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heartthrobin · 1 year

Text

please love me, like the wave does the shore

aaron hotchner x female!reader

wc: 7.9k

warnings: fake!dating, SO much pining, mentions of murder, only one bed, Hotch is very whipped lol, this is so cliché it should be a crime

an: the moment y’all have been waiting for! i hope you kids enjoy! this will probably become a lil series so stay tuned for part 2 :)

summary: murders along the glistening white coast of Cape Cod was not a good look for anybody. especially not the BAU. the case needs a turn around, a big break, but most importantly: a Mr and Mrs.

Portraits of grinning faces watched you from the whiteboard.

Women’s eyes twinkling. Husband’s grinning to the camera. At their wedding, in the woods during a camping trip, on a birthday.

"We have fucking nothing!"

Names and dates lined the edges of what used to be treasured memories in red marker. Memories each couple was not around to remember anymore.

"We have the profile." Hotch's voice was stern. It made the hair on your arms stand on end.

Outside, the ocean crashed loudly against the shore. Seagulls gabbled in the distance near the dock.

"You know that's not enough."

Chatham was one of the most influential and wealthy suburbs in Cape Cod, if not the whole state. Discovering strung out bodies on the crisp white beaches almost five times that month wasn't fitting for the shoreline that housed some of the most elaborate mansions in the county.

The BAU had been in Cape Cod for nearly three weeks. Two weeks too long in the bureau's opinion: a view shared by the team.

Derek slammed his hand loudly against the white board, over a photo of a tall, cream, wood-boarded resort sprawled over the edge of the coast. Seagull's Rest: Couples Retreat and Spa.

"Seagull's Rest is the only place that connects them.” He huffed, pressing his finger into the printed photo. “Every day that passes is another honeymooning couple that's in danger."

Emily sighed somewhere behind you. David lingered by the edge of the desk where Spencer was driving his eyes over some Greek mythology textbook, working the human sacrifice angle he’d been insistent on sharing with you over coffee that morning.

Police chatter busied the space between you and the other agents.

"Morgan," you pressed, "we have no idea what that even means. It could be maids, spa staff ... for all we know, it could even be other guests."

The room was warm, bright: through the window you could overlook the ocean. A scene too beautiful to deserve the blood painted across it’s portrait.

Nights dissolved into mornings at the sheriff's station. Coffee mugs finding purchase in the maze of photos, medical reports, staff lists: all leading back to the one place all four couples were spending their vacation.

"You know what this means, don't you?" David's voice carried over from behind you. You turned to face him, his gaze set hard upon Hotch's.

The team leader's jaw was tight.

He looked like he was considering David's words closely, sucking in a breath like it hurt him to do so.

Emily's chair squeaked where she leaned forward in it, "What is he talking about?"

Hotch's narrow eyes turned to face the team again. "We need to go in. Work the case from the inside."

"Undercover?" You probed, jaw loosening in surprise.

The team hadn't worked an undercover project in almost two years. Everyone understood that they were a last resort, when general good-old detective work wasn't doing the trick.

Hotch nodded stiffly.

"We're gonna need a couple to go in. Two of us. The pair has to match the preference of the unsub."

There was a heavy quiet before a collective understanding, a collective resignation.

"Fine." Derek nodded. He turned to face the board again. "The husbands, what are we looking for?"

"Alpha males, domineering personalities." David lifted a photo off the desk, examining it closer. "All high-power careers, wealthy. They have a handle on these women. Other couple's in the course with them reported the husband being out of touch, unaffectionate."

Spencer rose to stand, "But no specific physical traits. Unlike the women, they share a specific appearance: the hair, the height, the body shape. They all look like—"

Cold passed over your whole body from the highest point on your head. Like ice water had flooded your shoes.

"Like me."

Teeth sunk into the corner of your lip, the metal taste of blood nipped at your tongue.

It was impossible not to feel the weight of the team’s gaze, how they flickered quickly between where you sat and the photos against the board.

Spencer shrugged, nodding slowly. "Yes, like you."

You chuckled softly, missing most of the humor in the situation as you sunk further back into your chair. "I guess that's settled then."

It wouldn't be your first time working undercover, but you couldn’t say you were as experienced as your colleagues.

You'd joined the BAU last, working every possible hour and chasing down every possible lead to try stay in one of the most coveted positions at the bureau.

It definitely wasn't the easiest thing you’d ever done.

Yes, the team was welcoming - Emily worked hard to make you feel at home, empathizing with you about the difficulty of transitioning into such a team: a team that knows each other's every move and every thought before they themselves have moved or thought - and Spencer was always a friendly face.

Derek was considerate and David was a genius in the line of duty, a marvel to watch work.

What really made it difficult, was Hotch.

In the beginning, he was wary of you. You could feel him lingering when you worked, every decision you made or observation you gathered was held under the magnifying glass of Aaron Hotchner.

With time, he eased up. Trusted you with more, scrutinized over less.

It was then that the next - considerably more concerning - problem began, when you began to miss having his presence over your shoulder.

When your eyes began to linger over his hands where they rested on his holster, or fixate quietly when he brought that steaming morning mug to his lips - sipping oh, so gently.

You were so sure he'd kiss with the same tenderness. The thought kept you up at night.

The feelings you so embarrassingly held for your boss were pushed deep into the corners of your brain.

You felt secure in the knowledge that you acted as casual as possible. Nobody had mentioned anything, and the thought of Hotch ever catching even an inkling of an idea would be enough to never walk back into BAU headquarters ever again.

The only person who really knew anything was Emily.

It had slipped after a drunken night out, on the couch in her apartment, your fat tears staining her blouse: "he's so fucking hot I can't do this!"

And there he was. Silhouette dark against the cast of the sunlight through the window, looking down at you from his towering height. "You're sure you're ready for this?"

His voice wrapped carefully around your throat and you almost choked on its softness.

You coughed instead. "Ready as I'll ever be."

He nodded once, turning back to Derek. "The male?"

Derek shook his head, "Rossi and I went over there a couple days ago to question the owners. They know we're FBI."

The room turned to Spencer, who blinked big hazel eyes at the room innocuously.

You did little to suppress the giggle that bubbled out from your chest. Your heart knocked loudly when you felt Hotch's eyes flicker over his shoulder back at you.

"You wanna be our dominant alpha, Reid?" Emily's lips tugged into a playful grin, clicking the end of her pen loudly.

Soft laughter permeated the room, David knocked Spencer’s shoulder teasingly.

Spencer flushed a light pink, his gaze finding purchase at the open space between his two feet. "Yes. Very funny."

It took more than a few seconds for you to realize that without Spencer, there stood only one other possible candidate.

Your eyes climbed the length of Hotch's long black blazer sleeve. When you reached the top you found him already looking at you. You shivered.

"I suppose that means it’s me then."

Purposefully avoiding his gaze, you found Emily staring right at you - a grin curling up at the corners of her mouth.

"Mr and Mrs Hotchner." David chirped, a mischievous edge to his words. "Congratulations."

You managed to squeak out a sarcastic "thanks Rossi" but Hotch stayed quiet. It made you want to sink into the crevice of your desk chair.

Instead, he turned back to Spencer.

"Get Garcia on the line. She needs to set up aliases and get us registered for the next couple's course as soon as possible."

Spencer nodded once before disappearing into the next room wordlessly.

Next, he turned to you - sucking all the breath out your lungs.

God, he made it so hard to act normal when he showed up in that fucking suit and that perfectly professional haircut.

"I want you to go over the backgrounds of the women again. Get a feel for the unsub's preference, there may be a personality type that he likes best. I'll do the same with the men." You nodded, going to stand and finding yourself always just a little too far from his chest.

"While we're away, the rest of you need to work off the intel we feed. Let's solve this before there's more bodies."

Agents began moving in every direction: out the door, back towards boxes of evidence, but Emily crossed the room to you: eyes wide and alight with mischief.

She grabbed your hand, pulling you from the room and leaving Hotch behind. "This is going to be so fucking good."

Your stomach churned.

