#JUST IN TIME FOR SPOOPY SEASON

[amielot]

Bonus: Have a deleted shot! I changed it in favor of the angle that looks over Dreams shoulder. Giving the sense that the viewpoint is Hob looking in on something he isn't supposed to.

I still thought the original angle was cool though so here it is in full as a bonus. :)

[spoichie]

Chastity will rise

[aviul]

three sisters

[fortheloveofmetal666-blog]

[luckyartdrawer]

October may be Octover, but Spookvember save me (Click for better quality)

Nevermind that I had this just sitting unfinished on my wacom for half a month shhhhhhhhhh

This Jack-O-Glam references/is inspired by this post! Tagging @sourtomatola for the idea to draw em and @madamemiz for getting that picture of em in Sprit Halloween! :333 (Sorry for the tag, I just want you both to see hehe)

vvv Close Up, Alts, and Yapping below!!! vvv

Close Up

Alts: Darker Outline - No Rendering

Goof: Idk I used a Increase Intensity Layer Blending mode and really liked seeing it highlight all the lighting and shading LOL

I reallllly wanted to get this out in October, but with all the events and college work it took until now to get to it sighhh. I only realized tonight that this poor boyo was just sitting there this whole time (I literally never closed the project-) and I had to finish him up. He didn't deserve that. v_v

I hope y'all like em! :D Just a spoopy guy who brings you all the spooky jams! I showed his early sketch here, for anyone curious!

Probably would be a seasonal animatronic, but I'd image he'd be out all fall until winter-- or Mariah Carey thaws out and kicks him to the curb.

Now someone tell me why he had to turn out so handsome I didn't mean to-

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

our favorite thing to daydream about is slice of life with the stans

the stans going shopping with the niblings

them chatting on a road trip

ford being convinced to watch cartoons with everyone else

stan pointing out every time something says ‘ford’ on it

ford pointing out every time something says ‘stanley’ on it

ford pointing out whenever something isn’t symmetrical or is off center and then feeling a little bad cause stan can never unsee that now and he hates it just as much as ford does

the two of them playing road games

the two of them finding a quiet restaurant to sit down in so they can hang out and try the food without being overwhelmed by everything

stan gifting ford noise cancelling headphones specifically to help with him being overwhelmed

the two going out into nature to find an anomaly and not finding anything so they just decide to hang out and have a picnic or somethin instead

movie night on the stan o war ii

eepy time in hotels

festive spooky month activities cause both of them LOVE the spoopiness of the season

quiet autumn mornings where ford’s too tired to speak so he sips his drink and listens to stan chat instead

bored days at the shack where ford ends up just staring out the windows, watching the birds and deer out front

the two of them sitting on the porch chatting and occasionally getting pelted by water balloons from the niblings

them doing fun stuff like invasive plant removal and rage rooms

that kinda stuff

[omarandjohnny]

I get ya XD

If you ever see me like a post and not reblog it - this is why:

..... they just need a minute to show up

[fairytales-and-folklore]

Spooky Scary Sourwolf

Teen Wolf » Sterek

Title: Spooky Scary Sourwolf 

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Teen Wolf (Masterlist)

Relationship: Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: It's October, which means Stiles is officially 80% more annoying than he normally is at any other time of the year. This Halloween, Stiles's new obsession is some dance party remix of the song Spooky Scary Skeletons. It's a catchy tune, even Derek will admit that. But after hearing it blasted through Roscoe's shitty speakers for the hundredth time that week, everyone in the pack is sick to death of it, especially Derek. He's got no choice but to resort to drastic measures.

He squeezes his eyes shut, preparing to be eaten, preparing for the foul breath of some horrible fanged monster, but it's actually — huh, minty fresh. And — that's interesting — the weight pressed on top of him is very familiar, his body responding to it in a way entirely ill-befitting to getting murdered. He opens one bleary eye to find none other than Derek hovering above him, shit-eating grin plastered across his stupid handsome face. "Gotcha," he says, smirking as Stiles struggles to break free. "That'll teach you to fuck with my phone settings. Now, change it back from that godawful song, or I'll make good on my promise to rip your throat out with my teeth."

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It's October, which means Stiles is officially 80% more annoying than he normally is at any other time of the year. Whether it's taking autumn decorating from Pinterest-worthy to hoarder with a Halloween fetish (how many pumpkins is too many pumpkins? — according to Stiles, the limit does not exist) making himself sick on too much Halloween candy (because the idiot always buys two bowls worth of candy — one to hand out to trick-or-treaters, and one he keeps all to himself) or driving his packmates insane with some new Halloween themed internet craze, Stiles always goes way over the top when it comes to spooky season (or spoopy season, as Stiles likes to call it, despite Derek's many protests.)

This Halloween, Stiles's new obsession is some dance party remix of the song Spooky Scary Skeletons. It's a catchy tune, even Derek will admit that. But after hearing it blasted through Roscoe's shitty speakers for the hundredth time that week, everyone in the pack is sick to death of it, especially Derek. 

It would maybe, maybe be tolerable if it was only contained to car rides, but it's literally everywhere. He's always singing it in the shower, humming it under his breath during pack meetings, glued to his phone watching reels and tiktoks of other people performing funny little dances to it. 

The little shit even found a way to set it as Derek's ringtone, finding any excuse he can to call him as often as possible so it's just constantly going off. Derek, being the technologically illiterate one in the relationship, doesn't know how to change it back, and of course Stiles refuses to do it, because he thinks it's hilarious.

"Stiles, I swear to God, if you don't change it back, I'll give you something to really be scared about," Derek threatens, but the sound of that damnable ringtone duetting with Stiles's giddy laughter drowns him out.

Derek can't take it anymore. He's got no choice but to resort to drastic measures.

The next day, Stiles gets a text from Derek, luring him over with the promise of pumpkin-shaped sugar cookies and Hocus Pocus. But when Stiles gets there, Derek is nowhere to be found. He lets himself in with his copy of the keys, wandering around in the pitch black, calling out Derek's name, but there's no answer. Derek's loft is normally very warm and inviting, but with all the lights off, it's admittedly kind of creepy. Stiles tries the light switch, but no matter which direction he flips it, nothing happens. The power must've gone out — in the whole building, from the looks of it. 

The place is feeling more and more like Derek's old digs in the abandoned railway station, growing creepier by the second, and Stiles's feeling of dread along with it. High above him, a raven caws as it flutters through an open window, and Stiles lets out a startled screech, dropping his phone (his only source of light) in the process. He's definitely on edge now, hands shaking as he reaches for his phone and dials Derek's number. Spooky Scary Skeletons starts playing from some distant corner of the room — muffled, like he's hearing it through an old gramophone. Derek never picks up.

Stiles is definitely starting to panic now, heartbeat pounding in his ears, palms sweating as he struggles to keep a good grip on his phone. He hits redial and tries to follow the sound of the once-amusing ringtone, but there doesn't seem to be a distinct source — it's like it's coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

A sudden break in the silence steals his attention to the far corner of the room — an eerie skittering sound, like a stone being skipped across concrete — and Stiles jumps. A few seconds later, it happens again. Over and over again, growing closer and closer, until something drops from the ceiling and lands with a deafening clink right by his feet — a loose bolt that looks like it came from one of the rafters. 

Slowly, swallowing against the terror lodged in his throat, Stiles glances upward, and lets out a scream to rival a banshee's. The last thing he sees before he hits the ground is a pair of bright red eyes glowing menacingly in the dark. The creature pounces on him, sitting bodily on his thighs, pinning his arms above his head, and oh fuck, this is how he dies. This creature took out his super hot werewolf boyfriend, and now it's going to take him out, too.

He squeezes his eyes shut, preparing to be eaten, preparing for the foul breath of some horrible fanged monster, but it's actually — huh, minty fresh. And — that's interesting — the weight pressed on top of him is very familiar, his body responding to it in a way entirely ill-befitting to getting murdered. He opens one bleary eye to find none other than Derek hovering above him, shit-eating grin plastered across his stupid handsome face.

"Gotcha," he says, smirking as Stiles struggles to break free long enough to knee him in the balls. "That'll teach you to fuck with my phone settings. Now, change it back from that godawful song, or I'll make good on my promise to rip your throat out with my teeth."

Derek's smile is positively wolfish, moonlight glinting silver off his half-shifted fangs. Stiles goes still, staring up at him with one eyebrow arched in provocation.

"How very…spooky of you," he says, eyes alight with mischief as an impish grin curls across his face.

"No," Derek groans, gleeful expression fading to one of pure horror. "Don't do it."

"Spooky scary sourwolf," Stiles intones in a lilting sing-song voice, before bursting into peals of laughter. 

Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh and rolls over onto the floor next to him.

"I'm divorcing you," Derek decides, reaching out across the space between them to link his pinky finger with Stiles's.

"We're not even married," Stiles points out, nudging Derek's shoulder with his own.

"I will marry you for the sole purpose of divorcing you," Derek compromises.

Stiles barks out a laugh and looks over at him, eyes as bright as his smile.

"I want an autumn wedding," he says, absentmindedly rubbing circles over Derek's ring finger with the pad of his thumb.

"Fine," Derek replies with a tone that suggests gruff indifference, features softening as a smile works its way onto his face.

A few moments pass between them in companionable silence, the two of them gazing up at the mosaic of a starry night sky filtering in through the wall of windows at the far edge of Derek's loft.

"I'm thinking chocolate," Derek proposes, glancing over at Stiles with a guarded, hopeful look in his eyes. "For the wedding cake."

"Oh absolutely," Stiles agrees, his answering smile nothing short of beatific.

"And do you know what song I want for our first dance as husband and sourhusband?" he asks, lips pressed together in a failed attempt to hold back a tidal wave of laughter.

"Oh no," Derek groans, but Stiles has already taken out his phone and pressed play, Spooky Scary Skeletons blaring out of the speakers in a tinny warble. He didn't think it was possible to have a full-blown one-person dance party while lying on a concrete floor, but if anyone can manage it, it's Stiles. Derek glances over at him, eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches Stiles flail his airborne arms and legs to the music, and sighs. One day, he's going to marry this lunatic.

[possumdrawsstuff]

THAT SCAR REF SHEET I WAS TALKING ABT FOR JIM!

all of these r based off stuff that happened in canon, if you think I’ve missed any cool opportunities then feel free to point them out! I add them because I believe that while they probably couldn’t have been included in the show for the pg rating and some of the ways he would’ve gained them being somewhat violent (even for trollhunters). I feel they add to his character and in how they would grow over time show how he would gain more and more experience as a trollhunter, yet also gaining more and more pressure and experiences that are probably not the best on jim mentally.

(Ps. I have no lightning scars In my design because lichtenberg scars, while cool looking, don’t usually last)

(Ps ps, the model I used to plan them out is from sketch fab somewhere but as I had originally not made this to post I didn’t save it, if anybody knows the creator, or is the creator, feel free to hit me up and I’ll credit you in the post.

ANYWAY MOVING ON TO THE SCARS AND MY SILLY LITTLE REASONS FOR THEM BEING THEREEE!

This is prolly gonna be angsty but I have an angsty ao3 background (to whoever read my Peter Parker nwh fic yall know ,and I am sorry I haven’t updated lol)

face/ eyebrow scar: I love that they gave him a scar in the movie, however, I didn’t like how it looked very much, especially with how he got it. I mean ARRRGHHH! Literally punched him so hard (love him Frfr but bro was not messing around even w Jim) that stone on stone had enough force to scratch some off of his face, this is why I usually make it look messier and more like scratchy scars rather than the clean cut from wizards/the unspeakable movie

2. GOBLIN/GENERAL SCARS: ok y’all I haven’t seen many other people do these but they are ver important to me 😌. Just scars from sparring could be all of these, the heroes forge has literal flying axes like ?? and in earlier seasons he didn’t always have his armor on or have a helmet at his disposal so I think he would to have had to have been nicked pretty good at least once or twice. Then there’s the goblin scars, In my version they told Barbara that it was racoons that got him , but the idea is that for Jim to have landed in the hospital he must have been hurt pretty badly that night, so, I would imagine that even while facing nomura Jim was fighting against the effects of blood loss also.

3.Angor rot: if you couldn’t tell by the photo it doesn’t show up in this! HOWEVER in my silly little side project (I’m sure some of you can probably guess what it is and if you can’t, idk look at some of my reblogs and you’ll probably find it, BUT! because it takes place after canon (yes including the movie) but also has some crunchy plot twisting In the background, the angry rot man face thing (I cant remember the name of it right now for the life of me please) will show up whenever he comes near to Jim, even if time is messed up, angor rot is back and technically hasn’t died yet so yes Jim gets the spoopy glowy thing.

4.amulet scar: idk if anybody remembers but when the arcane order took Jim’s amulet, he got scars from it right? It can be seen on his beast design is all of the tendrils leeching out from the indent of the amulet, my thinking is if his human form also got scarred by ARRGHHH! Why didn’t this scar translate too? Then again it could’ve but Jim is obviously a big fan of blue jacket*tm* so we will never know, I think he did but idk 🤷‍♀️

5.Bellroc- HEY SO ANYBODY REMEMBER WHEN BELLROC LITERALLY IMPALES JIM ON HER FLAMING STAFF!?! AND HE JUST KEPT GOING AFTER GETTING THE ARMOR!?! LIKE HE DIDNT JUST GET IMPALED? (This is partly why I think he gets like an adrenaline rush magic thingy as seen in some fic i read at some point PLEASE TELL ME IF ITS YOUR FIC I LOST IT PLEASE) YA that’s gonna leave a mark! the wound I’m guessing instantly cauterized so while yes it would hurt really bad I take that as why he was just running around after the armor.

