symbol."

"Okay," Sam nodded. "and check to see if there's really a Meg Masters from Andover, Massachusetts."

Dean agreed and the brothers split up.

Julia wandered through the house, looking for Dean. She had heard the Impala roll up to the house around ten but she hadn't seen him at all in the hours since. Granted, it was midnight and pretty much everyone else was asleep, or trying to fall asleep, but Dean was a night owl. He usually stayed up until the infomercials came on and even then, he'd sit and watch some of them that he thought were interesting—he was especially interested in the knives that claimed to cut through anything, which Julia thought was kind of adorable.

She entered the small library that was connected to the study and was surprised to see Dean at the large table in the middle of the room, flipping through some pages in one of her dad's old hunting journals.

"Hey," she greeted him as she walked over and sat in the seat next to him.

"Hey," he gave her a small and concerned smile. "How are you?"

"I'm managing," Julia tried to conjure a full smile but she didn't have it in her. "What are you doing?"

Dean hesitated for a couple of seconds and Julia could tell that he was seriously thinking about something.

Finally, when he spoke, his voice was careful. "I'm gonna tell you something and it's gonna be hard to take," he said cautiously; Julia stiffened nervously. "Abby and Taylor thought that something was off about Levi's death so Sam and I are looking into it."

Julia swallowed harshly as she took in the new information, her eyes stinging. She let herself shed a few tears before forcefully pulling herself together. If something that they hunted killed Levi, then she owed it to him to help find out what—or who—it was.

"What do you have so far?"

"Julia—"

"I'm not saying that I want to go hunt the thing," Julia cut him off and grabbed his hand; he was the one to give her a comforting squeeze this time and it almost made her cry again. "I just—I want to help if I can. I need to help, Dean."

"Okay," Dean's green eyes stared sadly into her hazel ones. "Okay, there was another victim this morning so Sam and I went to check it out. The apartment was locked, the alarm wasn't tripped, and there was no sign of forced entry. We found something, though."

He took his phone and pulled up the picture he had taken of the symbol. Once he handed her the phone, Julia studied it for a minute or so before her eyes lit up in recognition.

"I know what that is," she declared, standing up to head to one of the large bookshelves.

Dean followed her with his eyes. "You do?"

Julia nodded, finding the book she was looking and pulling it from the shelf. "Yeah," she confirmed as she walked back over to him. "It took me a second to place it, but yeah, I know it," she flipped through the book. "My dad...he told me about this one time."

"Okay, so what is it?"

"It's Zoroastrian," Julia informed him. "It's old, like two thousand years before Jesus was born. It's a sigil for Daeva."

Dean furrowed his eyebrows. "What's a Daeva?"

Julia skimmed the information on the page she stopped at, the familiar symbol inked into the top. "It translates to 'demon of darkness'," she read. "The Zoroastrian demons are savage and animalistic."

Dean looked at one of the drawing of the demon. "Like a demonic pitbull?"

"Exactly," Julia nodded at him and then looked back to the book. "This says that the Daevas have to be summoned or conjured."

"So, someone's controlling it?" Dean asked.

"Yeah and they look terrifying," Julia's voice wavered as her eyes started to sting again. "If Levi...I mean, who would want to kill him? Why would someone do this to him?"

Dean couldn't stand to see Julia so upset and not comfort her. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, bringing her into his chest. Her body shook with sobs but Dean held on tight, determined to support her just like she always supported him. He rested his cheek on the top of her head, whispering comforting words.

It wasn't until Julia fell asleep in his arms that Dean let his own tears fall.

Levi's memorial was scheduled for the next day, his and Beth's birthday. Beth insisted that it was done that day so she could give him one last birthday party. The house was quiet in the morning as everyone gathered in the foyer, dressed in black, to pray before they left the church. Dean didn't pray—he didn't really at all—but for Levi, he did. He held onto Julia's and Sam's hands and prayed to whoever or whatever was out there, hoping that the Petersen family would find peace with the loss of Levi and that his friend was up in Heaven like he told Dean he would be going after he died during one of the conversations in high school about faith, Christianity, and God.

The church was crowded when they arrived and the family was swept up in condolences from PSC employees, family friends, school friends, and church members. They were all very kind but, like any church, there were a couple of people who just seemed like snobs to Dean.

The memorial itself was beautiful; a large picture of Levi was at the front of the church next to the podium where the pastor spoke and there were more pictures in white frames around the church that detailed Levi's life with friends and family. Dean sat in the front row with the Petersen family on one side of Julia—with Abby on the other side of her—holding her hand and letting her squeeze it as tightly as she wanted.

There were eulogies and kind words spoken about Levi. Beth's speech was by far the most moving and it had Julia quietly sobbing into Dean's shoulder, his own tears falling down his cheeks as he held onto her. The pastor's message was moving, too, and for a second, it made Dean appreciate the faith that Julia, Levi, and the rest of the Petersen family had.