Just shy of two days later, you found yourself sitting in the front seat of a Mercedes Benz - god knows the bureau has its ways - only two streets down from Shellshore drive, where tucked into the curve sat Seagull's Rest: the beautiful lodge on the Cape Cod coast that offered couple's courses for new and old marriages that delve into the depths of the soul and connect partners in love and touch.

At least that's what the pamphlet said as it stared up at you from your lap.

It sat at the top of the stack of case files, documents and photos hidden beneath. You pulled out the ID from the midst of the stack.

The photo you'd taken the previous afternoon glimmered up at you: Mrs Eleanor Thompson.

With less than a couple inches of space dividing you, in the driver's seat, sat Hotch.

Penelope was talking over the car speaker.

"I signed you guys up for the Honeymooner's Retreat. It's six days long, but I'm sure you'll be out by then. There are five other couples doing this course with you, you'll find their names in the documents I sent. All their records are clean."

"Garcia, I want you to cross reference all the course instructors with anybody who has—"

Hotch's voice faded from your surroundings, your brain stuttering electrically as your eyes raked over his outfit.

A tight fit black polo that was hugging his chest and chino pants begging for relief over those long thighs.

The last two days had been painful.

You'd slept almost nothing: tossing and turning for hours over the idea that you'd soon be in much closer proximity to Aaron Hotchner than you'd ever been. Too close.

Emily had tried to calm you down, "just ... focus on the case, okay? whatever happens happens."

It was easy for her to say.

Her legs didn't liquify every time Hotch sent small praise her way, like they did on you, and she didn’t have flashing images of taking care of him in the way he never does himself plague her in the small moments of quiet throughout her day.

Making him breakfast, or taking his blazer off after a long case ... undoing the buttons down his shirt—

"They're expecting you for check in at five o clock."

Your eyes found the digital clock on the dashboard, it blinked red at you: 16:47

"Thank you Garcia."

"Yeah," you added quickly, "Thanks Garcia."

"Good luck lovebirds." The teasing lilt in her voice did nothing to calm the high power washing machine your stomach had transformed to.

Heat rushed over your face.

You could feeling Hotch watching you from the corner of his eye. "Are you sure you're ready to do this?"

Sliding your stack of pages into the Louis Vutton handbag at your feet, you forced a smile to press up into your lips.

"To marry you, Hotch?" You feigned a soft sigh, "I've only waited all my life."

The bubbling in your stomach simmered only slightly when Hotch rolled his eyes, what was almost a smile teasing at his lips. "I'll take that as a yes."

The car rumbled to a start beneath you, the expensive engine purring.

"We know what to look for. Keep your eyes on the guests, the instructors, anybody we interact with."

It was hard to focus on Hotch's advice when his wide hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly.

But you nodded anyways.

It felt like less than a few seconds before the car was being pulled into a luxurious white cobblestone driveway. A sign etched in ivory-coloured wood overhead marked the road: Welcome to Seagull’s Rest.

Bellboys stood in the distance under a grand arched entrance in cream uniforms, luxury cars stretched out in every direction of the parking lot.

The car rumbled to a stop. A valet attendant was already approaching before you’d even a second to gather what was left of your courage.

Hotch turned to you, slow and deliberate as was his manner, leaning precariously over the console. "Remember, we're being watched."

The door opened abruptly on your side, you glanced up to meet the face of the young man holding open the door. He couldn't be older than twenty.

He smiled. "Good afternoon and welcome to the Seagull's Rest."

Your eyes flickered back as Hotch climbed out from the other side, you smiled up at the boy before lifting the end of the olive-green sundress you'd been coerced into wearing and stepped out.

Hotch had rounded the car before you'd even straightened out. He tossed the keys at the attendant.

You were taken aback by how quickly he could escape his usually impeccable manners.

"Be careful with the luggage. There's things in there worth twelve times your salary."

You sucked in a sharp breath when he took your hand into his, sliding his fingers between yours. His palm was pressed so firmly you thought you might collapse.

He made matters worse when he cleared his throat loudly, "Come on, honey, let's go."

The reception was a bright open room, preceded by a tall oak arch, and a high ceiling loomed over the expensive wood of the front desk.

A small framed woman stood behind it, smiling as you approached. "Good afternoon, welcome to Seagull's Rest."

Hotch only nodded curtly in greeting, pulling you abruptly up against his side so that his hand wrapped over your waist. You only hoped he couldn’t hear your heart thumping hysterically against your ribs.

"James and Eleanor Thompson." He grumbled, "We're here for the Honeymooner's Retreat."

"Of course sir, if I could see some identification please?"

Hotch slid over the two fake ID's and the woman began to tap away at the computer.

Your eyes slid up to the view from the window beyond the desk, how the sun was almost setting over the ocean visible through the crystal-clear window.

Unsure if it was driven by purpose or simply instinct, your arms snaked up to rest around Hotch's hips, letting your head lull against the side of his chest just softly.

His chest swelled. You tried not to read into it.

"Baby," it took a moment, presumable for Hotch to realize you were referring to him, but he hummed in response, not looking down at you.

"Hm?"

You motioned to the window, "Look how beautiful it is. You couldn't have chosen a better spot."

Instead of Hotch, the woman at the front desk spoke in response.

"We boast one of the best spots along our coast. The morning yoga sessions are spectacular if that's something you enjoy, and we have cocktail evening tonight at our restaurant on the beach." Her voice dripped in sugar, sliding the two ID's and the keycard to the room back over the counter.

"That sounds wonderful—"

Hotch's stern voice pierced through your own, "Yes, well, we'll see."

The woman - Leslie, as her tag suggested - glanced carefully between Hotch and yourself. She offered you a quietly sympathetic look before meeting Hotch's face again.

"Y-Yes, of course sir."

You stayed quiet after that, allowing her to direct James and Eleanor to their room. Second floor at the end of the hallway.

Hotch huffed dramatically, grabbing the cards from the desk.

His hand slid from your waist and you almost had enough time to mourn the loss of his warmth against your side before that large hand wove itself back between yours - simultaneously warming and chilling every blood vessel in your body.

Hotch pulled you in the direction of the elevator. Nothing was said between you, only the swish of your dress and the heavy step of his leather shoes against the floors.

You two followed the corridor as instructed, gaze flickering curiously up to your fake husband every few moments before your interest caught the better of you.

"You're a little too good at playing the asshole, James." Your hand squeezed gently against his, "Something you want to tell me?"

He shook his head, "Nothing comes to mind."

The luggage was already waiting at the foot of the bed when Hotch pushed the door open, allowing you to step in first.

A gasp escaped you.

The room had to be the most exquisite thing you’d seen in all your life.

It was lined in crisp white and cream decor, a velvet couch along the one wall and a sprawling balcony that overlooked the ocean - the sound of the waves filling every crevice of the space.

There was a thud and you turned to find Hotch opening his briefcase, pulling out the neatly packed pressed shirts that lay within.

"Hotch—"

Quicker than it took you to blink in fright, Hotch's hand closed over your mouth. He shook his head, tapping his ear. "Wires." He mouthed.

You nodded quickly, feeling stupid.

His hand dropped and embarrassment flushed hot over your neck. You looked away from him.

This wasn't a holiday and Hotch wasn't your husband.

Eight people were dead.

Unease burnt at your chest, the same kind that had been building with every passing day and every piling body. You moved in silent to unpack your own handbag where you'd placed your files.

Hotch watched you carefully, as you leaned over the bag - silhouette forming against the red and purple tones of the picturesque sky behind you.

He stared a little longer than necessary, capturing the view to his mind.

It was something he found himself doing too often. Whenever he could find a moment, an excuse. His gaze would linger on your frame, your face.

When your fingers would twitch against your necklace or when you laughed a little too loudly for the Quantico office when Spencer told his terrible, very specifically not funny jokes.

But he was Aaron Hotchner, BAU Unit Chief, and nothing if not the epitome of professionalism.

He planted himself far enough from the line to where he could go about his day and pretend like he didn't lose sleep at night thinking about you.