6.burnt hand, another thing that happened in the movie but didn’t really get wrapped up in the end, Jim burnt his left hand on the gaggletac (idk how to spell it) and it just stayed bandaged for the rest of the movie, so it is also included on this list

7.back scars from bular: this one is probably the stretchiest one in this list but I think that it would have been an AMAZING addition to the plot character development wise. In one scene we see bular literally crushing and sliding Jim up the bridges interior wall and Jim is literally like silently screaming in this scene (thank you Guillermo /im sad for my son) and I like to think that after rushing over and doing Romeo and Juliet, Jim got off stage, practically ran over some people trying to get home because he can feel it, the whole play. This gives him some insight on the dangers of troll hunting. Yes I know this was a lesson beforehand but this is in the arc along with the goblins where Jim is learning he’s going to have to make personal sacrifices to keep up this troll hunting thing, including his mental health probably , it will serve as a very physical reminder of the constant danger he is now and will probably forever be in (in case y’all couldn’t tell that I’ve watched Spider-Man nwh like 8 times I’m out for blood on this one)

8.face scar from morgana: slinging the mood back around and also calling back to the “scars gained while Jim is a troll also get applied to his human form”, in like one of the last episodes maybe 2nd to last or the very last one in the final battle with morgana, she scratches Jim’s cheek with a throwing dagger and from what I can remember I thought it actually stayed on his face throughout the end of the series, I could be deluxe but I still like to add it for some reminder of the OG final battle.

not mentioned here- little pit in the amulet indention from the dark shard, and various scars from the dark lands.

if you read that entire rant I’m sorry , enjoy!

[adhdnursegoat]

Arkham Origins

cw: just fluff 😊

word count: 2.7k

The GCPD precinct hums with an unusual energy, crackling with the anticipation of Halloween. This particular holiday has a chokehold on the citizens of Gotham as it is just another time for them to be terrorized to the nth degree. But some still try to find the joy in the spooky holiday.

Normally stained and bare, the walls of the station are now draped in the gaudy trappings of the season—fake cobwebs stretching across corners, plastic skeletons grinning from desks, and strings of purple lights casting a festive glow over the space. And at the center of it all, there is you—cheerfully (and somewhat manically) transforming the drab precinct into a haunted wonderland. You move with infectious enthusiasm, stepping on chairs and tables, eventually collecting a ladder to hang decorations, a laugh bubbling up every time something doesn’t quite stay in place.

At your feet stands Edward Nashton, holding bags of fake spiderwebs and creepy cloth with all the enthusiasm of someone in a hostage situation. His expression is flat; lips pressed into a firm scowl that deepens every time you say something needs to be more ‘spoopy.’ He doesn’t even bother to look at you; instead, he stares straight ahead, focusing on nothing in particular, as though willing himself to be anywhere but here. His eyes narrow slightly, and his brow furrows in quiet disdain for this entire endeavor.

Yet, despite the scowl, despite the way he loathes every second of this frivolity, Edward’s heart beats erratically in his chest. Every time you glance down at him and offer a smile, he feels that familiar, irritating flutter—the sensation of his heart racing, like a trapped hummingbird beating its wings frantically against his cage of ribs. He wants to break the bird’s neck…

Edward hates it. He hates how you make him feel so... normal. Vulnerable. Alive.

And it’s only you who could drag him into this mess. Only you, with your infuriatingly bright eyes and warm laughter, only you who could somehow convince him to hold bags of spiderwebs like an underpaid assistant at some tacky craft store. Everyone else ignores him—mocks him, even—but you… Oh, you… You indulge him. You listen to and attempt to solve his riddles, smile at his games, and never dismiss him as odd or too strange. You actually seek out his company. You look at him with something resembling kindness, something he doesn’t quite fully understand but can’t bring himself to reject.

His mind drifts as he watches you now, flitting between thoughts of resentment and a strange, fizzy warmth that bubbles up when you’re nearby. The two feelings coexist in a way that confuses him, like a puzzle with no clear solution. He shifts awkwardly, his grip tightening on the bags of decorations as you hum to yourself in bliss and unaware of the inner turmoil raging inside him.

“Mr. Nashton, can you pass me the—oh, thanks!” You cut yourself off with a giggle as he hands you the spiderwebs you didn’t even finish asking for. His response is a slight grunt and a scowl, his eyes avoiding yours as though he hasn’t just been examining you for the past five minutes.

You take the webs from him and start draping them over the file cabinets, stretching the synthetic strands to create the illusion of disuse. But even as you work, you feel his eyes on you, and it makes you smile—just a little. You know he is irritated, annoyed at being dragged into something as trivial as decorating for Halloween, but there is something about the way he stays, the way he quietly does what you ask without too much grumbling, that feels almost… sweet. It is his way of being near you without verbally admitting he wants to be.

As you finish hanging the webs, you hop down from the chair and catch Edward’s eye. His gaze flits away, his lips pulling tighter into that scowl, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks flush ever so.

“You know,” you offer, brushing off your hands as you stand beside him, “you don’t have to look so miserable... Halloween’s supposed to be fun.”

Edward scoffs, finally turning his head to meet your gaze. “Fun,” he repeats, his tone dripping with disdain. “This is not fun. This is a waste of time.”

“I think you’re secretly enjoying yourself.” You roll your eyes, giving him a knowing smile. “Just a little bit.”

“I assure you; I am not.” Those blue eyes of his narrow, and his words carry a blade of annoyance, but you know him too well—there’s no real venom behind them. The irritation he projects is an act, something he puts on like a mask, even if he’s not fully aware of it himself. It’s his way of maintaining distance, of guarding that part of himself that he refuses to let anyone get too close to. You see through it, though, as clearly as you see the slight twitch in his brow, the telltale sign of the internal conflict stirring just beneath the surface.

And then there’s that flutter. You’ve seen it before—the subtle shift in his expression when he feels the pull between you. You’ve felt it too, that undeniable connection, and yet, here you both stand, caught in this strange dance of proximity and distance, both wanting something that neither seems willing to fully acknowledge.

Edward’s frown deepens, an attempt to bury the feeling. You can’t help but smile, but it’s bittersweet—because you know, just as he does, that this dynamic isn’t sustainable. The push and pull, the coldness he clings to even as warmth sparks in the space between you. It makes you want to shake him, to demand he stop pretending like he doesn’t care when you can feel the truth hanging thick between you.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here, even if you’re grumpy about it,” you say, your tone light, though your heart is heavy. You reach out, your fingers brushing his arm, a small gesture. It’s an offering of comfort, of connection. But as soon as you touch him, he tenses, and the unspoken rejection stings more than you care to admit.

You withdraw your hand quickly, frowning. The brief moment of contact leaves a lingering ache that spreads through your chest. You cough, avoiding his gaze, feeling a tightness in your throat that you desperately want to push away. “Help me with this ladder, please?” you ask softly, your voice quieter now. “I, umm, I need to get to the center of the ceiling.”

It just kind of hurts. You would love to say that his indifference, his obliviousness, doesn’t get to you—that you’ve built up enough emotional armor to let his coldness roll off your back. But the truth is, it does bother you. It sinks deeper than you’d like to admit. There’s something painful about reaching out to someone who refuses to be reached, like trying to hold water in your hands only to have it slip through your fingers.

With a resigned sigh, Edward drops the decorations onto the nearby desk and moves to help you with the ladder. The clatter of objects shifting as he sets them down feels too loud in the quiet room. He’s methodical, precise, just like always, adjusting the ladder with the same clinical attention he gives to solving one of his riddles. And you let him, watching as he finds the perfect spot for it, not saying a word because there’s nothing left to say in moments like these.

Once the ladder is stable, you place your foot on the first rung and begin to climb, leaving the solid, safe ground behind. You grip the sides of the ladder tightly as you ascend, feeling the slight wobble with each step. The height makes you feel a bit precarious, but that’s not what really unnerves you. It’s the silence that follows—the silence between you and Edward, the unspoken distance that feels more precarious than any ladder.

You stretch out your hand, trying to focus on the task at hand. “Spiderweb,” you murmur absentmindedly, concentrating on the decorations above, but your mind is still with him. You want to believe that his coldness is a defense mechanism, a way to protect himself from the vulnerability of caring. But it’s hard, so hard, to keep hoping that one day, he’ll let his guard down.

Edward places it into your grasp, his fingers brushing against yours in the handoff. The contact is quick, but it sends a subtle jolt through you. He holds the ladder steady, his presence grounding as you stretch to hang the decoration.

But as you reach for the final touch, your balance falters. The world tilts and a startled yelp escapes you as you feel yourself beginning to fall. For a split second, panic seizes your chest—then everything rushes back into focus as Edward moves. In one swift motion, he’s there, his arms catching you midair.

The moment his steady arms wrap around you and pull you tight against him, you gasp, your own arms finding purchase on his shoulders. Your heart is hammering, both from the fall and from the sudden, obvious closeness. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the heat of his body seeping through the fabric of your clothes. His face is close—so close that you can see the flush of color rising in his cheeks. His icy blue eyes, always so sharp and distant, are softened now but magnified by his black frame glasses. There’s a flicker of concern in them, his brows knitting together, his jaw set tight as though he’s trying to contain the emotions swirling in his mouth.

“Thank you for saving me from an early grave,” you rasp, breathless, your hands instinctively tightening around him. Your fingers are behind his neck, cupping the warm skin there, and tips just grazing his chocolate hair. It is an unconscious move, born out of the intensity of the moment, but as soon as you do it, you feel the shift between you.

Edward’s gaze locks onto yours, and the world seems to shrink down to the space between your faces. His eyes drop to your lips, lingering there, and it sends a flutter of heat through your chest. Your breath catches, and you steal your own glance at his mouth, feeling the weight of his focus on you.

The distance between you grows smaller as his face inches closer. His nose brushes yours—a whisper of contact, but it’s enough to make your heart skip a beat. Your breathing syncs with his, shallow and uneven, as if the world itself is holding its breath.

And just when it feels like the situation will tip into something more, something undeniable, he stops. His breath mingles with yours, and for a split second, it feels like time freezes. Then, as if something inside him snaps, Edward pulls away, the fragile tension between you shattering like glass. His eyes flicker with an internal struggle, the vulnerability vanishing behind a mask of composed restraint. The heat dissipates, leaving a hollow ache in its place, but the flicker of what almost was still smolders in your chest.

Your cheeks burn, the heat creeping along your skin like wildfire. It’s not just your body that flushes; it’s your entire being, a blanket of embarrassment. His tenderness had been so fleeting, slipping through your fingers like smoke, and now all that’s left is the ghost of what almost happened.

A soft sigh escapes your lips, barely a breath, as you loosen your grip on the back of his neck. The warmth of his skin lingers on your fingertips, the memory of it both comforting and agonizing. Reluctantly, you let your hands fall away, your gaze dropping to the side, refusing to meet his.

“Umm, Mr. Nashton, you can put me down now…” Your voice is quiet, a bit too quiet, as though speaking louder might shatter the delicate tension between you.

Edward shifts, as if startled by your words, his expression unreadable for a moment. His jaw moves, his lips parting as if to say something, but nothing comes out. There’s a flush of pink creeping up his neck and into his cheeks—a look so rare for him that it catches you off guard. His sharp, cutting demeanor is nowhere to be found, replaced by a gentleness that unsettles you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. He snaps his mouth shut, teeth clacking together with the force of the action, and his brows furrow as if he’s struggling to form words but can’t.

Then, almost too carefully, he sets you back on your feet, the motion slow and deliberate. His fingers linger at your lower back longer than necessary, their light pressure sending an involuntary shiver racing up your spine. The heat of his touch burns into you, searing itself into your memory, and you know you’ll feel it long after he pulls away.

He clears his throat, the sound harsh in the stillness, and adjusts his glasses in a futile attempt to regain his composure. You can see it—the familiar mask of indifference slipping back into place, the cool distance that usually defines him reasserting itself between you. But even as he steps away, you catch the flicker in his eyes, something soft, something unspoken. It’s like a spark, a warmth that contradicts his careful demeanor, and you wonder if maybe, just maybe, he felt the same rush you did.

You falter, caught in the space between what just happened and what could still happen. The weight of the moment presses on your chest, and part of you wants to retreat, to turn back to your work and let the tension dissolve. But the sweetness, the heat—it’s still there, tugging at you, urging you not to let it slip away just yet.

So, with your heart hammering against your ribs, you turn to face him again, your throat tight with nerves. Before he can fully register your movements, you lift onto your toes, stretching to close the distance between you. Your heart pounds, louder and louder, as you lean in, pressing your lips to his cheek in a soft, lingering kiss. His skin is warm beneath your lips, freshly shaven and smooth, and you can feel the way his breath catches, a small gasp escaping him—soft, unintentional, but so very telling. He twitches beneath your touch, the smallest movement, but it sends a thrill through you, igniting something wild and untamed in your chest.

“Thank you again,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his skin, the words intimate, meant only for him.

Then you pull away, settling with a gentle drop back on your heels. In a more hurried manner, you turn away to skulk back to your decorations. You would rather not see his heated stare.

The silence stretches taut as a wire for a minute. Edward hasn’t moved, and you can still feel the burn of his gaze on your back, as if his eyes are trying to peel away the distance you’re so desperately trying to put between you. Your fingers fumble with the decorations, but the trembling in your hands betrays you. Every part of your body is acutely aware of his presence, the closeness that lingers despite the physical space between you.

Your mind races, heart still pounding from the kiss you pressed to his cheek. The softness of his skin, the way he twitched beneath your touch—it all plays over and over in your head, each memory sharper, more electric with every replay. You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself, but your pulse thrums in your ears, the weight of what just happened refusing to let you breathe normally.

A quick glance over your shoulder confirms that Edward hasn’t moved. He’s still standing there, frozen, his eyes flickering with something unreadable—a battle, maybe, between his instinct to retreat and whatever unspoken thing keeps him rooted to the spot. You can see the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides, like he’s trying to figure out what to do with them, what to do with you.

You give him a small smile, your heart fluttering as you turn back to your festive chores. But even as you focus on your work, you can’t help but steal glances at him. He is still standing there, frozen in place. His mind is racing, you can tell, practically seeing the gears turning. The armor he hides behind has been breached; you kissed him, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

[atopfourthwall]

I'm curious how much September has changed for you over time. For me and many others it's essentially just "That month I got to get through before I can finally get to Halloween month" but I'm also not a content creator pumping out a TON of spoopy content for October. Much as you love the season I could easily see you as "Oh god, why are there only 30 days until October?! It's practically here! Halloween, stop approaching so fast!".

You're not entirely wrong, though I LOVE the spooky season, so September is mostly a YAAAAAY HALLOWEEN! type of time as we get closer to it, but then I have the added stress of OH GOD ALL THE HALLOWEEN STUFF I HAVE TO DO FOR IT THAT I ENJOY BUT IS ALSO STILL WORK.