When the service was over, completed with a rendition of Amazing Grace from the church's choir, they moved into the banquet hall part of the building to enjoy a meal in remembrance of Levi. It was a potluck; made up of foods brought in by church members and Levi's friends.

It was after Dean finished eating that Sam pulled him aside to tell him about his night of watching Meg. It didn't really shock him to find out that Sam was right about seeing Meg was too much of a coincidence. It was her that summoned the Daeva and it was her that killed Levi.

"That's not all," Sam said as Dean's blood boiled. "She was communicating with someone."

"Someone?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "With who, the Daeva?"

"No, you told me those things were savages," Sam shook his head. "No, this was someone different. "Someone who's giving her orders. Someone who's coming to that warehouse."

Dean closed his eyes in realization; he had looked up some more information on the other victims and he had completely forgotten to tell Sam what he found.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath. "I looked into the records of the other victims. We missed something."

"What?"

"The first victim, the old man, he spent his whole life in Chicago but he wasn't born here," Dean informed his brother. "He was born in Lawrence, Kansas."

Sam's eyes widened in shock. "What?"

"Mmhm," Dean nodded. "and Meredith, it turns out she was adopted. And guess where she's from?"

"Lawrence, Kansas," Sam breathed. "Shit."

Dean hummed. "Yeah."

"I mean, it is where the demon killed Mom," Sam sighed. "That's where everything started. You think that Meg's tied up with the demon?"

"I think it's a definite possibility."

Sam frowned. "I don't understand. What's the significance of Lawrence? Why was Levi targeted? How do these Daeva things fit in?"

"Well, we're from Lawrence," Dean pointed out. "and Levi was practically family."

"And the Daeva?"

"Beats me," Dean shrugged. "but I say we trash that black altar, grab Meg, and have ourselves a friendly little interrogation."

"No, we can't," Sam shook his head immediately. "We shouldn't tip her off. We've gotta stake out that warehouse. We've gotta see who, or what, is showing up to meet her."

"Fine, we'll go tonight," Dean agreed. "In the meantime, we need to support Jules."

Sam nodded and clapped Dean's shoulder. "Yeah," he stated. "We do."

The hallway to the motel room Sam got for them seemed much longer after they were thrown around by Meg and her little Daeva friends. Sam trashed the black altar she was using to control the demonic pit bulls but not before they got a little slashes in; Sam's right cheek had three claw marks scratched into it and, compared to him, Dean was let off easily.

"Why didn't you just leave that stuff in the car?" Dean asked his brother about the duffle bag full of weapons he was carrying as he pulled the room key out of his jacket.

"I said it before, and I'll say it again," Sam said, adjusting the bag's strap on his shoulder. "Better safe than sorry."

Dean shrugged and unlocked the door; he walked into the room but stopped just beyond the threshold when he saw two tall but dark figures standing near the window.

"Hey!" Dean barked at them, reaching for his gun.

The two men turned around as Sam reached for the lights, allowing him and Dean to see them clearly. The brothers recognized them immediately; Dean felt hope swell in his chest.

"Luke?" his eyes flicked between the blonde man and the brunette man. "Dad?"

John smiled warmly at his sons, his dimples making an appearance. "Hey, boys."

Dean didn't care if he usually didn't do chick-flick moments. He hadn't seen his dad in almost nine months and he thought he was dead for half that time. He walked forward at the same time as John, both of them pulling each other into a warm but strong hug.

Dean inhaled the usual scent that his dad gave off, peppermint and leather, and committed it to his memory for the thousandth time. The hug ended then, as Sam and John greeted each other, and he walked over to Luke to shake his hand—Luke was definitely not as touchy-feely as his children were.

"Luke," he greeted Julia's father; Luke's grip was as firm as it usually was but there was a sadness in his blue eyes that wasn't always there. "I'm really sorry about Levi."

"Thanks, Dean," Luke nodded, his gruff voice wavering only a little. "How are my girls?"

"Managing," Dean told him. "but they need you."

Luke pressed his lips together but didn't say anything; he wasn't positive, but Dean took that to mean that Luke wasn't visiting his grieving daughters while he was in town. It was discouraging and he grew irritated enough to turn away from the older man.

Dean had never really loved Luke—despite the fact that he was his dad's best friend—but he never disliked him, either. Now, though, his respect for the man had plummeted. His son had died and he wasn't at the memorial and he wasn't going to show up for his daughters, either. If Dean knew Naomi—and he did, she was the closest thing he ever had to a mother—she'd be rolling over in her grave right now at her husband's behavior.

"Dad, it was a trap," Dean focused on what was happening at the moment instead of letting his anger at Luke get the better of him. "I didn't know, I'm sorry."

"It's all right," John nodded with a small smile. "We thought it might've been."

"Were you there?"

"We got there just in time to see the girl fall from the building," Luke told him and Sam. "She was the one who killed Levi, right?"

Sam and Dean nodded in unison. "Yes, sir."

Luke inhaled deeply, his eyes flicking to meet John's. "Good. That's—that's good."