"James, did you pack the charger?" Your voice was loud, but wavered slightly. You didn't look up to his face as you usually did.

Hotch tried to convince himself that he didn’t notice.

"Yes, honey, it's in the side pocket."

There was no charger and definitely no need to ask about one besides making casual conversation in the case that wires tapped the room.

Reminded of the very real circumstance, Hotch abandoned the shirts on the bed to move around the room.

Behind him you were doing the same.

He lifted lamp shades, checked under drawers, desks and the headboard for any listening device that could have been planted before they came in.

You shuffled around behind the television stand and at the railings of the curtain before slipping into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes passed in silence before Hotch climbed back to his feet from where he was crouched down under the bed frame.

"We should be in the clear." He announced to you where you still occupied the bathroom.

"Check what I found." You emerged, sundress flittering around your ankles.

He cursed the sway of the material. Somehow you'd arrived in that green dress to the sheriff's station and it had made every nerve connecting his body to his brain turn fuzzy and the man of steel that was Aaron Hotchner was having a harder time than usual keeping his eyes to himself.

You waved a white envelope at him, "It was stuck to the window."

Hotch took it from you, it was addressed to a Mr and Mrs Thompson.

"That's us." He muttered, finger sliding to break its seal.

You stood against his side, close enough to read the letter where he slid it out but also just close enough to make Hotch's head spin from the waft of your perfume.

Good afternoon Mr J and Mrs E Thompson,

We welcome you to Seagull's Rest and want to thank you for choosing to participate in our Honeymooner's Retreat. The next few days will work to strengthen the bond of love and trust between any new married couple, and of course up the intimacy!

Tonight we will be hosting a champagne evening where you will be afforded the opportunity to meet the couples that you'll be spending the next six days with.

Meet us at the Pelican Perch Restaurant on floor 1 at six o clock. We look forward to meeting you!

Kindly, Seagull Rest Staff.

The page crinkled beneath his fingers.

"This is perfect." He muttered, looking sideways at you. "It'll give us a chance to see the unsub in a social environment if he's here."

The unknown subject (unsub) was clarified before you and Hotch had left the station that morning.

David's voice still rung in his ears:

"Someone who is calm and casual in social settings, easy to get along with but holds a position that allows people to trust them. It's what he uses to lure two people at a time to their deaths."

You glanced up at the antique clock on the wall hanging above the television. "That means we should leave soon."

Hotch nodded, "Leave the packing, we'll do that when we get back."

The sun was disappearing behind the glittering ocean surface when the door shut behind you and Hotch again.

His hand slipped down over your wrist before sliding into your grasp, between your fingers and over your knuckles.

Hotch could spend all night convincing himself that holding your hand was imperative to maintaining your cover because you were married and that was in the best interest of the case, but it would still do little to calm the way his heart began to beat from his throat when your grip tightened gently around his.

You made small talk on the walk down to the restaurant, as any couple would.

Mentioning the spa and the interior designs of the glamorous hallways you passed on the walk down to the Pelican Perch restaurant on the water.

The views of the lodging was almost nothing compared to when you two walked under the green vine archway into the restaurant.

Hotch heard your little gasp beside him and was sure it made his heart grow two sizes.

Above your heads hung a glittering maze of white fairy lights overviewing a large wooden floor with tables set in every corner. The bar glittered with bottles of every colour, size and shape that lined the shelves and the wide stacking doors were opened out onto the shoreline.

A soft jazz played and near the center of the room, ten chairs were stacked in a semi-circle around a small podium.

"This is so beautiful." You whispered, almost so soft he didn't hear it.

He looked down at you, enamored by the way the lights reflected off your eyes and your lips were parted in surprise.

"It is." But his eyes never left you.

Already, three or four couples had taken seats, keening over each other as if they two were the only people in the room.

It was almost six. Hotch tugged your hand gently in the direction of the expensive looking chairs, leaning down close to your ear: "Keep your eyes on the people."

You giggled as if he'd said something naughty, putting on a good show for the surrounding guests before leaning down to sit.

The lull of the music in the room almost convinced you that it was all real.

That as you sat and Hotch settled his arm over your thighs, pulling you close against him: that it was because he wanted, not needed, to be there.

Your eyes flickered over the people, a man and a woman were ushering people to take their seats and a tall thin waiter was sauntering around with a tray of champagne glasses.

You took two from his tray, handing the other to Hotch. He gave you a look to remind you to be careful, you could practically hear him chiding "remember, we're on the job."

The champagne was as close to velvet as you'd ever tasted, sliding down your throat far too easily as the man and woman took to the podium in front of you.

The room quietened.

"Good evening to all our lovely young couples!" The man's voice was smooth, warm.

He was older, every spit of hair from his body a stark shining white. The woman was the same, they matched the decor of the resort in the cream beach sets they adorned.

Wrinkles crinkled around her eyes when she smiled, "We're so glad to have you with us. Thirty years ago, we opened the Seagull's Rest to help any couple who felt they needed a place to connect with nature and each other, and since then it's become not only a home to us - but a home to every couple who steps through our doors."

You met Hotch's eye. Owners.

Laurie and Howard Ralph. The founders of the Seagull's Rest.

Howard spoke again: "every class is taught by a qualified, friendly and helpful instructor to make you feel safe in what Laurie and I like to call the education of love."

You'd seen their photos in files and on your tablet, somehow they looked even more pretentious in person.

While you knew you weren't looking for an unsub team, their demeanors didn't put them completely out of range for being possibly responsible.

At least that's as far as your brain could conjure up with Hotch's wide thumb rubbing circles into the side of your thigh - a motion you weren’t entirely convinced he realized he was making.

"We'd like to start off the evening with a few introductions, just to break the ice between you."

They were looking down the line of people, pointing to a Hispanic couple closest to the edge. "How about you two? Tell us your names, where you're from, how you met and your favourite thing about your partner."

The man stuttered, looking to his wife for support. She smiled up at him and you couldn't help the momentary swooping ache to have somebody to look at in that warm, soft way.

"Well I'm Alice and this is my husband Marco." She patted him fondly on the chest, "We're from New York."

"We met when we were kids, we lived next door to each other for fifteen years." The husband was a shyer speaker, but his adoration for his wife leaked through his words. "Before she left for college I asked her to be my girlfriend. The rest is history, I guess."

Laurie and Howard smiled plastically, like the grin was surgically attached there.

"That's lovely, and your favourite thing about one another?" Laurie pressed, before adding, "Remember ladies and gentlemen, this experience is about making yourself vulnerable to each other and to yourself!"

"I love how he can make me feel brand new after a terrible day."

"I love the way she knows me in little ways that nobody else does."

Slowly, the couples spoke down the line.

You were introduced to the Taylors, the Andersons, the Fletchers, the Schmidts.

As the line drew shorter, your breath grew faster.

Of course you knew your story, you'd had it drilled into your brain for the last two days, but your favourite thing about Hotch?

No, you corrected yourself, not Hotch. James.

Your brain fished for a lie, dipping past the bundles of things you loved about Hotch that could so easily be picked from the bush.

But would it be so out of line to admit something honest, something he'd never even realize was true?

Eyes fell on you.

Hotch cleared his throat, his grip over your thigh tightened.

"We're the Thompsons. I'm James and this is Eleanor. We're from Colorado."

His voice was strong, stern. Someone who didn't know Hotch might say it was how he always sounded, but there he held a jagged edge to his tone. "We met at—"

"Woah, woah," Howard interrupted, chuckling nervously. "James, you're running a bit away with us here. Why don't you let your wife tell us how you met?"

Hotch mustered the audacity to look affronted. "Alright."

You fought hard to suppress a laugh. Hotch was an abnormally good actor.

He turned to you, "Darling?"

You sighed, practically scribbling ditzy airhead over your forehead and lifting a hand to fiddle with the buttons on his polo, "Well, I met James in my last year at college—"

"Screwing the professor, very classy."

The whisper came from somewhere to your left and surprised you.

It was soft enough that you were sure Howard and Laurie hadn't heard.