[inkblot-inc]

The Bigger Picture

Summary: See what happens when you undermine your boss AKA the one who's paying your bills...

Pairing: ???Wanda Maximoff x Hyena!Mutant!Reader

[S.S AU Masterlist]

Warning(s): This is an 18+ AU so MINORS DNI. Also Dark Themes in general. There's smut in the first half of this one: strap-on usage (r giving) oral sex (Wanda recieving). There's some pretty crass language as per usual on my end, I can’t think of much else but let me know.

Note(s): I present another the start of another AU, ladies and gentlefriends! Where did it come from? The deep reaches of my MIND not all that deep really, I just can't stop my brain from scratching like an addict- but it's pretty decent for fall/spoopy season I think. I hope y'all enjoy :3

Word Count: Just a bit shy of 2.1k

*squints* I give NO ONE permission to repost or translate my work. Make your own shit!

You remember seeing the world through younger eyes. The scene around you is blurry and out of focus with only the barest hint of awareness of tears running down your face. The only thing you can make out is a man’s back, his imposing stature, his cropped hair, and how his figure seems to get smaller and smaller as he walks away from you. His apathy is the clearest; his steps never falter, not does her look back at you. You feel like an outside viewer as you watch a hand, your hand, continue to reach for him. You fight in another person’s grip as you're being dragged away.

“Baba please! Help me, I don’t wanna go!”

The lack of response through the high winds only made your yelling feel louder before your vision was then blocked by a hood over your face. Even if you couldn’t identify with the anguish anymore it still hissed at your nerves, grasping and pulling at you like a desperate whore for your attention…

The continued thump, thump, thumping sound throughout the room brought you back into the moment as you continued pounding the woman beneath you into the velvety couch cushions beneath. The woman’s wavy red hair splayed out and her nails digging into your shoulders as she let her moans fall from her mouth in an unending stream.

She gave a shout as she hit her orgasm and you watched her green eyes glaze over as she gave you a hazy smile, you returned a smaller one of your own. One of her hands slid up your chest to caress your throat, fingers running over the scarring coating the entirety of it.

Her eyes scanned yours in open concern. “Is everything okay? Where did you go just now?”

You merely squinted, “old-times...’s still loud.” Your voice came out gravely and with a creek.

With your thumb caressing her waist, you leaned back to sit upright before using a hand to move her half-unbuttoned blouse further down her arms. With more of the redhead's skin exposed and your head still swimming, you went back in to leave kisses ranging from her neck, down to her collarbone, and even further to the valley of her breasts. You felt the woman's hand take the back of your neck to have you take one of the mounds in your mouth.

The hand you had resting on the woman's waist moved to squeeze her thigh while you eased your strap out of her with a few more slow strokes. You released her flushed nipple with a small plop, your saliva slightly glistening in the light of the office space before you slid off of the couch to the floor.

Getting to a kneel, you keep your gaze on the eyes of the woman in front of you while reaching down by her ankles and fully removing her already ruined panties.

A glint sparks in your eyes as you stare at her still dripping pussy. You lick a stripe up her entrance before lightly sucking on her clit, causing the woman above you to jolt with a gasp.

The woman watches you go back to eating her out with a small crackling chuckle. "You love this, don't you?"

You only look up to meet her eyes, your mouth still working on her. You blink slowly before doubling your efforts on her pussy.

Her head falls back as she continues to buck into your mouth. "Yesyesyes, hah, just like that baby," She isn't especially loud, but the pleading laced in her voice is what drives you to your own brink.

You sink into the moans that come from her lips, soon turning into breathless whimpers as she brings your head impossibly closer to her heat. As ribbons of red made their way into your ears, you let her fog invade your mind and take over.

Everything else melted away into oblivion. You were older now as you watched the tattered dirt path become peaceful grasses, the people became well-rooted trees in full bloom. Armored cars and loaded rifles dissipated into mere accents of a pleasant scene. And at the center of it all, was the same woman as now. her velvet greens staring back at you with a warmth that could make the Niganda sun seem cold.

The redhead's grip tightened in your hair as her movements became more erratic against your face. You brought a hand up to play with her clit and work to bring her over the edge again.

Things were much simpler this way. No confusing flashes of people you don’t remember, no random jolts of phantom pain. You were sure to live in the moment, and your most recent memories didn’t hurt you to think about and when the details became fuzzy you almost missed them.

Your head rested on her inner thigh after you helped her ride out her high. Her finger rubbed just beneath your eye as your eyes locked, reveling in each other. "There you are, right here with me."

And it was all because of her. Wanda.

Wanda held your chin in her hand before she swiped her thumb over your bottom lip and tasted herself. Even with a fresh afterglow setting in, the fire in her eyes never abated. Wanda's power was always there.

That same energy that let her linger in your mind and relieve you of that lost momentum and gave you stability to latch for. You’d do anything to keep that. You’d do anything to keep Wanda.

As you helped her get her panties and skirt back on and make sure the back of her skirt was the front again, your mind was calm at a gentle hum, distant screams of the past going ignored as you helped fix up the couch of her associate’s office.

----------

Wanda’s mood had noticeably soured since you’d had your fill of each other. Her face had become a mask of neutrality with traces of agitation she just couldn’t seem to remove as she flipped through the papers settled on the desk. It was less decorated than her own; she’d hardly spared a glance at the few picture frames placed on top of the hardwood either. She didn’t want to see more than she’d had to for the day.

Standing up from the leather couch settled on the side of the room, you wandered around the rather plain space aimlessly, looking at the fully stacked bookshelves, more than half the titles going over your head with disinterest. Settling by where Wanda was seated, you faced the door as you heard incoming noise before the doorknob could even jostle.

Murky blue eyes startled as he caught sight of the two of you in his office. The older man wheeled himself further into his office before having the door shut behind him. Your eyes stayed on him, unwavering. “Wanda, to what do I owe this unexpected visit? I was called out of a very important-”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Better yet, who do you think you are, Xavier?” Wanda wasn’t interested in wasting time with false pleasantries.

“What exactly are you referring to, Wanda? I’ve done nothing but do as you’ve asked.” Wanda carefully kept her face blank as she observed the bald man.

“Keeping a wire on not only my vehicles, but my associates’ as well. Getting your grunts to try and tap my phone calls. They’ve gotten especially sloppy within the past few weeks, by the way. You should talk with Scott about that. All this to gain the favor of one Mr. William Stryker,” She placed the photos one of her skulkers took from their meeting a few nights ago on the table.

“Is that exact enough for you, Charles?”

You watch the man’s shoulders tense, a crease forming in his brow. You can clearly smell his nerves building while Wanda is still deathly calm. Her hands stay steepled in front of her face by her mouth, her eyes squint every now and then as she continues to observe the man.

“I've only given false information I assure you-”

“I know it is, because I basically spoon fed it to you and your men. You know nothing I don't want you to EVEN with you haphazardly bugging my house. Now, what I want to know is how you didn’t think I’d catch on. Do you think I’m stupid, Charles?” There is a noticeable edge in her voice now and the hairs on the back of your neck began to bristle, reacting to her aggravation.

Charles spoke up quickly “It was a part of the plan to have eyes in higher places, for the sake of all mutants, Wanda!”

The accent of her voice grew thick as her tone dropped lower. “Do not try to insult my intelligence, old man. You’ve done things here and there to try and undermine my headship when you think I won’t notice, but you will not pull this. Stryker is a sad little leech who wants to eliminate us all and has no qualms about being vocal about it. You want to try and make nice, fondle the balls of a man who wouldn’t bat an eye to exterminate mutants? You simply won’t be classified among us.”

As Wanda spoke those last few words, you watched as a familiar red aura surrounded Charles, her eyes glowing bright as Charles howled in pain as a pale blue aura rose out of his body where he sat. You almost thought Wanda was going to kill him then and there before his screams settled down.

Charles was breathing heavily, his form hunched over in his chair before his eyes widened with realization. “My powers…”

“You wanted to appease the mortal man, now you can live and die counted as one of them. Your bootlicking wife will be too once my people find her.”

“Hee-he-hick,” A feral giggle erupted from your mouth as you watched him carry on belligerently.

“You leave Moira out of this! we’ve done nothing but look out for you, Wanda! Your father would-”

“What did I say about insulting my intelligence? You and my father were at odds throughout his entire headship. You know nothing of what he would do nor what he would want.”

She slid more photos onto the table, the other man in them tickled something in your throat as recognition passed through you.

Wanda tapped on the man's face with her pointer finger, "This man. Tell me where he is."

Charles peered over to look at the photo, his nerves a bit all over the place. "Pierce? I've no idea Wanda, he's been gone for days now. You have to believe me,"

Wanda tutted her tongue as she brought her hands back in front of her. "I don't have to do anything, but I do believe you. Unfortunately for you that makes you completely useless to me, Charles." She pursed her lips in a faux pout.

You could almost see the man shaking in his chair as he went on indignantly. You wound up tuning him out as he kept going on about loyalty and nonsense.

‘Do I kill him now?’

Wanda reached back for your neck, running her thumb over the scarring over your throat. “We’re just about done here, but Charles can see himself out, I believe.”

Charles couldn’t even properly understand what was going on right away because, one: He was in the middle of explaining how the original members of the syndicate needed to stick together, and two: He can’t read minds anymore. I mean, what’s he going to do now?

“You can go see if the college across town has any openings, but you’ve been relieved of your position with Maximoff Unlimited as well as the Scarlet Syndicate which will be vacant as of today, effective immediately. Now you can roll yourself out of this office, or I can have Y/n here escort you out. They don't seem too keen on being delicate with you.”

You tilted your head as a choppy rumble passed your lips. The prospect of handling the man yourself was very appealing right now. Charles likely recognized this as he made his way to the door himself. Red mist opens the door for him.

“Smart choice. So you do have some sense left. Oh, and Charles?”

The man stopped in the doorway, but didn't turn to look at Wanda.

“The next time you try to throw me or my company under the bus, remember who put you in that wheelchair.”

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

Ghostses and Goblinses

I've been dipping in and out of an anthology of Scandinavian folk & fairy tales over the last couple of months.

I bought it new in 1984, when I was 20ish.

It's a compilation of tales that were collected by various folklorists, mostly from the late 19th Century (around the time, but after, the Bros. Grimm published their most famous collection), And the stories were translated into English by various translators in roughly the same era.

Anyway -- My point is, that the spooky stories in this collection came about Well Before "Horror Tropes" were Hollywood Horror Tropes.

And I've come away with the impression that:

What these folklorists called "Goblins," we would probably look at and say: "That's some sort of zombie" (A deceased person that still has some sort of physical body, as opposed to an immaterial Ghost, who can pass through walls, and appear and disappear) and

What D&D (I think) classifies as a "Goblin," these folklorists would classify as a "Troll" (Sentient beings who are living, and have names, and cultures, and habits, who are often antagonistic, ranging from mischievous to malicious,* and whom you would not like to sit down to supper with, because of their disgusting-to-us eating habits*).

Since this is Spoopy Season, I thought that would be fun to share.

*Depending, of course, on the story's culture of origin. Danish trolls are much nicer than Norwegian ones... at least, in the stories in this collection. And just for an example.

[friend-crow]

Spoopy story time:

So, this was sometime in the early 2010s. A friend and I went to the park after dark to smoke some of the devil's lettuce and hang out, as you do when you're home from college. One of the laws in New Jersey is you aren't allowed in public parks at night (stupid, I know), so between the drug-induced paranoia and the technical law breaking, we were rather on edge.

We were just walking around, enjoying the outside. It was light enough to see a bit in front of you, but dark enough where everything was silhouettes. We're walking through this field with solitary trees throughout, when I look up and 15 feet from where we're standing is an enormous stag under a tree. Most folk would have enough sense to just walk away, but we were not most people. Naturally, we were convinced the second we moved, this stag was going to maul us. The thing about the NJ suburbs is that a stag is actually the biggest wildlife threat around. There really aren't any large predators and the deer population is around people enough to not instantly run away. Depending on the season, stags can be very territorial and can attack people. This one happened to be standing his ground and seemed to be getting ready to charge, bobbing his head up and down.

What felt like hours (but was probably just moments) later, my friend had the idea to turn on the flashlight on his phone. Turns out our stag was just a low hanging tree branch. Moral of the story: don't do drugs in public. Doing them at home is much more fun

.

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Forgive These Bones I'm Hiding (Part 2 of 2)

Pairing: Serial Killer Marcus Pike x f!Reader (Reader is a police officer with the nickname “Cricket”)

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 13.8k

Warnings: This is a Spoooooooky fic for Halloween season. Please heed the warnings; this is not darkfic, per se, but it explores dark themes and contains elements of suspense and horror. The following subjects are mentioned in the context of cases that the reader deals with. I do not go into explicit detail about any of these themes and any violence is implied rather than seen, but please heed the warnings for: child abuse, domestic abuse, alcoholism, drunk driving, implied sexual assault, suicide, drug use, drug overdoses. Whew. Okay, for the story itself, please be warned that there is: derogatory language (someone calls reader a “bitch”), murders, body horror (corpses!), Marcus Pike being a bit unsettling, Very Enthusiastic Pussy Eating, unprotected PIV sex (this is fiction! use protection and also maybe don't fuck a serial killer!)

Summary: When five paintings are stolen from their frames, an unusual crime for your small-town precinct in Hannibal, Missouri, it's easy for you to project your insecurities about being a female police officer in a tiny, Midwest town onto the handsome FBI Agent from Washington who arrives to help with the case. But as your disposition--and the solid walls you've built around yourself--begin to soften, you quickly find you have bigger problems than the charming man you can't help but develop feelings for. One by one, bodies are starting to pile up. Bodies that all seem to share one connection… You.

Additional A/N: OKAY, so things definitely pick up in this chapter! Please heed the warnings, as Cricket’s past cases feature in a big way. There are more corpses, more unsettling!Marcus, and, of course, more MURDER. Thank you to @littlebirdsbookshelf for being an amazingly supportive human, beta reader, and crime consultant! Thanks for making sure my self-indulgent fanfiction always has its roots in reality!! They can’t fuck if I can’t make it make sense first. PLEASE check out our Playlist for all the spoopy Midwest Gothic vibes. The title of this fic itself comes from Family Tree by Ethel Cain, which is of course on the song list!