Well, as least he seemed grateful that his son's murderer was dead, Dean thought to himself.

"Well, the trap doesn't surprise me," John kept the conversation going, though there was a hint of sadness in his eyes, as well. "It's tried to stop me before."

Sam looked at him in surprise. "The demon has?"

John nodded. "It knows we're close," he told his sons. "It knows I'm gonna kill it. Not just exorcise it or send it back to Hell—actually kill it."

Dean furrowed his eyebrows; from what Julia told him and what he already knew, he didn't think demons could actually be killed. "How?"

John and Luke shared smiles. "We're working on that."

"Let us come with you," Sam insisted immediately. "We'll help."

"No, Sam," John bowed his head as he denied is youngest son. "Not yet. Listen, try to understand, this demon is a scary son of a bitch. I don't want you caught in the crossfire. I don't want you hurt."

"Dad, you don't have to worry about us," Sam tried to talk sense into his father.

"Of course, I do. I'm your father," John shook his head and then paused, his eyes softening. "Listen, Sammy, last time we were together, we had one hell of a fight."

Sam's lips pursed as he started to tear up. "Yes, sir."

John sniffed. "It's good to see you again," he said thickly. "It's been a long time."

"Too long," Sam agreed; the two hugged, tightly holding onto each other as they fought their emotions.

To matter the circumstances, Dean was glad this was happening. It'd been four years since that nasty fight when Sam took off for Stanford; it had been one of the worst nights of his life; Sam was gone, John was an angry mess, and Dean's favorite person in the world had left him. Things were looking up now, though. Sam was by his side—until they found the demon, at least—Julia was hunting with them, and his dad was okay.

John and Sam finished their hug and John was looking at Dean tearfully when he was forcefully thrown back against the wall with some invisible force. Sam went down next, falling hard on his side when the Daeva attacked him, and then it was Luke who was on the floor.

"No!" Dean shouted before he was soaring through the air, too.

There was a lot of screaming from John and Luke as the Daeva seemed to focus on them but Dean couldn't focus on that them with all of his attention as he tried to get away from the Daeva knocking him around. Frankly, the grunts of pain Sam was letting out concerned him more but he couldn't shake the Daeva on his tail.

"Shut your eyes!" he heard Sam shout just after the Daeva swiped its claws down his forehead. "These things are shadow demons, so let's light 'em up!"

Dean covered his eyes as Sam lit a flare; flooding the room with bright light and smoke. The Daeva attacking him disappeared and so did the ones on John and Luke. He slowly got to his feet as he coughed heavily and tried to make his way to John.

"Dad?"

"Over here!" John called back to him.

Dean followed his voice and found his dad where he was tossed in the kitchen. He ducked under John's shoulder and helped him up while Sam got Luke to his feet. The four of them piled out of the bright and smoky room and tried to get out of the motel as fast as they could.

"All right, come on," Sam said hurriedly as they approached the Impala; he let Luke lean against the car while he put the duffle bag full of weapons into the backseat. "We don't have much time. As soon as the flare's out, they'll be back."

"Wait, wait, wait," Dean stopped him, his mind racing. He took in a deep breath as he turned to face John and Luke. "You guys can't come with us."

"What?" Sam looked to him in shock. "What are you talking about?"

"You boys," John argued breathlessly. "You're beat to Hell."

"We'll be all right."

"Dean, we should stick together," Sam protested angrily. "We'll go after those demons—"

"Sam, listen to me!" Dean interrupted him. "We almost got Dad and Luke killed in there. Don't you understand? They're not gonna stop, they're gonna try again. They're gonna use us to get to them. I mean, Meg was right, Dad's vulnerable when he's with us. He's—he's stronger without us around."

Dean saw the look of realization and understanding on his dad's face.

Sam saw it, too. "Dad, no," he put his hands on John's shoulders. "After everything, after all the time we spent looking for you...Please, I gotta be a part of this fight."

"Sammy, this fight is just starting," John grabbed Sam's wrist. "and we are all gonna have a part to play. For now, you've got to trust me, son. Okay? You've gotta let me go."

Sam hesitated for a couple of seconds before he finally nodded and let go of John's shoulders. Luke, who was in much better shape than John was, went to his friend's side and helped him stand on his own.

"He'll be all right," Luke assured Sam and Dean. "I'll take care of him. You take care of my Jujube."

Dean pressed his lips together and nodded; he had hoped that Luke could stay around for Julia, Beth, and Abby but now he saw that it wouldn't be safe. Luke was just as wanted by the Daeva as John was and he couldn't bring it around his children, sister-in-law, and granddaughter. For now, it was best for him to leave.

John smiled at his sons. "Be careful, boys."

Dean and Sam watched as Luke and John limped away, back down the alleyway to John's truck. As the truck started and pulled away, Dean grabbed Sam's arm and urged him toward the Impala.

(Gif is not mine)

#supernatural rewrite #dean winchester x oc #dean winchester x reader #supernatural #dean winchester #Sam Winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x original character

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