The look on Hotch's face, however, proved that he had. He'd grown completely stiff under your hand.

You fought to regain composure, "H-He was working at a law firm that I was doing an internship at. It was love at first sight, right baby?" You patted his chest slowly.

He nodded, eyes darting anywhere but you.

The owners nodded, urging you to continue. "That's beautiful."

You looked up, met with the side of Hotch's face - he didn't look like he was going to speak first.

"My favourite thing about James is ..." your mind flickering between some cliché or just spitting out what you really wanted to. "The way he looks out for me. Always makes sure I'm safe, even if it's risking himself."

It was mild enough to pass off for just a casual comment but nearly specific enough that if he knew how you felt that he'd catch on.

He pulled his gaze from where it was fixated on the foot of the podium, sinking it into yours and making the room feel suddenly ten degrees warmer.

"My favourite thing about Eleanor is her laugh."

It was short and sweet and deep down you really hoped it was laced in truth.

By the time you looked away from your partner, the introductions had already moved down a couple. Judging by the way the tall blonde woman who'd just announced herself as Jade Atkins was staring at you, you could already gage that she'd been the one to make the professor comment.

You could still feel Hotch's anger radiating off of him. He was hard, tense and his jaw was set tightly.

Hotch was older than you, sure. You knew that.

It was one of the things that assured - plagued - you that he would never reciprocate your feeling.

He was mature and worldly, handsome in a way no man you knew could even remotely compare.

You were younger, not that much, but still. Enough that you could be looked at sideways by stuck-up bitches like Jade Atkins.

You knew you'd never be afforded a chance ... but then why did Hotch look so angry?

He knew he was older, but he also had to know that he left a trail of swooning women wherever he went?

"James ..." you whispered.

He looked quickly down at you, clearly of the impression that it was enough of a response.

"What's wrong?"

The word looked like they hurt forcing itself from his mouth. "Nothing."

You bit the corner of your bottom lip slowly, turning over his response in your mind.

Before you could find the sense to stop yourself, you reached up and took Hotch's jaw into your grasp, pulling it down closer to your face.

Following hesitantly until he was practically leaning over, you whispered into his ear: "ignore her, she just wishes her husband wasn't a cheating alcoholic."

You pressed a warm peck against his upper cheek, close to his eye and pretended that the brush of his almost-there stubble didn't make your heart swoop down into your stomach.

Letting go, Hotch straightened out again. He looked calmer, almost like he could smile.

His eyes flickered over the man, taking in his form. It took him a moment before he whispered back, "You're right."

Within a couple minutes, the last of the couples finished their introductions and the Ralph's were speaking again.

"Thank you all, again, for coming. Please, spend the rest of the evening getting to know each other, enjoying more of our champagne—"

"Imported straight from France!" Howard interjected and the couples laughed sporadically,

"—and savor the rest of your week."

Around you, couples rose from their seats. You detangled yourself from Hotch and did the same.

Initially, you had the full intention of floating around the room together, connected at the arm to analyze the guests quietly.

However, almost immediately, the women had dissected from their husbands to form a small group by the balcony.

The men had done the same, converging near the bar.

Blinking in surprise, you look up to Hotch for further instruction.

He nods towards the women, "You should go join them."

Your face crinkled in reluctance, "Don't make me go over there, James ... our friend isn't even supposed to be a woman."

Amusement was alight in his brown eyes, but his mouth remained a thin line.

"Then," he almost made you jump when his wide hand closed softly over your cheek, dragging the side of his thumb down your face, "go enjoy the company. I'll focus on the men."

Sparked by Hotch's warm touch, slightly dizzy on it, you nodded softly before turning to the women.

It was cool out on the balcony and the women greeted when you joined the circle.

You took a long gulp from your second glass of champagne, listening only half-committed to Patricia Anderson's story about their new condo on the Los Angeles beachfront.

"So, Eleanor was it?"

Recognizing the voice as the one who'd whispered brashly behind you not more than twenty minutes previously, you turned to the woman.

Your grip tightened around your champagne glass.

"Yes. Jenna, right?"

The woman gathered the nerve to look affronted, her tennis skirt swayed with the breeze over long bronzed legs.

"Jade, actually. Jade Atkins." She cleared her throat, "My husband is Richard Atkins, he owns all the Sonja Hotels north of the equator, I'm sure you've heard of him."

Another woman - Anne Schmidt - indulged her. "That's amazing, Elijah and I stayed there a couple months ago in Switzerland."

Jade nodded, looking proud, but seemingly intent on swerving the conversation your way.

"Speaking of husbands, yours is quite the catch isn't he?" The chatter of the other women dimmed slightly, the wives sensing the change of direction.

Taking another necessarily big gulp of your champagne, you nodded. "Indeed."

"He's very handsome ... how did you manage to tie him down?"

Her words dripped in condescension.

"Just got lucky, what can I say?"

Jade nodded, twisting a long golden strand between her fingers. Heat was beginning to curl at your cheeks.

"And he's so much older," she laughed airily, lifting her glass to sip at her drink, "but I guess that life insurance money makes him all the more attractive, hey?"

"Oh definitely. He also got a huge penis which helps."

Jade choked loudly around her glass and the women around you burst into fits of high-pitched laughter.

"Don't mind her," Imani Taylor pulled you aside, "All the Botox has gone to her brain."

You smiled kindly at her.

"So a lawyer you said, what's that like?"

Across the room, Hotch was sitting through a similar game of verbal tennis.

A circus of who's car is newer, bigger, better, who's company makes more money or sells more stocks.

He doubted he'd ever been so bored. That's maybe why his eyes flickered so often to where you were talking animatedly with a short woman in a hijab.

A heavy hand against his shoulder sucked him back into the conversation.

A sandy-topped man who Hotch quickly identified as Elijah Schmidt was patting him boyishly, "Don't worry about the girl, Thompson."

He didn't love the idea of you being referred to as girl but said nothing on it.

Clearing his throat, he shook his head vaguely. "Got to keep on eye on them. She can barely feed herself most days, only knows how to spend my money and crash my cars."

The words were bitter, like hot bile on his tongue but he insisted on maintaining a mutual expression. Nobody promised that playing an asshole was going to be any fun.

A handful of the men grimaced at his comment, while the rest just tutted offhandedly.

While the men were far from the nicest he'd met, in the couple minutes he'd spent with them, Hotch was almost sure that his unsub was not among them.

Despite most of their more than patchy backgrounds - mostly corporate scuffles, dug up by Garcia - none of them spoke with the ease that the suspect needed to have, the charisma and the trustworthy character. Hotch's energy was better placed elsewhere.

"Barely feed herself?" A gravelly chuckle filled the space, "Sure doesn't look like it."

Hotch's eyes narrowed on the short bald man laughing to himself, glancing over to where you stood across the room - a fat cigar between his fingers.

He recognized him as the man who sat with the woman who'd commented when you spoke. Richard Atkins.

Turning his whole body to the man, towering over his structure, Hotch's face twisted - his stomach contents boiling hot at the comment.

"I beg your pardon?"

Pulling at the cigar, the end lighting up, the man shrugged. "Just saying, y'know, she doesn't look like she's skipped a meal anytime recently—"

The expression curling onto Hotch's face must've been cause for alarm, if not the way his fist tightened at his side, because almost immediately two other men stepped in.

One at Richard's side, "Hey, hey, Richard, that's enough man."

The other patting Hotch's shoulder, "Thompson ... he's had a couple drinks, just let him go."

Richard seemed to find the situation amusing because he was chortling still to himself. "Of course, of course. My bad, just locker-room talk you know. No harm, no foul."

Seething white anger was tugging on every muscle in his body, and he fought hard to maintain composure - taking a cautionary step towards Richard Atkins.

"I'd watch how you talk about my wife if I were you. Otherwise we're going to have a problem."

Atkins only huffed, turning back to his friend and his cigar. The conversations started up again around him, but Hotch had lost interest.

His wrist watch told him they'd been standing there for almost an hour.

Cleaning out the bottom of his glass, he set it down on the nearest table before excusing himself, offering handshakes and a couple shoulder pats before moving towards the women.