Masterlist | Part 1

The next morning starts with a headache.

"Wha'th'fuuuuck," you croak. You’re so disoriented that it takes you a few moments to realize your alarm is going off. 

You fumble for it, surprised to find it on the charger. You don't remember plugging it in. For that matter, you don't really remember getting home last night. Did… Did Marcus…?

Confusion and dread cut through the hangover, and you switch on the lamp as you sit up in bed. 

You're still in your clothes from last night, but your boots are untied and placed neatly on the floor next to the foot of the bed. 

You look around your bedroom, looking for more clues as to how you got here. There's a glass of water on your nightstand, and upon further inspection, two ibuprofen next to it.

You rifle around beside it looking for a note, but you come up empty-handed. It doesn't really matter; you can pretty much guess what happened: You got so wasted that Marcus Pike had to help you get home. He took off your boots, but clearly didn't feel comfortable taking off the rest of your clothes. He made sure your phone was on the charger and even went so far as to anticipate your need for water and pain medicine in the morning. 

Something still feels off, though. Just call it a gut feeling, an instinct, some vestigial part of your hindbrain that's telling you something.

Maybe you forgot your purse…?

But no, when you finally drag yourself out of bed to check the entryway, your purse is there, hanging on its usual hook. 

Shaking your head (probably a mistake, going by the ache that shoots through it when you do), you chalk up the odd feeling to the hangover. You don't remember the last time you had that much to drink, after all. 

You feel slightly better after taking a shower and downing another glass of water, but your stomach still roils and your head still hurts as you throw on your uniform. You're thankful for the dark sunglasses that come with it when you step outside your house. 

Fuck. Why did you drink so much?

You pull into the station about thirty minutes late, which isn't that bad, considering how many glasses of whiskey you had. How many, exactly? You lost count after three, but you know there were more. You were upset about Bobby and unsure of whether you even made a difference in this town and… wait, did you cry last night? In front of Marcus? An image flashes through your mind: Your head buried in the crook of his neck. A wet patch on his white dress shirt from your tears.

Oh, fuck. 

The man in question gives you one of those characteristic grins when you enter, still wearing your sunglasses. 

"Moving a little slow today, are we?" Marcus asks playfully. 

"Jesus fuck," you murmur, collapsing into your chair with a sigh. "I guess so."

"I've never seen a woman put away that much whiskey," he comments with a wink in your direction.

"And you never will again," you groan. "I'm swearing off the stuff for life."

"I don't blame you."

"Jesus, I don't even remember what happened last night. I woke up this morning with no memory of how I got there."

Marcus laughs. "You don't?"

"I barely remember what the hell we talked about. Oh, God–was I an ass? Would you tell me if I made an ass of myself?"

"You didn't make an ass of yourself," Marcus promises.

"I feel like I got all maudlin about the job," you say, frowning.

"You did, a bit."

"Sorry if the evening was a sob-fest."

"I think you're allowed to be upset after finding Bobby Pearson like that."

Cold dread shoots down your spine. Heart in your throat, you stare at Marcus open-mouthed.  

"Did… Did I tell you that last night?"

"Didn't need to." He holds up a copy of the Hannibal Courier-Post with a grim expression. Oh. Right. There it is, right on the front page, accompanied by a picture of you deep in conversation with the Coroner. 

You shake your head, laughing slightly. "Jesus, guess I really am out of it this morning."

"You up for a ride?" Marcus suddenly asks.

"Huh?"

"To the St. Louis field office," he explains. "I texted you yesterday about forensics, remember?"

"Shit, that's right! I'm–I'm sorry–"

"Don't be. There was a lot going on," Marcus insists. "But they've got some stuff for us to look over. Wanna go for a little drive?"

"Only if it's you who's doing the driving," you say. 

"Done."

"And if we stop for coffee."

"You drive a hard bargain, but I accept."

An hour later, with a latte in your hand and your head tipped against the cool glass of the passenger-side window, the fog of your hangover begins to clear and you start to feel much better. The sun glints off of the pavement of State Road 61 as Marcus speeds along in the left lane on the way down to the city. Everyone steers clear of what’s obviously an unmarked police car, and like all officers before him, Marcus takes full advantage. The tall grass next to the road blurs as you stare out over endless fields, dotted with the occasional farmhouse. The day is crisp; one of those beautiful fall days where the temperature stays low even though there’s not a cloud in the sky. If you squint your eyes, you can pretend you’re flying.

At the Field Office, Marcus breezes through security with his badge and his characteristic toothy grin. After you’re presented with a visitor’s badge, the two of you walk down the stairs to the basement, and down a dimly lit hall until you reach a door that reads “Forensics - Art Crimes.”

"Basement, really?" you ask, wrinkling your nose.

"Windows are bad for the degradation of paint," Marcus points out. Then, with a grin, he adds, "Plus, they always give Intelligence the prime real estate."

When he opens the door, your face brightens. Unlike any forensics department you've been in previously, this one is full of… well, art. You aren't sure why that surprises you, but Marcus chuckles as you gaze, open-mouthed, at the selection.

"It's like our own little secret museum, huh?" he says, eyes twinkling.

"Okay, I think I get why you like your job now," you say quietly as you examine what looks like an ancient Greek vase on one of the tables. 

"Is that…"

"Fake," one of the lab workers says with a shrug. "Art museum still purchased it for two mil, though. Oops, right?"

"Oh. Is most of this stuff fake, then?" you ask.

"Nah. This one's a genuine Picasso that was recovered from the black market," the woman says, waving her hand at a colorful painting leaning against the wall. "We're in the middle of returning it to the rightful owners."

"Holy shit," you breathe. 

"New to art crimes?" the woman asks.

"Not a lot of paintings to steal in Hannibal," you say with a smirk.

"Ah, so you're Rockwell.”

“No, I’m–oh. Haha, I get it.”

“Damon’s been taking the lead on that one. His office is there in the back; he’s expecting you two.”

Marcus greets Damon like an old friend while you stand by his side doing your best to look ‘official.’ Something about being here–in the FBI building–makes you feel like a country-bumpkin of a cop. Maybe it's just the ever-present chip on your shoulder (Okay, it’s definitely that.), but the moment makes you feel like you need to fight to take up more space, puffing out your chest and straightening your spine. And when Damon offers his hand for you to shake, you grasp it more firmly than strictly necessary, something you’ve learned over the years is an effective tool to assert yourself as a female officer.

“So you’re the lead detective on the case?” Damon asks as you shake his hand.

“Yessir.”

“Fantastic. Well, I hate to bring you all the way down here to deliver bad news, but running the prints didn’t give us any matches.”

Your heart sinks. 

"But," the agent emphasizes, "your team did excellent work canvassing the area around the museum for CCTV footage, and we got some hits at one am at a few different places. Compiled it in a presentation for ya, if you wanna take a look."

At your eagerness nod, Damon turns his second monitor around to face you.

"So, first hit is at Main Street Bed and Breakfast," he explains as a grainy, black and white, blurry photo appears on the screen. Hard to ID, but it looks like we've got got male, maybe six foot, two-thirty, on foot heading away from the museum, which would be just across the street over here–" he points at the corner of the screen. 

"Then the same individual shows up walking past Java Jive–" another grainy photo, not much clearer than the first, " –and then he turns down the alleyway behind the Dutch Country General Store, and gets into a white Pontiac Grand Am."

"He puts something in the backseat," you exclaim, pointing at the blurry shape.

"Mmhmm, something skinny and long," Damon says.

"...Like five rolled-up canvases," you offer, raising your eyebrows.

"It's not a lot to go on, but this is the only individual we saw out walking that night that didn't originate from any of the establishments we analyzed."

You watch the series of images, squinting as if it will help with the pixelation. The license plate, of course, is completely illegible as the car drives away.

"We've got people analyzing the plate, but best they can do is determine that the first letter is either a 'C' or an 'O.'"

"Better than nothing," you concede.

"Obviously, a Grand Am is gonna be a pretty common car in the area, but it's somewhere to start. We'll start pulling state records, and we'll be in touch if we–"

The loud ringing of your work phone interrupts Damon, and you wince apologetically as you pull it out and see 'SGT HUBBARD' on the caller ID.

"Hullo," you chirp amiably.

"Hey," Hubbard says on the other end. "We've got a body."

You straighten with a sharp intake of breath. Two deaths in Hannibal in less than a week? You don't think you've ever seen anything like it. Frowning, you duck out of Damon’s office and walk several paces away.

“I’m in St. Louis for the Rockwell case, but I’m finishing up,” you tell him. “I can be there in an hour and a half.”

“See that it’s quicker.”

You roll your eyes, mutter a “Yessir,” and end the call.

“Pike,” you bark, causing Marcus to look up with those pretty, soulful eyes of his. “We gotta go. There’s a case back in Hannibal that needs my attention.”

“Yes ma’am.” He gives you that wide, toothy smile again, and you remember how last night it had felt… unnerving to you. Like there was something lurking behind that earnest grin that no one else knew about. You shake your head. Jesus, you had way too much to drink last night. Get a grip, Cricket.

Lights on and sirens blaring, you zip past farms and woodlands. The official GPS time says one hour and forty-nine minutes, but you can do way better than that. Other vehicles automatically part for you, leaving them all behind in a blur of red and blue. Tongue poking out between your teeth in concentration and hands on ten-and-two, you think this might be the best part of the job. The part where you’re flying. 

You drop Marcus off at the Station with your apologies and race to the address Hubbard gave you.

The coroner’s office and a local news van are already there when you arrive, and the Sergeant looks disapprovingly in your direction, as if you could have shortened the drive from St. Louis through sheer force of will. 

“What is it?”

“Harold Dalton, 54. Apparent suicide.”

“What? What the hell is in the water that–”

“Hush. Keep your voice down. Right now, we’re waiting on State Police to come help with this one–there was a firearm involved.”

“He shot himself?”

Hubbard’s mouth is a thin line as he nods grimly. “Not a pretty sight.”

“Dalton…” you murmur to yourself. “Why do I know that name?”

“He’s got some priors,” Hubbard says. “Possession, some assault charges that were dropped, and–”

“Child neglect,” you whisper, as the realization hits you. “Oliver Dalton.”

“Shit, yeah,” the Sergeant says, realizing the connection at the same time. “God, how many years ago was–”

“Five,” you answer automatically. 

“That would make Oliver…”

“Sixteen.”

“Mm,” Hubbard grunts. “Ever check in on him?”

“He’s bounced around from home to home,” you answer, trying to keep the emotion and bitterness out of your voice. “Doesn’t last in one place for very long.”

“It’s a fucked up thing for a kid to go through,” Hubbard mumbles. “Can’t imagine he’s all that well-adjusted.”

The two of you stand in silence on the run-down, rotting porch. What a fucking shithole, you fume, scraping a piece of flaking paint with the toe of your boot. In the distance, you can hear the faint sound of sirens coming closer.

“Know we’re not supposed to say it,” the Sergeant finally says, as the State Police car pulls into the gravel driveway, “but good fucking riddance.”

Dalton. Now that the connection has been made, you can’t believe you didn’t remember immediately. You suppose you have tried your best to put his name–and several others–in a tidy little box in the corner of your mind. It’s easier that way.

Except… Why does it feel as though you were just thinking about him? As soon as you hear it, the pang of familiarity rushes through you, but you can't put your finger on why…

Hubbard is shaking hands with the two state cops that just arrived when your phone pings. You pull it out and glance at the thumbnail. 

“Hope everything’s okay! Talk to you later.”

It’s from Marcus. Something prickles across the back of your neck, and you slide your phone back into your pocket without responding.

“Officers,” you greet the newcomers, forcing a cordial smile and sticking out your hand to shake.

It was just the cold breeze making your hair stand on end. That’s all. 

“Sorry I had to dump you at the station like that this morning.” You tap out the message on your phone as soon as you get back into your squad car.

“It happens, don’t worry I know how it is.”

After a few minutes, Marcus begins typing again. 

“Want to meet up for a drink?”

“Fuck, no. You have any idea how shitty I felt this morning?"

"Noted. How about dinner, then? And some water?"

You pause. Drinks are one thing. But dinner? That could be considered "date" territory if you think about it too much.

You must be silent for too long, because your phone pings again.

“Had something I wanted to ask you about the CCTV sweep.”

It’s an obvious effort to sweeten the deal and get you to say yes, and you know it. You should tell Marcus you’ll discuss it tomorrow at work, pick up some fast food on the way home, and eat it in front of Jeopardy!–alone. 

Instead, you find yourself typing, “Dinner sounds good. Water sounds better. Where were you thinking?”

Marcus begins typing almost immediately. “How’s the Mark Twain Dinette?”

You snort to yourself. “Just as bad as you’re thinking. But Finn’s Food and Spirits is surprisingly edible if you’re looking for local eats.”

“Edible, huh? That’s not really a ringing endorsement, but I try not to go to chain restaurants when I’m traveling, so… let’s do it! :)”

It isn’t until you get into the shower that the reality hits you of how strange it is to be washing off the remains of two very similar cases in as many days. Not just two consecutive deaths–but two suicides, in a town of barely fifteen thousand people. 

And you knew them both. 

What you find most jarring, however, is the difference in your own mood between the two days. Yesterday, the weight of Bobby’s death felt as though it was dragging your body down. Today, though, there’s a weight off your shoulders. A burden you didn’t even realize you were carrying, suddenly gone. Hubbard had said it well, earlier–said what you’ve been thinking the entire day since. 

Good riddance.

You arrive a few minutes before Marcus, so you go in to grab a booth for the two of you–sitting where you can see the door, as you always prefer to do. Being a police officer has left you with some funny habits; it’s actually pretty nice to be able to talk to another person in law enforcement, for once. It isn’t like you go out much with Hubbard, who is both your supervisor and over twenty years your senior. Evan strictly works nights, so you don’t see much of him, either. You’re acquaintances with some of the officers in surrounding towns, but you don’t have much patience for their “I’m a cop” bravado–or even worse, the “Thin Blue Line” stickers on their car windows. 