A handful of men followed him, clearly keen to leave as well.

He found you by the railing, laughing gently at something the woman across from you said.

Hotch's arm slid over your waist from behind, dipping his head closer to your ear: "ready to go?"

You nodded, offering a quick goodbye to the woman and some others.

The walk back to the room was quicker than he remembered, or maybe it was the light buzz of champagne against the side of his head and how you were humming something that sounded like Etta James that made it feel too fast.

On return, the prospect of unpacking awaited.

"Anyone interesting among the husbands?" You asked from across the room, lifting shirts and dresses to stack into the open cupboard.

Hotch shook his head, dislodging the secret compartment at the bottom of his suitcase where the case files had been hidden. "The unsub isn't one of them. They're all, for lack of a better word, assholes. Nobody trustworthy enough to follow to your death."

You chuckled lightly, "The women were alright. Except for this one woman, that one who whispered that rubbish when we introduced ourselves."

Hotch's stomach turned at the thought of the woman's words. Screwing the professor, really classy.

The implication on your character made his blood boil.

"Let me guess, Atkins?"

You nodded, "How'd you know?"

"Her husband's a real piece of work too. I'm gonna find something to arrest him for before the end of the week."

Your giggle permeated the space and it worked to ease the knot in Hotch's stomach.

"Don't be so dramatic, James." You draped a towel over your arm, "Mind if I grab the shower first?"

"Of course." Hotch nodded, desperately trying to fan out the image that was quickly rendering in his mind of you in the shower. "I'm gonna phone Garcia."

The bathroom door clicked behind you and you sighed into the emptiness of the room.

You took your time showering, enjoying how the hot water eased the tension over your shoulders, before drying off and slipping into the most appropriate pair of pajamas you'd brought along.

It took some convincing to let yourself pack the silk shorts and tank top, after all: you would be sharing a room with your boss.

Quickly after you'd walked back into the room, Hotch had slipped into the bathroom himself with a towel and pair of pajamas hanging over his arm.

Images of all the people you'd met that very evening sifted through your mind like a deck of cards, flipping through them and filtering the ones you knew couldn't be involved.

The spray of the shower was loud and your mind reached precariously for an image of what Hotch looked like under the fancy head in the shower that had more than enough space for two ... how the hot water was probably gliding over his long strong arms, down his chest and through the happy trail at the base of his stomach leading down towards—

The water shut off and silence echoed across the room.

You heard shuffling behind the door, wondered quietly what he could be doing, but pulled your eyes back to the case file.

The list of connections between the victims and current guests were numerous, too many to be significant as people in this wealth category generally moved in similar groups.

The door clicked open.

"Put that away, you should get some sleep."

"I—" You looked up to meet Hotch's eye and almost swallowed your tongue.

His hair was still wet, drooping over his forehead in a way you'd never seen before, and his blue t-shirt stuck to his chest with dampness. He wore plaid shorts that exposed those long legs that had been so criminally hidden beneath his usual suit pants.

He looked so ... domestic, and it set every nerve ending in your body alight.

"I ... yes, boss. Was just looking." You set the file on the bedside table.

He nodded at you, a warm look on his face. "Want you well rested for tomorrow."

There was a short silence and the look cleared from his features to be replaced by another.

Hotch's eyes flickered between the bed and the couch, and for the first time in more than a while, a look of unsureness occupied his face.

"I ... I think I'll take the couch."

Your heart sunk.

"Why?" The question chased its way out of your mouth before you could reach to snatch it.

"I don't wanna make you ... uncomfortable, considering I'm your superior."

"I mean, the bed is plenty big enough for the both of us, Hotch." You stammered, desperate to be close to him. "It's probably gonna be painful to sleep on that couch anyways."

He hesitated.

"U-Unless you think it's weird, you can sleep on the couch it's fine." You wished you could sink into the sheets and disappear.

But to your surprise, Hotch nodded.

The bed sunk on his side as he lifted the covers, as close to the edge as he could from what you could see.

His head hit the pillow before he leaned over to flick off the light, you took it as a sign to do the same.

There was quiet for a long moment.

The door to the balcony was open, it was just too hot to close it, and the breeze curled over the sheets, wafting the smell of Hotch's shower gel into your face.

It took all you had within you not to sigh loudly and dig your face into his neck.

You thought the conversation had closed for the evening, but Hotch surprised you when his voice emerged from the darkness.

"You did well today. I know you were nervous."

A smile tugged at your lips. He could read you better than you thought he could.

"You've got a lot more practice at the husband thing than I do at the wife thing."

You could almost see the outline of his face against the light of the moon.

"Well, I hope this wife ends up better than the last one."

The memory of finding Hotch's ex-wife's body came starkly into view.

"O-Oh, Hotch." Your hand came to your face in embarrassment, "I'm sorry, I-I shouldn't have—"

"Hey, hey," he stopped you, "it's my fault. It was a bad joke, I shouldn't have made it."

You couldn't help the small giggle that escaped you, "I've never heard you freestyle a joke before, Hotch."

"Wasn't good?"

"It was terrible." You managed around the now growing laugh.

"And yet you're still laughing. Isn't that the goal?"

You shuffled over in the sheets to face him, even though you couldn't see much - the thought that he lingered there in the darkness comforted you.

"Not at that really bad attempt at a joke, I'm laughing at you."

Maybe it was your imagination, but you swore when the light from the lighthouse flickered quickly over Hotch's face that he was grinning.

"I'm glad I amuse you."

"Come on Hotch, you're telling me you don't have a single good dad joke?"

He was quiet a long moment, and for a second you thought you'd pressed too hard.

"Why do you never see elephants hiding in trees?"

Absolutely surprised by the question, you shook your head in the darkness. "Why?"

"Because they're really good at it."

The light from the lighthouse hadn't passed over his face again but now you were sure he was smiling and every muscle in your body twitched to grab his face in the darkness and kiss him until he was oxygen depleted.

"That's the worst joke I've ever heard, Aaron." But you shook with small laughter.

"Worse than the dead wife joke?"

"Okay, maybe not that bad."

Quiet fell again.

"You should go to sleep. We've got a long day tomorrow."

Fishing for the sheets, you lifted to tuck them under your chin. "Goodnight James."

"Goodnight."

Tags:

@montyfandomlove @aurorastuffsstuff @cdizzleswzzlebonzy @pureblood-blake @kad00x @lena-1895 @marimorena06 @farrah-444

#Aaron Hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds #fake dating #criminal minds fanfiction #Spencer Reid #emily prentiss #David Rossi #Derek Morgan #penelope garcia #only one bed #mutual pining

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octuscle · 1 month

Note

Today was my 18 birthday, and when i blew the candles i only wished one thing, being a muscular hairy cowboy old man in a big farm, with many land for myself to work, can you make it true?

Youth is being wasted on the young. What do you want? Become an old cowboy sitting on his ranch, mending fences and milking cows? Seriously? On your 18th birthday? Dude, I could think of 3,000 better things to do. At least!

How about a crisp young farmhand, for example. You're out in the fresh air too, you look more like a man than anyone in the big city. But you can enjoy life, have no responsibilities and are always horny all the time. Much better, isn't it?

No? Really not? Okay… Suit yourself. What exactly do you mean by old? Like 25? No? 35? No? 40? I mean, that's really old… But you're at the peak of your manhood. You've given up the fight against chest hair. A man is only a man when beads of sweat from hard work glisten in your body hair at the end of the day, right?

Not enough yet? Phew, I hope you know what you're doing. All right then… It's your birthday. You get what you want: "A muscular hairy cowboy old man in a big farm". 65 years old. Your body looks younger. The result of years of hard physical labor. Your face looks older. The merit of years of hard physical labor in the sun without SPF100. You look a bit like the classic Roman statues of Caesar and Cicero. The head of a caring, responsible head of state on the bodies of Olympic athletes.

Hmm… Caesar and Cicero mean nothing to you? No, they don't work in Zac's hardware store. And I'm not talking about the Rome in Floyd County, Georgia. Anyway, just forget the C&C story. Take care of the cows. And have a good life. Happy birthday!

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #chronivac #age progression #redneck tf #ai image

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hometoursandotherstuff · 6 months

Text

The 1870 Bingham Farmstead in Saline County, Missouri is a gorgeous piece of history. The Folk Victorian is currently a Bed & Breakfast, so cheery, with 5bds, 3ba, and it's for sale for $945K.

The entrance hall is just a crisp, clean, unadorned white.

It doesn't say that the furniture comes with it, and they have such lovely antiques.

Vintage leather chairs and sofa. Such a beautiful set.

It's so pretty and uncluttered, unlike some historic homes are. Love the contrasts of the black wainscoting, white molding, and bright blue & lime wallpaper.

The kitchen is amazing. Instead of cabinets, they use a large art print cabinet and the vintage sink cabinet is covered in fabric.

Because it's a B&B it has a huge commercial stove and matching hood in navy blue.

The navy blue & red fabric on the sink pull the look together. Notice that the current owner bakes on that gorgeous wood cabinet.

Brand new modern subway tile shower.

Cozy area before the fire in the family room off the kitchen.

This cute room has nothing but a small writing desk in front of an old fireplace that's been bricked up.

Very spacious bedroom has a real antique bed with a rope mattress in front of the fireplace. You can't get more authentic than that.

This home is like a museum with authentic Victorian living, but it has a twist- bright, modern colors, so it doesn't have the dark, depressing look that some older homes have.

What a great en-suite. Look at that little slipper tub. I'm so impressed with this home.

The upstairs hall is plain and simple.

This lovely bedroom has it's own sink.

The land is a huge 10 acres and includes a pond.

Plus this scenic red barn.

But, there's also a newer metal barn, too.

It could just as easily be a single home again.

#folk victorian home #historic farmhouse #old house dreams #houses #house tours #home tour

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sadhours · 4 months

Text

scumbag blues 3: turnin on the screw

gator tillman x f!oc

previous chapter • masterlist

cw: 18+ minors dni, misogyny, sex work, smut, oral (f receiving), p in v, unprotected, facial, slapping, spitting

🤍🤍🤍🤍

Low thumping can be heard outside the bars doors, some crooning old country song plays muffled within the sticky walls of The Esquire Club. Daisy had a slow day. Every day has been slow lately. It’s about time to start picking up shifts at The Tender Trap again. The men of Stark County are being stingy or their wives are onto them. Or worse, they’ve grown bored of the easiest blonde in town. So here she’s resorted to showing up to the diviest bar in Dickinson, in hopes to make a couple bucks.

Inside The Esquire Club is dark, dim and buzzing bulbs placed like they meant for it to be hard to see. Drunk folk don’t see so well anyhow. Above the bar, there’s a fishing line hanging up a row of bras like a perverted string of Christmas lights. Not a single other vagina in this place, it’s the first thing she notices when she walks in. Which has Daisy seeing dollar signs. Imagines them above each balding head. Counts twenty of ‘em.

She smells like sweat and cheap perfume, cleaned the whole Inn with her ears peeled for that familiar ring of a bell that never came. Scrubbed the bathrooms with a toothbrush. Ironed every pair of sheets in the building. Then her Pops went to bed and Daisy changed into her sluttiest dress and cowgirl boots. Sprayed on some perfume a client gave her. Touched her makeup and walked the five blocks down to the bar. Thursday night. Means pool, she knows it’s busy.

Daisy sits up on a stool and shimmies out of her lace cardigan, tossing it up on the bar along with her purse. Another present from a client, worn at the strap. She’s certain it was purchased at the Walmart on the other side of town. The bartender smiles at her, doesn’t reach his eyes as he asks, “What’re ya drinking, sweetheart?”

“A Pabst,” she smiles, “Shot of whiskey and a pack of Marlboros. Lights.”

��You got it,” he taps the bar with his fingers before he mosies on to the end of the bar, opening up the drawer of cigarette cartons. Daisy digs in her purse for her wallet, pulling a crisp twenty from the pocket and places it on the bar, trades it for a black plastic ashtray.

The gentlemen places the pack of smokes in front of her, complimentary matches on top and slides over the bottle of beer. Pours her a shot of cheap whiskey and takes the bill. “Rest is for you, darlin’,” Daisy tells him as she tears the cellophane of the cigarette box and pulls one out, pressing the filter to her lips.

She feels eyes on her, waits for the fish to take the bait. This town knows her, knows what she is. She can’t figure out why they’re not barreling over with money in their fists. She lights the smoke and inhales deeply, missing the taste like nothing else. Daisy only smokes when she’s out. Scared that her papa would find out. She’s halfway done with the cigarette and still no one approaches her. It’s worrying, usually doesn’t take this long. Daisy pulls out her phone, aimlessly scrolls through different apps until she’s finished the smoke. Alright, looks like she’s gonna have to be more obvious. She downs the shot, chases it with a gulp of beer and turns to take in her options.

Then she feels a hand on the small of her back and lips on her ear. Thank God. She’s relieved, until she hears the most familiar voice purring, “Daisy Tallulah Way, what the hell are you doing in a place like this?”

She whips around to look at Gator, narrowing her eyes. He’s still in his vest. Seems to wear it all the time, like he’s never off duty or something. Tight white shirt underneath, biceps swelling underneath and Daisy’s gotta remind herself why she’s here. And how Gator’s discount puts it at the bottom of the list right now. Saved for desperation, if she can’t find someone else.

“Advertising, asshole. Would you get lost?” she bites back and turns back around, flipping her hair in his face.

Gator scoffs and then laughs, Daisy can’t help but face him again. He’s got this smug look on his face when he says, “Business been slow for ya?”

Looks like he has something to do with it. Daisy takes a deep breath, “Yeah, Gator. You been too busy running around for your daddy. Almost like you’re paying him for some ass, now.”

His face contorts in disgust and then he laughs, loud and deep as he takes a seat next to her.

“Gator, I’m not kidding. Fuck off, you’re gonna scare ‘em all away,” Daisy seethes at him, brow furrowed.

“Aw, don’t worry,” he shrugs, “I got a feeling no one’s gonna bite tonight. Besides, aren’t ya curious why I ain’t been around?”

“No,” she replies, reaching for the pack of cigarettes again. Though, she really is. She’s actually missed Gator. Besides, even with his discount and all, she’s down $1000 since he’s been awol. Not to mention, she hasn’t had an orgasm in two weeks.

“Shame,” Gator pouts his lips, “Here I thought you liked me.”

“Can’t stand you unless you pay me to,” Daisy rolls her eyes as she lights up another cigarette.

“Donny!” Gator calls, “Stark County Sheriff’s Deputy walks in and you forget how to do your fucking job?”

The bartender stops mid conversation with a patron as he stares back at Gator, grinds his molars something fierce before grabbing the bottle of Jack and walks back down to Gator’s end of the bar. Pours him a shot, leaves the bottle and sarcastically quips, “Sorry, your majesty.”

Daisy hates the way Gator’s power goes straight to her pussy. Hates the way he owns this fucking town. And especially hates the excitement she feels when he talks like that to people. She doesn’t get it. It’s not daddy issues like everyone says. Earl’s the best father anyone could have. But something has to cause the attraction she has to Gator’s general assholery. Perhaps she’s just stupid. It’s crossed her mind before.

Gator downs the shot and grimaces, “I’m courtin’ someone.”

It’s a knife in her heart. Deep and twists around. Though, it shouldn’t be. Gator told Daisy so many times how he wouldn’t ever date her, how she’s tainted, how his wife has to be pure and Daisy’s anything but pure. Forgets he paid her to take his virginity on his fucking eighteenth birthday. Made her promise not to tell anyone the fucking all star quarterback was a virgin. And it wasn’t like Gator couldn’t get it for free. There was a reason he showed up at the Inn that day. She’s been trying to figure out what that is since that day.

“Good for you,” she rolls her eyes, swiping the bottle of Jack and pouring herself a shot from it. Takes it with a straight face and turns away from Gator.