Marcus seems different, though. Sure, he’s got an air of confidence around him, but you can tell it’s not an act at all. And yet, despite that confidence, there’s a softness to him: something in the upturn of his eyebrows, in the way his lips part when you speak, the way he seems enraptured by your every word–

When the man consuming your thoughts enters, you jump slightly, afraid, for just a moment, that he could read your mind. His expression brightens the moment he sees you, eagerness written all over his face, and you shake yourself.

This is why you can’t let him in.

“Everything go alright today?” Marcus asks amiably as he slides into the booth opposite you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, shaking your head. “Nothing big.”

The lie sits heavy on your chest. He’ll find out tomorrow–along with the rest of Hannibal–when the day’s Courier-Post arrives at the station. It’s just that you don’t want to talk about it, not tonight. 

“Yeah,” you say again. “So what was the thing with CCTV?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Marcus says, taking his eyes off the menu for a moment and giving you a discerning look. “Why don’t we just save work stuff for tomorrow, huh? C’mon, take a break–what’s good here?”

You shrug. “The catfish is usually fresh-caught from the river, if that’s your sort of thing.”

“Is it your thing?” he asks, a glint in his eye.

“I make it a point not to eat anything that was recently pulled from the river.”

Marcus hums in response, scanning the menu again. When the waitress comes by to take your orders, he gets the catfish.

“Country-fried steak,” you say, handing her your menu. 

Silence falls at the table; without reading material or decisions about food to be made, you aren’t sure how to talk to the man opposite you. He intrigues you; he attracts you… he also scares you, just a little. Is it possible to be too disarming? Too earnest? If so, Marcus certainly is, and something about his sincerity… puts you off.

Fuck, when you think about it that way, maybe you’re just an asshole.

“So the CCTV question was just a pretense to lure me here,” you say, raising one eyebrow in challenge.

Marcus holds up his hands in mock-surrender. “I plead the fifth. But I–listen, the truth is, Cricket–I can call you that, right? You, uh, you never gave me your first name.” When you don’t offer an answer, he forges ahead. “I’ve been told I’m forward, and that’s probably accurate, but the truth is, I think you’re one hell of a good looking woman, and I’d love to get to know you better.”

Your stomach flips over at his words. As much as you’d hate to admit it, you’re not immune to flattery, and certainly not coming from such a beautiful man in his own right. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“I find it easy to talk to you,” Marcus continues. “I’m on the road a lot, and it can be… lonely. You don’t know how much of a relief it is to have someone to talk to who gets it, who’s been there, you know?”

You nod thoughtfully, tracing the rim of your water glass. “I do get it. I–I’ve been alone for quite some time, too, and there are few people in Hannibal that I can really sit down and just talk to. I–I guess what I’m saying is, it’s a relief for me, too.”

Marcus reaches slowly across the table and, in a barely-there caress, runs his index finger across the back of your other hand. 

“I–” you say hastily, pulling your hand back and settling it in your lap, instead. “I want to be clear that I’m not in the stage of my life where I’m looking for anything temporary.”

“Me neither,” Marcus says, his eyes burning intensely into yours.

“Anything between us, is, by very nature, temporary,” you point out. “I live here in Hannibal. You’re going back to Washington upon completion of this case. I’m not against seeking mutual relief from loneliness, but I’m just… I’m not sure if I know you well enough to go down that road.”

Marcus’s eyes are full of understanding and acceptance. He draws his hand back and sits back against the booth with a small, wry smile.

“So, what’d’you wanna know?” he drawls, letting the Texan accent slip out in full force.

So… you talk. And talk. 

And talk. 

Your plates have long-since been empty and the ice in your water glass has melted, dripping condensation onto the checkered tablecloth–and you feel as though you’ve been given a glimpse past the toothy smile and confident demeanor, into a deeper, hidden vulnerability underneath. 

“...She–She broke up with you via text message?” you ask, dumbfounded at Marcus’s most recent admission.

“God, when you put it that way, it sounds… way worse than it was, but yeah,” he chuckles. “But honestly, when I look back, the writing was on the wall. I was rushing, she was dragging her feet. There… there wasn’t a future there.”

“Do you do that a lot? Rush, that is?” 

Marcus hums loudly as he seemingly deliberates his answer. “Mmm, I don’t like to see it as rushing.”

“How do you see it?”

“I’m a man who knows what he wants,” he says simply, dark eyes flicking up to meet yours.

It makes you shiver slightly.

“Has that made me hasty, on occasion? Impulsive? Sure. But I don’t see the point in hiding what I am only to be disappointed later. Eventually, I’ll find who matches me beat for beat. Someone who has the same ambitions, the same drive. The same passions.”

His eyes bore into you again, and you swallow. 

“You are forward,” you comment, somewhat breathlessly.

“I know what I want,” Marcus says again–quieter, this time.

“I wish I had that degree of certainty,” you whisper, laughing shakily.

“I think you do. In here,” he says, placing a palm over his heart. “But you second-guess it in favor of what’s up here.” He taps his index finger against his temple. 

“I happen to think humanity in general should obey their brains a little bit more, speaking from experience.”

Marcus laughs loudly, breaking the intense mood that had settled over the table. “I don’t think you’re wrong. But when it stands between you and your desires? Sad,” he comments, pouting his lip slightly.

“Some desires should remain just that–desires, nothing more.” Your voice wavers.

“I respect that,” he says lightly. Signaling to the waitress with a wide, friendly smile, he asks for the check. “But you don’t strike me as a person who indulges most of her desires. You put everything else first, don’t you?”

“Not always,” you object, bristling slightly at the blatant call-out. 

“I’m sure,” he grins as he scribbles a signature on the receipt. “Well, Cricket, I hope I’m wrong. I hope you chase the things you want, that you indulge in the little things that bring you joy, that you live your life not being afraid to say ‘I’m doing this for me.’ After all, I’m seeing such a fleeting moment of your life, aren’t I? A blink of an eye in the scheme of things. You and I are merely ships passing in the night, never to be seen or heard from again.” He stands. “Have a good night, Cricket.” 

And with that, Marcus gives you one last fond smile and disappears through the front doors, leaving you stunned–frozen to your seat as you absorb his speech.

You wake up confused for the second morning in a row.

Bright and loud. Why is it so bright and loud?

This time, the confusion resolves itself quickly as your brain comes back online and you realize that your work phone is ringing again. 

The old-fashioned alarm clock across the room reads 5:23 AM.

“Hullo?” you croak.

“You’re not going to fucking believe this.”

At the sound of the Sergeant’s voice, you switch on your bedside lamp and blink rapidly in the harsh light. 

“What is it?” you ask, trying to sound more awake than you actually are.

"Maisie Fletcher called the station around four saying her husband never made it home from the Waterhole. Evans drove the road from town to their house about a mile south just to take her statement, and found solid evidence of fresh skid marks leading into the river.”

Your heart sinks. The river. 

“Any sign of a vehicle?” you ask, already suspecting you know the answer.

“No.”

You take a deep inhale through your nose and let it out slowly through your mouth. Pulling a body from the Mississippi is miserable, unpleasant drudgery. First, you’ll spend hours directing boat patrols back and forth in a cross-hatch pattern for miles south of the suspected entry point. Then, once you finally find the vehicle, the work to exhume it from the water begins. The fire department will need to be coordinated with, and, depending on the depth of the car, a SCUBA team or a crane. 

“Fletcher…” you repeat, frowning. “Isn’t that–” 

“The domestic disturbance couple, that’s right,” Hubbard confirms. 

You snort. ‘Couple’ is a strong word, in your opinion. The husband, Gavin Fletcher, was single-handedly responsible for half a dozen trips out to their house along the river over the years, but every time you’d asked Maisie–with increasing urgency in your tone–if she’d like to press charges, she had declined. And every time, you’d leave the house with a lead balloon in your stomach. 

You always worried it was a matter of time before the “domestic disturbances” turned ugly. Or worse… fatal. 

And now… he’s in the Mississippi. Maybe. Possibly.

Is it bad if you find yourself hoping he’s at the bottom of the river?

Yes. Yes, it is. 

“Understood,” you sigh into the phone. “Let me throw on my uniform and I’ll meet Evans down at the bank.”

After a long day of standing on the banks of the Mississippi, watching patrol boats pass back and forth in slow, deliberate lines while drizzle slowly seeps its way down into the innermost reaches of your clothing, a vehicle turns up around six pm. You watch as the fire department uses the Jaws of Life to pry open the driver-side door, sending a cascade of muddy water onto the ground. 

It’s difficult to recognize the former person being pulled from the wreckage–even after less than twenty-four hours of being submerged, water can do a fucking number on a body–but a search of the wallet in the back pocket of its jeans confirms the identity of the swollen, bloated corpse that used to belong to Gavin Fletcher. 

Predictably, the task of notifying Maisie Fletcher is handed down to you. 

Your mouth is a thin, tight-lipped line as you drive down the gravel driveway that you wish wasn’t so familiar. You barely have to knock before Maisie is at the door and falling to her knees in a display of grief that you simply can’t find yourself to feel. Try as you might, you can’t force anything–any emotion other than ‘numbness’ onto your face as you deliver the news as gently as you possibly can. 

Maisie, still weeping, agrees to meet you at the morgue tomorrow to officially ID her late husband, and as she shakily rises to her feet, you can’t help but note the not-quite-healed-over bruise on her temple. 

You need a fucking drink. 

Thirty minutes later finds you at the Waterhole nursing a cold beer and an even-colder mood in your still-damp uniform. 

Palmer, ever the charmer, leans into your personal space with all the enthusiasm of someone attempting to disarm a bomb, and mutters, sotto-voce, “You smell like a goddamn fishmonger, Cricket.”

At your deadpan glare, he backs away, hands in the air, and makes a show of cleaning cocktail glasses instead.

You don’t much feel like talking. 

For one–yeah, the lingering smell of river brine–with the barest hint of ‘bloated corpse’ underneath–doesn’t put you in a sociable mood.

But what’s really bothering you is all of those old “domestic disputes” hovering in the forefront of your mind ever since Hubbard said the name ‘Fletcher’ at 5:30 this morning. God, you had all-but-begged her to press charges; in hindsight, you probably sounded insane. And each time, you took her refusal personally–as if it were happening to you, not to her. You’ve worked hard over the years to put that hurt, that anger away in a tiny little box in the corner of your mind, but the death of Gavin Fletcher seems to have released it all over again.

He’s dead, you point out to yourself. There’s no point in resurrecting your demons.

“Back at it, I see?" a slightly amused voice calls out from your periphery, and you close your eyes in exasperation.

You can't do this dance now.

"Marcus," you say with a resolute sigh. 

"Fancy seeing you here," he grins, and slides onto the barstool next to yours. "I'll have the same," he says to Palmer, who nods.

Seated next to you, you can tell exactly when the odor of your uniform hits his nose. He pauses, beer bottle halfway to his lips, and cocks his head in a way that would be comical, had you been in a better mood. His eyebrows pinch together, causing a little crease to appear between them, as he looks at you. 

"Did you… get dumped in the river earlier?"

You sigh again. "Not exactly. Had a car go into the river last night. Had crews searching all day, and finally found it this evening."

Marcus lets out a low whistle. "Roads must have been slick last night with all the rain," he points out.

"Yeah, exactly," you agree. "Honestly, it's probably worth it to put a feature on hydroplaning in the local paper after the news comes out. Not enough people take it seriously."

"Occupants?"

"Just the one. Male, forties. I can't release any names until tomorrow, though."

"I know," Marcus says, smiling fondly. "So after a day in the rain and the Mississippi mud, you're so ready for a beer that you don't even change out of the wet uniform, huh?"

"Fishmonger," Palmer grunts from the other side of the bar.

"I wasn't going to say it, but…"

"If you two are gonna gang up on a woman drinking, I'll damn well go home and do it alone," you grumble.

"Nonsense," Marcus grins. "If I bought the second round, would that convince you to stay?"

"One," you say, holding up your finger. "You have me for one more drink. Then I'm going home and getting into a hot bath."

"Yes, ma'am," he drawls, a glint in his eye when you mention the bath. "Guess I'll have to get my fill in the span of two beers."

You drain your first bottle and set it down challengingly. 

"...One beer," he amends.

"It's just as well," you tell him. "I'm less than pleasant company tonight."

"Impossible," Marcus promises. "Your company becomes more and more entrancing to me the more I'm graced with it."

"I guess if you can't handle me at my 'smelling like rotten fish,' then…"

"Don't make me beg to 'handle' it."

"Marcus!" You bark out a surprised laugh in spite of yourself. 

"Ha! There it is," he crows triumphantly. 

"Are you trying to cheer me up or piss me off?"

"You looked like you could use the former. Seems as though you already have enough of the latter."

You can't help but chuckle again. Damn him that it's working.

"Is it so wrong to desire the company of a beautiful woman who smells like the bottom of a river?"

"Leaving," you sputter through your stifled laughter, although you make no move to get off of your stool.

"You wound me."

"I'm not the one habitually insulting your smell.”

“If I smelled like that, I’d hope someone would ask why,” Marcus points out with a teasing grin.

"I guess if I had known I'd be doing… this, I would have gone home and showered first."

"Doing… what?" Marcus asks, a flirtatious glint in his expression.

"This. This… dance, this back and forth." You gesture between the two of you.

"This… dance?" he repeats teasingly. "Cricket, if you wanted to dance, all you had to do was say so."

"Do you ever stop?" you laugh, rolling your eyes.

"Of course I do," Marcus answers, sounding affronted. "I'd never push someone if I didn't think my feelings were returned."

You close your eyes and exhale shakily. "You know I do… I do feel the same way, Marcus. And it isn't like I haven't thought about what you said last night–in fact, I've thought of it a lot. But I keep coming back to the fact that I just… I don't want to just scratch an inch. I'm looking for…" 

"Connection?"

"Yes," you say emphatically. "Exactly. Not to be melodramatic, but I'm just too damn old for anything else."

"I feel the same way," Marcus murmurs.

"If you feel the same way, how the hell do you reconcile the fact that we're from two different parts of the country?" 

"I don't know," he says softly. "But I know I can't ignore what I feel for you–the connection I feel between us. I know that's real, don't you?"

You drain the last of your beer and set it down on the counter. 

"Guess that's my time," Marcus chuckles resignedly.