“She just transferred from Fargo. Works at the station,” he continues, arms on the bar top.

“I don’t care. I seriously need you to like, go anywhere else. I’m working,” Daisy says without turning to him.

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s gonna solicit you for sex when I’m sitting here,” Gator sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. Daisy closes her eyes before she turns to him.

He smiles, biting his lower lip as she gives him her full attention. She wants to smack him across the face but she knows Gator likes that, so she won’t do it unless he pays her. She knows all his dirty, kinky little secrets so why is she letting him have all the power here? Because Gator can just as quickly turn it on her, arrest her and tell her dad just exactly what she does for a living.

“Tell me about her,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray.

He smiles, licking his lips as he drums his fingers against the bartop, “Name’s Faye. Smokeshow. Innocent as hell. Virgin, I’m pretty sure. Just took her home, had a nice date.”

“So it’s just been you and your hand the last two weeks… huh,” it’s Daisy’s turn to smile smug.

“Yeah…” Gator looks pensive suddenly, like he hadn’t thought about that. “She’s uh… not gonna offer none of that up unless she’s got a ring, I’m assuming.”

“Shame,” Daisy pouts, tilting her head. “I put out on the first date.”

“Why buy the cow when you can have the milk for free?” Gator argues and Daisy can’t hold back her laugh.

“Gator, honey, you been buying the milk. It ain’t free,” she pats his bicep, shaking her head with a bright smile. Gator scowls.

“You know what I mean.”

Daisy nods, still smiling, “Just ‘cause you’re in the market for a cow, don’t mean you can’t get some milk when ya need it. In fact, most the men buying my milk have a cow at home. But my milk is better. And who’s to say, Gator, that when you get that cow, that her milk’s not sour? Best to sample the milk before you buy the cow.”

“Dumb analogy,” Gator mumbles, defeated as he reaches over for Daisy’s beer and takes a swig.

“So I can expect ya back soon?” Daisy giggles, leaning against Gator’s bicep.

“Finish your beer, you can give me some of that milk at home,” Gator sighs.

—

Daisy’s been in Gator’s bedroom before. She’s helped him feed his snake before. But they were younger. Hasn’t been here in years. It’s quiet. Lonely. She knows he’s mostly alone here. Figures that’s why he’s at the inn several times a week. Likes the company more than the sex.

“Here,” he hands her a glass, full halfway of whiskey.

She takes it, sips slowly as she sits on the edge of his bed and looks around. It’s not changed at all since she’d been here last. Gator changes in front of her, into some pajama pants and a worn shirt. Hands her another to wear. She puts the glass on his metal nightstand and kicks her boots off. This is weird. Like he wants her to sleep over. It’s a long drive to the Inn but she doesn’t understand why he didn’t just take her there. Daisy pulls her dress up and over her head, exposing her matching lingerie set underneath. Gator lips quirk the side when he sees it. Smoothes his fingers against her thigh as he admires her body.

“Sexy,” he hums.

“Told ya, I was advertising,” she giggles.

“Reds a good color on you,” he mumbles, “almost a shame to take it off ya.”

“Then don’t,” Daisy replies, biting her lip, “Fuck me in it.”

Gator licks his teeth, “As tempting as that is…” he lifts the worn shirt he handed her, “I wanna fuck you in nothing but this.”

Daisy meets his beautiful brown irises, the look in his eyes takes the air from her lungs. Tender, almost. Something only Gator gives her, though it’s fleeting. He reaches behind her and unclasps her bra, then trails his fingers down to the lacy thong holding her hips and drags them down her thighs. She kicks them off and Gator lowers himself between her legs, on his knees at the floor. He spreads her knees and squeezes them, “Put my shirt on.”

Daisy pulls it over her head, letting Heather gray cotton fall down her chest as she loops her arms in it. Gator wraps his fingers around the backs of her knees and pulls her closer to the edge. Her head is swimming, no man has ever eaten her out and it seems like that’s where Gator’s going with this. He bites at her thigh, looking up at her with desire blown eyes. Gator looks so… pretty like this. His hair slicked back, soft clothes. Sleep clothes. Tender. Domestic. God, maybe all he wanted was this. Daisy wishes she could drop everything and give him exactly that. But Gator doesn’t ever pay for the girlfriend fantasy. Has he secretly wanted it?

Daisy smooths her hand over his head, attempting to mess up his gelled locks. “You look nice down there,” she whispers, cheeks flushing.

“Yeah? Should I be down between your legs more often?” He chuckles.

“Please,” she pleads.

Gator bites her thigh as he squeezes the other ones, “Maybe you oughta be paying me then.”

“Might have to if you’re any good at it,” Daisy quips.

Gator hums and plants sloppy kisses up her thigh until his mouth is dangerously close to her cunt. Daisy can feel his breath against her sex, her hips jerking toward him. Gator licks a broad stroke up her slit and she moans, a sound of surprise and pleasure. His tongue is firm and wonderfully soft at the same time. Gator treats her pussy like her mouth, makes out with it with fervor. Licking, kissing and sucking until Daisy’s rutting up against his face, leg hooked up on his shoulder and fingers ruining his slicked back hair. His nose brushes against her clit as he fucks her hole with his tongue.

“Gator! Oh, god,” she cries out, falling back against the mattress as she writhes in ecstasy. It’s a feeling like no other. Euphoria filling her veins, orgasm building rather quickly as Gator’s tongue files through her folds and flicks against her bundle of nerves. Wraps his lips around her clit and sucks, head nodding into the motion and Daisy’s practically weeping. Thighs against Gator’s ears, grinding up against his face. It’s soaking wet, her pussy absolutely drenched in slick and Gator’s saliva. Feels it dripping down to her asshole.

“Gonna— holy fuck, Gator!” she shrieks, her hands shoving his face against her cunt as her orgasm hits her like a train. She seizes, squeezing his head with her thighs as the waves of euphoria wash through her violently. “Fuuuck!”

Gator’s like a man starved, she can hear him groaning and moaning against her cunt while he licks and sucks. Finally, her body relaxes. Legs going limp as the grip on Gator is released. She brings her hands to her face as she catches her breath, body flushed the most beautiful pink.

He keeps licking at her sensitive clit and her body almost folds with the sensation, grabbing his head and pulling him back. “Fuck, Gator…”

He jumps up to straddle her, kissing her bruisingly as he grinds against her. He must’ve liked doing that because his cock is so hard, straining in his flannel pajama pants and catching on her spent clit. She whines into the kiss as she wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. She can taste herself on his tongue, can feel how his chin and cheeks are coated with her slick as he kisses her desperately. She grips his shirt at the hem on his back, pulling it up and over his head, breaking the kiss for a second while her fingers move to feel through the hair on his chest.

“Gonna pay me for that?” he mumbles against her lips, she can feel his turning up in a smile and she giggles back.

“God, I need the money but I can’t fucking take yours after that,” she replies, muffled against his mouth.

Gator laughs into her mouth as he grabs her hands and pins them above her head, lacing their fingers. “We can work out a deal,” he mumbles, grinding down on her, “I need something from you.”

“Fuck me, please,” she purrs, head still fuzzy and god damnit… she might be in love with this fucker. “Wanna make you feel like I do.”

Gator moans, pulling back so he can step off the bed. He pushes his pajama pants and briefs down, cock bouncing out and Daisy eyes it like it’s the only thing she’ll ever need. She sits up, grabbing Gator’s face and pulling him back into another heated kiss.

“S’cute… thinking I need your pussy,” Gator laughs into her mouth, “You gotta give me more about this Campbell fella…”

“Gator… I gave you all I could…” she mumbles back, reaching for his ass to pull him closer.

“Call him,” Gator purrs back, “Let’s set him up.”

Daisy’s dizzy on Gator. She’ll do anything for him so she says yes, hands tangled in his slicked back. She typically doesn’t make house calls but for Gator she will. And she’s in his bed anyways.

“Okay,” she pants, “fuck me and I’ll do anything.”