"Walk me to my car," you say quietly. 

Marcus nods, throwing some cash onto the counter and extending his hand to you. "Shall we?"

Not taking your eyes off of his, you gently slip your palm into his own. He walks you to your car, one hand resting perfectly at the small of your back and making the skin there tingle slightly.

“I won’t ask to kiss you,” he announces as you open your door. “But from one passing ship to another, I’ll just say that you look so goddamn beautiful right now under the streetlights.”

You turn carefully around. Marcus’s expression is open and earnest. His lips are parted, his eyebrows upturned as he watches you. He’s made his desires clear, and you… you simply want to bask in that all-consuming attention of his for just a few moments. 

Slowly, achingly slowly, you bring your palm up to lay against his sternum. Your eyes meet–a question in his, an answer in yours. 

Just as unhurriedly, Marcus steps closer. He gently cups your chin in one of his large hands as he tilts his head just slightly and lowers it to meet you. 

His lips are soft when they slowly brush against your mouth. The kiss is sensual, full of longing and barely restrained passion lurking just under the surface. His lips are parted, but he makes no attempt to deepen the kiss; you never feel the careful slip of his tongue into your mouth or the sting of teeth. Despite this, it might be the most sexually charged kiss you’ve ever received. A wave of pure want surges down your spine and into the base of your core and your grip on his shirt tightens to steady yourself as a small, involuntary noise escapes from deep in your chest.

You expect things to escalate from there. You wait for your back to hit the side of your car, to feel the weight of Marcus’s body against you as he pins you against the door. You wait for his hand to grip your hip, his fingertips to dig into the back of your neck as he takes control.

Instead, he pulls back–breathing shakily as he does–and rests his forehead against yours.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have done that,” you laugh breathlessly, thinking of how the hell you were supposed to to work with him now.

“Maybe not,” Marcus chuckles back. “But I don’t regret it. I can’t.”

The orange light from a nearby lamp casts half of his face in shadow, making his features stand out in dark relief: the bow of his upper lip, the angle of his cheekbone, the strength in his brow, the line of his nose… 

He’s the one who looks beautiful, you think. Out loud, you say something else. 

Just one word.

Your name. 

Marcus’s lips part in surprise, eyebrows turning upward as he realizes the gift you’ve given him. He could have used it all along, of course, had probably seen it in the city directory before he’d even met you. 

But he waited for your consent, instead.

And oh, how sweet it sounds when it falls from his lips for the first time like this, his mouth just inches from yours.

“I can’t believe I let you kiss me smelling like this,” you joke, trying to dispel the heavy cloud of tension.

He laughs quietly, and murmurs your name again, his thumb brushing delicately back and forth against your cheekbone. “Go home,” he whispers. “Take that bath. It’s late.”

You nod, swallowing thickly. “See you tomorrow.”

Marcus steps back, giving you a fond, warm smile. “Sure will.”

Christ, what have you done?

The thought doesn’t hit you until the wee hours of the morning, when you bolt upright in bed before your alarm and realize that you’re going to have to continue working alongside Marcus for the foreseeable future. 

You don’t know him, not really; you don’t know how he’ll act in a professional setting after a very unprofessional moment between the two of you. He brings out a softness in you that you don’t recognize, a deep yearning at the very core of you that had been shoved down and suppressed for years. Vulnerability is punished in your line of work, especially as a woman, and you’ve gotten so well-practiced at stamping out any trait that could be perceived as weakness that you, unknowingly, eradicated it from your personal life as well.

How long has it been since you’ve let someone in?

How long have you denied yourself the comfort of another’s touch?

Damn him.

He’s brought all of these feelings to the surface, and now you have to worry about not only his reaction to seeing you at work today, but yours as well. 

Will you be able to hide the way your body seems to gravitate toward him? Can you keep your face from betraying you? 

Will he be able to remain aloof and businesslike, or will the mask drop–showing everyone the hunger in his eyes? 

You shudder slightly. Please, let the day go smoothly. 

As it turns out, all your nerves were misplaced. There’s no awkward reunion, no shy smiles or stilted small talk. 

“They ID’ed the guy!” Marcus exclaims loudly as you walk into the bullpen. 

The outburst from the typically softspoken man surprises you so much that you nearly drop your coffee.

“What?” 

“Your Norman Rockwell thief! His name is Reuben Porter, and he lives in Moberly.”

A slow smile spreads across your face. “No way.”

Marcus grins back, dimple on full display. “Fancy a drive to the field office today?”

“Hell yes. Gotta be sooner than later, though,” you add, thinking of Maisie Fletcher. “I’ve got a meeting at three.”

“Yes ma’am,” he smirks. “Shouldn’t take too long. They’ll share all of their files, and you and your precinct can be the ones to make the arrest.”

“Wait… you’re not doing that?”

“Told you it was still your case,” he points out. “Yeah, before you know it, I’ll be out of your hair and on a plane back to D.C.”

“What a relief,” you joke, but the words hardly have any bite to them. Back to D.C.? Part of you wants to have your fill of him first; that kiss last night only left you craving more. All you can think about is his lips on yours, and wonder about the feel of his body as it pins you to the bed. 

“I’m sure it is.” 

Marcus’s voice deepens, his tone tinged with amusement, and you fight the urge to avert your eyes like a schoolgirl. 

“Shall we, then?” you say lightly, raising your eyebrows and tilting your chin upward.

“You’re driving, this time,” he says with a boyish smile.

The car is where the tension finally returns. The air feels dense, each lull in polite conversation pregnant with what goes unmentioned and unacknowledged. To your surprise, you find yourself itching to address the elephant in the squad car, even after what feels like hours of giving yourself pep talks before work, promising yourself you wouldn’t be the one to slip.

“When… when is your flight?” you ask instead.

“Tomorrow.”

“...Oh.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Marcus says seriously.

You blanch. “You do?”

“Mmhmm. ‘Good Riddance,’ right? Mister Big City Agent, finally getting out of your way so you can arrest the jerk who had the audacity to defile the Mark Twain Museum.”

You bark out a surprised laugh. “I can’t tell if you’re making fun of Hannibal or not.”

Marcus makes a show of appearing offended. “I would never poke fun at the birthplace of Samuel Clemens.” Sobering, he adds, “I hope you know by now that I care very deeply about every art case.”

You can’t help but beam at him. Taking a leap of faith, you respond. “And I hope you know by now that I’m not hoping the door hits you on the way out.”

“Yeah?” he asks quietly. 

“‘Course.”

Marcus slowly reaches his hand over to you and drags just the tip of one finger from your wrist and down your hand to the end of your pinkie finger in a barely-there caress. 

You let out a shaky exhale as the squad car pulls into the lot of the St. Louis field office.

Damon greets you and Marcus cheerfully as you enter the Art Crimes Department. He shakes your hand, offering his congratulations, as you follow him back to his office.

“Here you go,” he says, handing you a singular flash drive. “The final identification reports identifying Reuben Porter as the thief, and all related case notes.”

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Oh,” you say, turning the flash drive over in your hand. “Why not just email it?” 

“File’s too big,” Damon shrugs.

“Got some stuff for you, too,” Marcus adds, pulling out his field notebook and a manila folder and handing them to you. “My notes, and my formal report of my involvement in the case.”

“Thank you,” you say, looking at Damon, and then at Marcus. “For your expertise and your support. I’ll–”

You’re interrupted by the loud ringing of your work cell. Grimacing, you give the agents an apologetic smile and duck out of Damon’s office.

“Yeah,” you say impatiently into the phone.

“Hey,” Hubbard replies, sounding, for once, incredibly hesitant.

“...What’s going on?”

“Can you go on a call?”

"I'm at the St. Louis field office with Pike," you tell him. "You'll have to call Evan in."

"Evan is already here," the Sergeant says, making you frown in confusion. 

"He is? Then why–"

"We’ve got a body, but Cricket? …It's Johansson."

You don't realize your legs have given out until you feel the cold chair underneath you. Your breath comes in short pants after hearing That Name. That fucking name.

"Jakub," Hubbard continues, as if you needed to be told.

"H-How?"

"Looks like an overdose, but the autopsy will have to confirm it, obviously."

You feel as though you're floating above yourself. That fucking case. You hadn’t been on the force long; it was the first time the system had failed you. Failed her. 

"I just thought you should know," the Sergeant is saying. "If you need to take a few days–"

"I don't," you interrupt. "Thanks for telling me. You still need me to come?"

"Nah," Hubbard says. "Have fun in St. Louis."

"Yeah," you hear yourself saying over the blood rushing in your ears. "Thanks." You robotically set the phone down on the table, eyes unseeing as you process the conversation. 

A warm palm lands on your shoulder, and you exhale shakily. "S-Sorry, just give me a minute."

"Are you okay?" Marcus's voice is full of concern.

"Yeah, it's um… just a name I haven't heard in a while, is all."

But that’s not true… is it? The name is fresh in your brain, feels familiar when you silently form the shape of it with your mouth. Jakub Johansson. You’ve tried your best to put him–and all the other cases that keep you up at night–in the past, but ghost after ghost keeps turning up this week, in more ways than one. 

“Do we need to get back to Hannibal?” Marcus asks.

“Nah. No. They’ve got it handled, they were just–it was one of mine, so… informing me, I guess.”

“One of your… what?”

“Sorry. Just an old case. Someone connected with it, anyways.���

“Everything alright?”

“They’re dead,” you deadpan. And even as you say the words out loud, a weight you didn’t realize you had been carrying seems to lift from your shoulders. Finally unparalyzed, you turn and look at Marcus. His gaze is burning, his eyes searching your face with unrelenting intensity. 

“Do you need to take a moment?” he asks softly, plush lips barely moving and his wild eyes never once leaving you.

Suddenly, the windowless Art Crimes Department feels stifling, like there’s not enough air. You can’t speak; you can’t breathe. Instead, you nod as you quickly rise from your chair and all-but-bolt from the room, walking quickly down the hall and up the stairs until you reach the lobby, then rushing out of the main entrance. It’s only then that you feel as though you can suck in a deep, ragged breath of crisp autumn air.  

You’ve carried this case with you for almost seven years. Seven years of feeling like you were the one who failed–not the system. You. You could have collected more evidence, you could have fought harder, you could have–no. You pace the sidewalk, repeating the statements the Force’s therapist gave you all those years ago. You did everything you could do. You helped a woman in need and brought a bad man to justice. His light sentence is not your fault. 

And now he’s dead.

Why doesn’t this feel like relief?

That feeling, the one you've been having all week, returns. That feeling of wrongness, like you’re forgetting something important. 

“Hey.” A soft voice cuts through your thoughts.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” you murmur, not turning to acknowledge Marcus. “What the fuck is happening this week? Pearson, Dalton, Fletcher, J-Johannson… I’ve seen more dead bodies in one week than I’ve seen in a fucking lifetime.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Marcus points out, “not a dead body.”

“The case with Johansson, it… it fucked me up for a while,” you say quietly, not looking at him. “I had to take time off, I was appointed a therapist to speak to, I–” 

“The details must have been really upsetting to you,” he says gently, laying his hand on your forearm.

“I had panic attacks,” you whisper, feeling the leftover shame wash over you. “We’re supposed to keep our own emotions out of the job, and I… I failed–”

“That’s not a failure–” Marcus starts, but you interrupt quickly.

“I failed her,” you grit out through clenched teeth, spinning to face him head-on. “I thought I was doing everything I could, but it wasn’t enough.”

The soft sound of your name causes a sob to catch in your throat.

“Listen to me,” Marcus says softly. “You did everything you could, I know you did. You’re a caring, capable, brilliant cop, and you did everything in your power. And besides, the universe has a way of making things right, doesn’t it? He came to justice in the end.”

You snort. “He fucking overdosed in his own home, and his victim was left with a lifetime of trauma. If that’s justice, the universe has a funny sense of humor.”

You deflate with a sigh. Checking your watch, you give Marcus a humorless smile. “We’ve gotta go, anyway. I need to be back to meet with the wife of a drowned man at the morgue.”

Maisie Fletcher’s demeanor is far more stony than it had been the day before. Head held high and lips pursed, she strides confidently into the observation room and watches expressionlessly as the sheet is peeled back to reveal Gavin Fletcher.

“That’s him,” she confirms with no emotion in her voice.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say, because it’s what you’re supposed to do.

Maisie snorts, the first time her facial features have changed since she walked in. “Really? Knowing what you know about him? You might be the only other person who knows the truth about what he really is.”

When you don’t answer, she speaks again.

“This might be the best thing that's ever happened to me." The words are whispered, barely audible even in the cryptlike silence of the morgue.

You nod at the mortician, Milo, who you remember from a few grades below you in school. He nods back and carefully replaces the sheet.

You escort Maisie back out to her car with a heavy heart and brooding thoughts.

"What are you going to do?" you ask quietly.

"I'm leaving town. Soon as I can. I–I never meant to stay here, but…"

"It's hard to leave," you murmur. "The town, mean," you correct quickly. "It sucks you in. Believe me, I know."

"You could go, too," Maisie points out. "Every town needs cops."

"And leave all this?" you joke. "I'm good. Really. Just been a week for the record books."

As Maisie drives off, you turn and see that Milo is watching you from the front entrance.

"There a problem?" you call out.

"Nah, just wanted a second opinion on something. You busy?"

You shake your head, walking back into the morgue behind the mortician.

"Lot of new tenants this week," Milo says. He pauses, looking over at you as if waiting for your laugh. You manage a weak one, but it seems to satisfy him. He stops in front of one of the metal drawers and turns toward you. "This one, the one they found yesterday? The autopsy hasn't been completed yet, but I wanted to run something by you to see if you agree with my analysis."

You shrug, holding your arms out in a gesture for him to continue. He grabs the handle and pulls, revealing the pale, stiff corpse of Jakub Johansson. You suppress a flinch.

"It doesn't take an autopsy to conclude that the overdose killed him," the mortician says. "We've got all the classic signs of a fatal dose of Fentanyl. Should be cut-and-dry."

You pause, a small frown on your features. “If it’s cut-and-dry, why am I sensing a ‘but’ there?”

“Well, the overdose is cut-and-dry. No one walks away from that many drugs in their system, but… well, it looks like he got into a fight or something right before.”

“A fight?”

Milo sweeps the sheet back from the corpse’s arm. “Here. See, there’s the puncture from the needle, but look–” he gestures at the upper arm, where, through the discoloration of the already-decomposing skin, you can clearly see five purple marks. 

“Someone grabbed him,” you say quietly. 

“Mmhm. And here.” He points to the forearm, where a larger bruise runs horizontally across the skin. 

Staring at the marks, the image starts to crystalize in your mind. “It looks like… like someone grabbed his upper arm, and held his forearm in place with their knee, or something.”

“That’s exactly what it looks like,” Milo nods grimly. 

“He was held down,” you murmur, barely audible in the silent room. “He was held down and given a fatal dose.”

“The injuries were perimortem,” the mortician adds. “They would have been sustained just before he overdosed.”

“How long before?”

“No way to be precise, but…” he clicks his tongue, “...no more than an hour or two.”

You thank Milo in a daze, heading back out of the morgue with rapidly swirling thoughts. You can no longer ignore the facts: All the people who have died this week, with the exception of Bobby Pearson, were on your list of ‘Cases that Haunt your Dreams.’ That list… subconscious, but so vivid that you may as well have it written down on a piece of posterboard and hung opposite your living room couch. They were the cases that kept you up at night, the reason you… 

… the reason… you…

…drink… to… forget.

The phrase seems to set off a chain reaction in your mind. You hear it again and again, but not in your own voice…

In the voice of someone else. 

“They say there’s only two kinds of people,” Marcus says. “Those who drink to remember, and those who drink to forget.”

You remember his soulful eyes, the understanding in his expression as he acknowledged that he knew exactly which of those people you were.

“I drink to remember.”

“The living, and the dead.”

The dead.

Images flash rapidly in your brain. Him telling you the work matters. Urging you to tell him the names. Pouring you another drink. You, crying against his dress shirt. Him pleading with you to let it all go, the burdens you carried.

The names…

Nothing makes sense, anymore.

Well, actually, everything makes sense, it’s just that you don’t want it to. 

Everything that’s happened over the past week is leading you to one conclusion–and you simply aren’t ready to face it. Not yet. 

You can’t face it… but you can’t let it go, either. It would be against everything you thought you stood for. So rather than go home and drown your suspicions in more whiskey, you go back to the station.

Not bothering to turn on the lights, you sit down at your desk and power on your computer. The blue light is harsh in the dim bullpen as you open the FBI’s website and search for the Art Crimes department. You glance at the directory–Supervisory Special Agent Marcus Pike at the very top, of course–then navigate over to the department’s news page and scan the recent case headlines. 

Wilton Man Admits Operating Fraud Scheme

Palm Beach Art Dealer Sentenced to Federal Prison for Laundering Money From Art Fraud Scheme.

Lips pursed, you open up a second tab and search for ‘Wilton.’ It’s a small town in Connecticut–and you find the town’s local newspaper easily. You click back to the FBI page, look at the date the man was arrested, and look through the newspaper archives on and before the same day. 

No major headlines stand out, but when you read the obituaries for the week, goosebumps begin to rise at the back of your neck. Elliott Bradford, 42. Overdose. Mark Hampton, 38. Suicide. 

Those kinds of deaths are common everywhere, you try to tell yourself. But, pulling up yet another tab, you search for the first name. Immediately, article after article appears in the results. Heart in your throat, you click on the first. 

Sex Offender Elliott Bradford Implicated in Trafficking Ring. The news is from over a decade ago–but the details are enough to turn your stomach. He’d been sentenced to ten years in prison, which means he would have just been released… last year. Mere months before Marcus would have been there for work. 

When you search for Mark Hampton, you find a similar story. Marjorie Hampton Files Suit Against Husband Mark Citing Repeated Abuse. And just a few years later, he’s dead, too.

A little voice in the back of your head tells you to stop digging, but you can’t seem to quit. You repeat the search with Palm Beach, and find that again, the obituaries are filled with accidental deaths and suicides from the town’s most violent men. 

Minneapolis. North Hollywood. Palmdale. You’ve gone as far back as 2016, and every town has the same pattern: Marcus Pike arrives for a case, and days later, known abusers start turning up dead. 

Every. 

Single. 

One.

It’s nearly two in the morning when you finally force yourself to stop. Your mind is swirling with names, dates, and heinous crimes. And all of them died within weeks of the town being visited by a certain FBI Art Crimes Detective. There’s still a part of you that can’t believe your conclusions are real–that the sweet, kind man you can’t deny your feelings for any longer is actually a killer. Which is why, hands trembling, you do the one thing you definitely should not do at this moment.

You text Marcus Pike.

“I need to talk to you.”

You regret it almost immediately. Part of you hopes that he’s asleep. He has to be, right? It’s two AM. Shaking your head and inwardly chastising yourself, you slip your phone into your pocket and start shutting down the computer. 

When you get up to leave, however, your phone pings.

“Where and when?”

"I–I need to talk to you,” you blurt out the moment the hotel room door opens, but the sight before you almost makes you swallow the last few words.

Marcus is shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sleep pants low around his hips. You can’t help but stare at the sight, taking in his broad shoulders, the light musculature of his arms, his slender waist and the soft skin on his stomach. A light trail of hair disappears below the waistband of his pants, and you swallow thickly as you drag your eyes back up to his face.

"So you said," Marcus says quietly. If he’s amused at your obvious staring, he doesn’t show it.

"You–what're you doing up so late?"

"Never did sleep much," he says with a crooked grin. One of his eyebrows raises as he looks you up and down. "Why are you up and at my door at this time of night?"

"Losing my fucking mind," you murmur shakily.

He steps forward, reaching his hand up to tenderly cup your cheek. Your eyes flutter closed as your body instinctively responds to his touch.

"Marcus," you whisper. 

"And why does that bring you to me?" he asks, his voice deepening. His thumb traces back and forth across your cheekbone.

To confront you, you want to say. To make you tell me I'm not crazy. That I figured out your secret.

Instead, you reach out and touch one trembling hand to his sternum, indulging in your desire to touch that expanse of golden skin. 

You open your eyes to find him watching you with a hooded, coal-black gaze. His eyes flick down to your hand on his chest, then back up to your face.

The moment feels like the drawing back of a bowstring. It seems to linger, seconds stretching out longer and longer until the inevitable moment where everything snaps.

Suddenly, Marcus is pulling you forward, shutting the door, and pressing you back against it in one swift, fluid motion. 

His entire body molds to you–hips, hands, lips–with far more ferocity and less restraint than the night before. You feel the sting of his teeth, the grip of his fingertips as he takes from you.

You aren't exactly idle, either; your hands map the planes of his chest, hips canting up to grind against the hard length you can feel there. When he pushes right back, you groan loudly and dig your fingernails involuntarily into the meat of his upper back, and he hisses.

"Sor–"

"Again," he growls, so you scratch harder.

A low, feral sound escapes from deep in his chest he breaks away from your lips and kisses a frenzied path down your neck.

"This was always going to happen," Marcus rasps into your skin. "You, and me. Can't you feel it?"

"Feel–?" you gasp, arching your back at the little nip of teeth at your shoulder. What you feel, right now at least, is the hard, thick length of his cock pressing insistently against your stomach, and it empties your mind of all other thoughts. 

"Feel the electricity between us. The connection," Marcus clarifies between kisses back up your neck until he gently nibbles your jaw. 

"Mmhmm," you whimper. Your knees almost buckle.

"Tell me," he orders. 

"I feel it."

You reach down and grasp his erection through his clothes as if to punctuate your meaning, and Marcus’s knees do buckle slightly as he sags against you with a broken groan.

"Every fucking night," he growls, "I pictured how you would look spread out on this bed. You'll forgive me for indulging that, now."

"Tell me," you parrot coquettishly, staring up at him coyly from behind your lashes.

Another low sound emanates from deep within Marcus's chest at your command. Spinning you around so fast you nearly lose your sense of direction, he pulls you further into the room and deposits you on the bed before crawling over you. 

"Tell you, huh? Tell you what? How I would close my eyes and think about the sounds you'd make for me? Or about how I'd get so worked up imagining the way you'd taste, the way you'd look coming undone beneath me that I'd have to fist my cock just for a little relief?"

"I wanna see that," you say lazily, licking your lips and making a show of pulling your shirt over your head. 

"Next time," Marcus promises darkly. “Next time I'll do it just like this, with you staring up at me, watching me fuck myself for you. But I don't think I can go one more night without being inside you."

"Please," you whisper, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

"Yeah?"

"Fucking… yes, Marcus, shit–"

He chuckles, straight, white teeth showing as he grins and starts to unbutton your pants. You let him draw them down your hips, along with your underwear, your breath getting shakier as you see the hungry look in his eyes. It makes you feel powerful, the way just the sight of your bare center seems to affect him. 

When your pants reach your ankles, he yanks them off the rest of the way and casts them aside in the corner of the room. His gaze is almost predatory, but you get the feeling you are the one who has him under your thumb at the moment. Giving him a sly, crooked smile, you spread your legs wide.

Marcus pitches forward onto his elbows, dropping down onto the bed as if deep in prayer, but everything about the man in this moment is sinful. With his mouth inches from your pussy, he breathes in, closing his eyes and shuddering visibly. When he opens then again, they're deep obsidian. They don't move from your face as he lowers his mouth to you.

You aren't sure who moans louder at the first generous lick of his tongue into your pussy. Rather than start at your clit, he dives in; thrusting the wet, warm muscle as deep into your cunt as he can while his nose presses deliciously against you. 

He devours you greedily, licking up into you as if he could pull pleasure out of your channel with just his tongue. He seems to be getting almost as much satisfaction out of doing it; his eyes are closed as if savoring you, low, muffled moans from deep in his throat punctuate every lap into your pussy, and every so often, his hips thrust slightly against the bed as though he can't help but seek a little relief.

His hands scrabble at your hips, yanking you closer as soon as he can find purchase, and you throw your head back on the pillow as he buries himself even deeper than before.

Christ, how is he even breathing?

His nose rubs back and forth against your clit, and you can feel your orgasm starting to build. Growing bolder, you rock your hips subtly against Marcus's face, and by the loud groan that escapes him when he feels you do it, he enjoys it.

He pulls at your hips again, wordlessly commanding you to continue. 

"Fuck," you murmur. "Marcus, your mouth–"

You slowly grind on him, gyrating your hips as you chase the sensations that feel best for you. It causes everything to pull up tight, and before you even realize what's happening, you're falling apart on his tongue.

"Have to have you," Marcus pants in your ear, having surged up to cover you with his body even as you were still trembling with aftershocks. "Tell me I can have you."

"Yeah," you agree. "Fuck, take it. It's yours." Make me forget.

"Condom?" 

"Clean. You?"

"Clean. You–You sure? Tell me now, because I don't think I can wait any longer."

"Please," you whisper, reaching up to gently wipe away some of the slick above his upper lip with an amused smile. He looks wrecked already–the only time you've seen him with a hair out of place–and it's incredibly endearing. 

You don't have time to dwell on that thought, because with a broken sound, he sheathes himself within you. 

The noise that escapes you is involuntary–an instinctual, guttural reaction from somewhere deep in your subconscious brain. You can feel Marcus everywhere at once, pressing against nerves deep inside of you, nerves you didn't even realize you had. 

Anyone would be forgiven for expecting sex with this clean-shaven, softspoken man to be just as gentle and sweet as the man himself. You would have thought the same thing, except for one feature of his that always made you feel as though something darker was lurking underneath: that smile. Wide, toothy, eager; the rows of straight, white teeth; the boyish little dimple it exposes.

It's his eyes when he smiles like that that have always made you wonder what he's hiding; what demons are being concealed behind pearly whites and laugh lines.

But you think the way Marcus fucks might expose far more than anything else about him. 

The fire that dances in his eyes has certainly hinted at a deeper passion, but you've yet to experience anything like the way it feels to be on the receiving end of this much intensity. 

He's unrelenting in his pursuit of pleasure; fervent and raw and so very physical. He doesn't shy away from the messiness of sex; he licks an escaped tear as you reach your second peak, he spits on your clit and rubs it in with his fingers, and when he finally pulls out and finishes on your chest, he immediately covers you with his mouth and sucks himself off of your nipples.

You'd also be forgiven in thinking Marcus was done with you. That, given the late hour and the vigorous, explosive way he had fucked you, he'd collapse on the bed with a tired, sated sigh.

Instead, he pulls at your hip and guides you to turn over on your stomach. You're about to open your mouth and question his motives when you feel his hot, wet tongue press against your other hole.

You squeal involuntarily, burying your face in the pillows as you surrender to the onslaught of Marcus’s attentions. In this, just as in every other way he's already had you tonight, he's incredibly vocal. He straightens his tongue and pushes it inside, and moans loudly as he feels you give way for him.

"Good girl, so fuckin' good, gonna make me hard again, aren't you? Mewling so prettily into the sheets like that while I take you apart. You like that, don't you? Filthy fucking girl, huh? Good. I am, too–told you we were made to do this."

Marcus is merciless, giving you his tongue, fingers, tongue again, over and over and over in your pussy and your ass until you come undone again with a wail. 

You're boneless and pliable as he hauls your trembling body up onto your knees and enters you again, this time from behind. 

He's equal parts brutal and reassuring: ample, generous praise spills from his lips with every rough punch of his cock. 

You're so overwrought with pleasure, you can't even speak. Marcus is destroying you in every delicious way, and you aren't sure how you're supposed to come back from this. How you're supposed to confront him after he's made you feel things you didn't even know how could feel.

His lower hands are pressing down on your lower back, intensifying the arch in your spine and causing his cock to hit the perfect spot inside you.

"Gonna–" you gasp.

"I know," Marcus answers. "Together, this time. With me, yeah? I'm so close, but I'm waiting on you. Cum for me, let me feel it baby."

You sob into the pillows as he fucks you through your orgasm, your walls aching and ultrasensitive from the relentless onslaught of his cock. 

You're only barely aware of him pulling out and letting you collapse forward onto the bed. You aren't sure why it surprises you–perhaps just the intensity of the moment before–but you aren't expecting the warm, gentle arms encircling you as Marcus follows you down and wraps you up, pulling you into his chest. 

You're still panting, trying to catch your breath and regain equilibrium as you hear his voice behind you. It's not rough and rasping like before, but soft and soothing as he croons into your ear.

"So good for me, so perfect. Took me so well, look so good in my bed. Incredible.”

Giddy and overwhelmed, you start to laugh breathlessly.

Marcus chuckles too, nuzzling the spot behind your ear with his nose with a satisfied hum. His fingers start to trace a path up and down your stomach, and you sigh bonelessly and settle against him.

"This… this wasn't what I came here for," you murmur after a few moments.

"No?" Marcus nips playfully at your jawline just below your ear.

"No, I… I…"

The teasing kisses continue, causing sparks to shoot up and down your spine.

"Marcus," you sigh, as you feel another little nibble on your neck. "Marcus. Stop."

Slowly, cautiously, he pulls back. You turn in his arms, frowning slightly.

"I came here… Jesus, this sounds–I need you to convince me I'm just being jumpy. That I've been spooked, scared of my own shadow…"

“You’re under a lot of stress,” Marcus says gently. “You’ve had a hard week.”

You scoff. “Hard week? I’ve had hard weeks. This week was devastating. I’ve seen more deaths in one week than in almost my entire time on the force, and–” you swallow and look up, meeting his dark eyes, “–they’re all connected to me.”

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers. “They were bad men, and they all had their vices…”

“Every single one,” you forge ahead, “was connected to a case assigned to me. But that’s not the only connection, is it?”

Marcus cocks his head to the side, not dissimilar to a confused puppy. “What do you mean?”

“They were all connected to cases that keep me up at night. Cases that didn’t end in justice. Cases that I confessed… to you.”

Confusion melts away into an easy, casual smile. Marcus chuckles softly. “I thought you said you didn’t remember anything we talked about that night.”

“Details might be blurry, but it’s the only thing that makes sense,” you say, laying back to stare at the ceiling. “I was upset over Bobby. I was disillusioned with the job. You were all too eager to lend an ear, to let me drown my sorrows and whisper the names of the men whose faces I’ll never forget. I cried on your shoulder, Marcus. And you… you took those names, and—”

“Are you saying you’re accusing me of being some kind of one-man vigilante justice machine?” Marcus asks, beginning to laugh outright. “Cricket, do you have any idea how that sounds?”

“It sounds crazy," you say, turning toward him again. "So convince me otherwise. Tell me I've lost my fucking marbles on this one."

"I think it would be natural for anyone to look for some kind of reason behind a string of deaths of people they know," he offers gently. "And these men, they've… they've affected you more than most–let's not mince words, you were traumatized by these cases. It's only natural that you would look for answ–"

"Answers?" you interrupt. "My job is to find answers, you should know that. I've been researching you on your own website, what do you have to say about that? I know where you've been for other cases."

Marcus chuckles, although it seems… deeper, this time. "That's publicly available information on the government's own servers. I'm not sure what your point is."

"I also looked up all the newspapers from the times you would have been there," you say. "And just like in Hannibal, there's a rash of suicides and accidental deaths, and all of the victims? They all had rap sheets miles long."

"Cricket," Marcus intones softly. "I know you're desperately trying to find connections here, but you have to realize these all sound like huge coincidences–"

"You got sloppy," you accuse, picking up steam and confidence as you continue to talk through it. "Did you know that? Johansson's death was no accident. He was held down and given a fatal dose. It was rough; whoever did it wanted it to hurt–"

"Stop." Marcus cuts you off, his voice harsher than you've ever heard it. "You're grasping at straws. You're under a ton of stress, and you've concocted a wild fantasy to cope. It's a good story, but that's all it is. The things you're accusing me of, the person you've made me out to be… it's not rational, and it's dangerous. I'm an agent with the US Government, and you're throwing around some pretty serious allegations."

"I know what I've seen…" you murmur, shaking your head.

"You haven't seen anything," Marcus insists. "I'm not sure what your game is here. You come to my hotel room in the middle of the night saying you want to talk, you come onto me, we have sex… and now you're telling me you think I'm, what? A serial killer?"

"I–I think I should leave," you say quietly, getting up from the bed and padding over to pick up your uniform–where your gun is still holstered in your belt. You grab the pile of clothes and retreat to the bathroom to breathe and regroup. You splash cold water on your face, trying to ignore the fact that your hands are trembling slightly. 

Get it together. 

The pull you've felt for the man all week doesn't matter. Put it aside. Do the job. 

You take a few more deep breaths, then pull on your clothes. With a set jaw, you unholster your gun and slowly open the bathroom door.

"Marcus Pike, you're–"

You freeze mid-sentence, staring at the now-empty room.

"...gone?"

Epilogue (1 year later)

“I know it’s not much, but–”

“It’s perfect,” you breathe, walking into the small office, carrying a paper box full of your belongings, all waiting for a home among the bookshelves and desk space.

“Sure,” the other agent laughs.

It might not have a window. It might not have much charm. But it has a door–a real door that closes and everything–and even more importantly, it bears your name on a plaque.

A real office.

Yours. 

“You’re coming to us from… Saint Paul?”

“Saint Louis,” you correct amicably. 

“Welcome to White Collar Crimes,” your new coworker says with a wan smile. “It’s like Organized Crime, except instead of bodies, you’re examining accounting spreadsheets.”

“Good,” you say emphatically. “I’ve had enough death for several lifetimes.”

The other agent makes a face. “What the fuck was going on in Saint Louis?”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “You don’t wanna know.”

You set the box down, taking out some of your most prized possessions: A Mark Twain bobblehead, your Bachelor’s Degree in Criminology from the University of Missouri, and more recently, a certificate from Quantico labeling you as a Special Agent with the FBI.

It had taken most of the year to coordinate your exodus from the tiny town of Hannibal where you grew up. Sure, you could have simply gone to another city to be a cop, but the endless parade of speeding tickets, accidental overdoses, and orders to break up tent cities was wearing on you. Were you really making a difference where you were? 

No.

No.

You wanted to go after the real criminals. Those who swindled the vulnerable out of their hard-earned money. Those who gamed the stock market only to make a few million more than they already had. 

White collar crime.

“Well, welcome to D.C.,” the other agent says, his tone tongue-in-cheek, but your smile is genuine nonetheless. He leaves you to your task–setting up the tiny, cramped space that serves as your office. 

You unpack a box of your favorite pens, your stapler, a potted plant (fake) to add some greenery. Maybe when you get an office with a window, you can get some real plants, you think as you rearrange your notebooks on the small bookshelf beside your desk.

You glance down at the badge on your lapel and smile.

It had been a year since your strange run-in with the Art Crimes Agent that changed the course of your career. 

After Marcus Pike fled the scene of his own hotel room–leaving most of his belongings behind–you couldn’t find it in yourself to continue down the road of being a small-town police officer, handing out tickets and misdemeanors and investigating every tragic case that came across your desk. And they were all tragic, make no mistake. 

After a few months of being angry and indignant, you’d grown to respect Marcus Pike. You’d realized he was telling the truth all those months ago: he’d felt useless as an Agent, cutting through all the red tape and bureaucracy, and he’d simply taken matters into his own hands in the end.

He used his connections within law enforcement to gain access to the world’s undesirables: the violent, the unhinged, the maladapted, the unacclimated. 

The bad men who had gotten light sentences or slaps on the wrist when they should have been removed from polite society for the gain of humanity.

Compared to you–fighting through the red tape of Government at every turn–Marcus was unstoppable. You guess that’s why so many people like to read about comic book heroes who spend their time doling out vigilante justice. Fighting for prolonged sentences within the criminal justice system was one thing. Living by your own creed of law and order? That was another.

Marcus simply… went around the law.

Did the ends justify the means?

That was a question that kept you up for months on end–that still causes you to shoot up in bed, panting and sweating, fighting off the remnants of a nightmare.

Even now, you aren’t sure of the answer.

That, on top of the real job opportunities that the FBI awarded you, is what really brought you here.

Marcus Pike… is a murderer.

You’re here to keep an eye on him.

Putting aside your… more personal connections, the man is dangerous. After all, you have no way of substantiating that his moral code, the way he kills for his own perceived sense of good, will always match the general sense of human morality. Is Marcus the type of man who would take a personal slight and warp it into his own twisted sense of justice? Would ever kill to satisfy his own grievances? Would he ever simply kill for the sake of it? You have no way of knowing.

A soft tap on your office door interrupts your reverie.

“Got a briefing on the Waters case in five. I’m assuming you read the file I emailed over?” 

At your nod, the other agent continues. “It’s in conference room 2E63. Since this place is a bit of a labyrinth, thought we could walk there together.”

“Appreciate it,” you say cheerfully, snapping your laptop shut and grabbing your notebook. 

Time to work.

“Got any questions for me before the meeting?” your coworker asks as you navigate through the halls.

“Are other departments involved in this case?” you ask. “There’s the embezzling scheme, stock fraud, that’s obviously us. But what about some of the company’s other operations? The file mentioned something about illegal smuggling and money laundering, surely that’s–”

“Organized Crime, yup. We’ve got two representatives from that team, they’ve been heavily involved. It was recently discovered that some of the goods smuggled were uh, famous paintings or something? So we’ve recently added someone from—This is us, by the way.”

Your coworker opens the conference room door, and across the room, a familiar set of deep brown eyes flicks up in surprise.

“Anyway, yeah, we also recently added someone from Art Crimes to assist in the recovery of the, uh–” your coworker trails off, turning to the only other agent in the room that you happen to know, apparently hoping for him to complete the sentence.

He doesn’t. Agent Marcus Pike is still staring at you, lips parted, his face white as a sheet. Fear lurks in his wide eyes.

When he blinks, though, the mask suddenly drops back down over his expression, his agitation replaced with cool confidence.

“Cézanne,” he answers patiently. To you, he extends his hand. “I haven’t seen you around here,” he says carefully. 

To anyone listening, the words are straightforward, said by a stranger, but you catch the hidden, underlying message. I’ve seen you before, but in a different world. You are out of context. 

“Just started today,” you comment lightly before giving him your name, taking his hand, and shaking it firmly. Very firmly. Marcus blinks. You see a flash of that wild intensity that you know lurks beneath his unassuming exterior.

When he smiles, you take in the rows of perfectly straight, white teeth and his singular dimple. 

A warning. Or a promise.

“I look forward to working with you.”

[swampstew]

1-800-GRANDLINEBLING ♥ Call Me On My Shell Phone

To celebrate 1K+ followers, I opened up phone lines to the crews! Part 2 of 3 ~ X reader with Robin, Law, Shachi, and Zoro for @yamat0 @lady-of-endless @fandomsallthetime94 @zoros-sheath Part 1 | Part 3

You are now being connected to...

Purururu purururu puru—

Robin: Hello my dear, it's so good to hear your voice. The days are long but not as long as the time I've spent away from you. We'll be reaching land very soon and I would like to take you away for some quality girl time. I just know that you'll love what I have planned for you - we're so alike how can I not know your heart's desires? See you soon, sweetie!

You intended to meet Robin at the dockyard to pick her up, but the weather decided to turn before you could step foot outside your house. Unsure of how to meet up, you were pleasantly surprised when a knock on your front door revealed your girlfriend standing under an umbrella big enough for two. Her presence in itself was a present.

The sky itself seemed to shift in mood as the dreary clouds slowly shifted away to reveal a partially clouded sky and a slight rainbow over the bridge in your neighborhood.

"My my, I shouldn't be surprised that the weather would clear up for my beautiful partner," Robin cooed with a wink that made you weak in the knees.

She reached out to hold your hand, bringing it to her lips where she pressed a soft kiss to the back of your palm.

"Let's change into something more comfortable so you can properly enjoy the date I'm going to take you on."

Law: Hey, how have you been? Have you been keeping up with the research papers I've been sending you? Good, I wanted to talk to you about the results of one test for PTSD that I wanted to explore more in depth. That said, we'll be on dry land in a day or two - will you be free to meet up? Tch, just because we're dating doesn't mean I shouldn't ask and check in to make sure that's all right! Well good! I'll see you soon - don't forget to keep up with your training, I've been practicing too.

“With the woman in my arms who was supposed to be my enemy, I closed my eyes and let the darkness engulf me.” ― J.C. Böhme

Shachi: Hellllloooo my beloved! I'm sorry it's been 197,523,685 minutes since I've talked to you. Being in a submarine makes it hard to do long distance calls, I know you understand yet I can't help but feel bad about it. You know what will cheer us both up? If I visit you for a week or so...YEAH? I'm glad to hear that excites you - I'll be making port in a few days so I'll be at your door with the spoopy goods. See you soon my love!!!!!

She was like a fire, and despite the danger that I could see, I ran straight toward it and plunged into the flames without a second thought. My mind tricked me into thinking that the dangerous heat was comforting and secure. I could feel the heat singe my skin. I was lost in its beauty and danger, completely consumed by the flames ― J.C. Böhme

Zoro: Woman, for the last time I AM NOT LO-- *horn blaring* *announcer mentions drop off at a port in the opposite end of your residence* TCH. I TOOK A DETOUR! For reasons! That I am not telling you until I see you! No I don't need to be picked up, how else can I uh-surprise you with my gift? You can't! SO! I'll see you in....a day. Fine, I'll share my location when I'm on my way so you don't have a stroke - sheesh. *grumbles affectionately* Yeah I love you too. See you soon.

You were actually surprised when Zoro knocked on your front door, on the exact day and around the same time he said he'd be at your home. In his hand, a bouquet of your favorite flowers - flowers you knew weren't quite in season and now it made sense he was in a different port. Unless of course, he was there by accident and used the flowers as an excuse. Nope, not gonna dwell on that.

You invited him in for some lunch you carefully plated on the long wooden table in your dining room. He spent time telling you about his adventures, the loot he gathered, and the things he came across he thought you might enjoy. As the sun set behind your bay window, Zoro let out a yawn before bending down to pick up the orange cat nuzzling his leg.

"I'll be here for a while until the Captain decides to leave. Until then, how about you and I spend some quality time together? Starting tomorrow, we can go down to the spring lake and eat lunch, I can exercise and you can read and not ogle me like you pretend to," Zoro said with a smirk.

You playfully smacked his bicep, "I can ogle you anytime I want, HUSBAND."