“Knew you would,” he purrs, running the head of his cock through her folds, “Just a greedy little cockslut, ain’t ya?”

Daisy would agree with anything at the moment, whatever it takes to get Gator’s thick, long cock inside her. She nods eagerly, wrapping her legs around his waist and Gator drags his cock back down, catching the head on her hole and he sinks in with an excruciating slowness. Lets Daisy feel every inch sheathing inside her welcoming cunt. They both release sounds of pleasure, Gator’s a low grunt and Daisy’s a high pitched whine. Once he’s balls deep, he strokes her cheekbone with his thumb. Then, he steadies his palm against her flushed cheek and in time with a snap of his hips, he slaps Daisy’s face. Her eyes widen, looking up at him stunned. Another rule of hers is broken but in this state, she can’t yell at him. Her cunt clenches around him as she squirms, surprising herself as she demands, “Again.”

Gator obliges, eyebrows rising as his lips quirk into a smirk. His palm collides with her cheek again, harder than before and he grabs hold of her jaw afterward. Thrusting wildly, he forces her mouth open and spits down into it. Daisy swirls his saliva around her tongue, playing with it and feels her body shiver as Gator’s eyes darken with lust. He forces her jaw closed and seethes behind clenched molars, “Swallow it, bitch.”

Daisy gulps it down, moving her hands to his biceps and squeezing them between her manicured nails. Next, Gator’s hand travels down around her neck and he holds her tightly. Restricting her breathing as he drills his hips into her at a remarkable pace. Fucks Daisy like he’s angry at her, even looks like it as his eyes narrow and his brows furrow, mouth tight. Her eyes roll back in her head as pleasure takes over her body, coil tightening in her stomach as a second orgasm threatens to break her. Gator’s cockhead pummels her g-spot with a steady tempo, the perfect rhythm to get her over the edge. And as she’s about to jump over it, Gator stills. Tightens his grip on her throat as he bares his teeth, Daisy’s eyes flying open to catch it.

“You’re nothing but a fucking hole to me,” he spits out, “Understand?”

Sure, it stings but she was so close and she just needs him to go back to that beautiful pace he’d set. So she nods her head, dropping her hands from his arms and grabbing onto his sheets as she attempts to roll her hips up at him. Gator grunts, grabs hold of her thighs and holds them up before resuming the brutal thrusts that knock the air out of Daisy’s lungs. A long, breathless moan erupts from her as her eyes flutter shut again.

It doesn’t take her long, flying off the edge and howling Gator’s name as she goes. Screams so loud her voice goes hoarse, body shaking underneath him as her bliss rips through her senses. Gator follows suit, pulling out and inching up her body as he jerks himself a couple of times before he’s shooting his load over his face. Makes a whimpering, sweet noise as he does it. Daisy wipes his cum up with her fingers, bringing them to her mouth and sucks his spunk off them. He collapses next to her, breathing hard as his hand pats her stomach.

Daisy sits up, looks over at him and sighs, “Alright. Drive me back home.”

“I ain’t driving,” he mumbles, “Just sleep here.”

Just a fucking hole yet she’s spending the night in his bed.

—

The next morning, Gator makes her breakfast. It’s odd but there’s a stack of cash on the table. She assumes it’s hers. Pockets it as she sits down and looks up at him, “Breakfast for a hooker. You know that’s not necessary, right?”

Gator drops a plate in front of her, “Shut up and eat.”

She laughs softly before digging in, humming around the hashbrowns on her fork. Gator sits down across from her, starts to stuff his face when Roy bursts through the door. Gives Daisy a look before he quips, “Didn’t know working girls make house calls.”

“We don’t,” Daisy replies, tilting her head at Gator as she waits for the excuse to come from him.

“We’re setting up Campbell,” he grumbles through his eggs.

“Don’t bother,” Roy pats his sons shoulder, “I got a tip, we gotta go. Take your hooker home and meet me at The Tender Trap.”

“Kinda early for strippers,” Gator frowns, tilting his head.

Roy blinks at him, eyebrows raised as he glances between the pair, “You don’t seem to think it’s too early to pay for sex, you have the right to judge a man paying for the illusion?”

“Is it even open at 9 am?”

“No,” Daisy answers, avoiding Roy’s eyes as she continues to eat. Roy scoffs and nudges his son.

“Let’s get a move on, Romeo.”

Gator sighs and stands, grabbing his and Daisy’s plates before dropping them in the sink. In his cruiser, he tells her, “You can’t come to the house anymore.”

“You brought me there,” she defends herself and Gator scowls. The rest of the ride is silent. Her dads on the porch of the Inn. He gives Daisy a knowing look as she hurries up to the house.

“Sleepover with the deputy?” He smiles, “That boy is courting you, ain’t he?”

“No,” she smiles to her dad, turns and flips the bird to Gator before rushing inside.

#gator tillman #gator tillman smut #gator tillman x oc #gator tillman fanfiction #gator tillman fic #gator tillman fargo

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betweensaintsandmonsters · 14 days

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i promised to forget you (i lied)

the first time he calls, it goes to the machine. obi-wan's voice crisp and clean over the line.

"i gave your name as my emergency call," anakin says, voice breaking, "please pick up."

the officer give him a look that he assumes is pity, "try someone else. they can come get you tonight."

anakin tries the number again, listens to the tone ring and ring. it goes to the machine again.

"obi-wan, please. i know you're probably awake. please."

he could call asohka (but he's probably burned that bridge too) she might come get him, lecture him on the way home and deposit him in bed one last time.

if she knew he was in lock up, she'd have his head. he promised to do better.

“i swear he’ll pick up,” anakin whispers, voice lost in the cacophany of the county jail.

he does not say, he always picks up. he does not say, he has always picked me up. he does not say, i think i burned that bridge, what if he doesn't pick up?

the alchol is still making his head fuzzy, the world blurs aroud the edges of his vision, though that might be the concussion. he thinks his nose is broken. his hand too, maybe. all the pain drowned under the heartbreak.

anakin knew they left things in tatters, their relationship in pieces as they (he) hurled the most hurtful things he could think of back at obi-wan while he tried to be understanding, patient, until even that was impossible.

"son," the officer says. she's defintely looking at him with pity now, it burns. "try someone else."

anakin dials obi-wan's number again. fingers too tight around the black plastic as he punched the number in again.

it rang twice.

"hullo," obi-wan says. his voice is too thin, frayed, like he's hanging on as well as anakin is.

"obi-wan," anakin breathes out and the line cuts off.

anakin slams the reciever down and lets out a frustrated yell. the officer lays a hand on his shoulder. he doesn't have the energy to shake it off.

"he was wrong to hang up," she says, like she's trying to comfort him.

belatedly, he realizes he's shaking. he thinks he's crying. he can't tell.

"let me try again. i'll stay the night, i swear he'll call back."

"why are you doing this to yourself?" the officer asks. she's kinder than most of the officers at the county jail. patient with him when she doesn't need to be. she could send him out into the rain alone to find his way back home.

"he always picks up," is all he can say in response.

#obikin #obi-wan is putting shoes on. he's getting ready to pick anakin up. he has a feeling he knows where he is.#and it's raining. and late. and he's so tired but he will always go get anakin even if it hurts him too #he listens to the two messages on his machine two minutes after hanging up but for the briefest moment it felt good to just hang up #he'll beat himself up about it later. when anakin is safe and at home and they've had a screaming match about it #obikin fic #i'm listening to dial drunk on repeat because i am firmly in my noah kahan phase #i just spelled phase faze four times before i figured out it was wrong

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outtoshatter · 1 year

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I got the Urge to make another List! Here’s some spring and autumn fics for all your reading needs! As before @missanniewhimsy helped me make this list, and I truly appreciate the help!

Autumn

fire & smoke by raisesomehale (2k, T)

It’s not like Stiles had meant to offend Derek when they first met two days ago, he had just been surprised! Caught off guard! Unprepared.

If anything, it’s his dad’s fault.

He had been the one to suggest they hire some extra help after his accident back in May put him strictly out of commission until the new year. But back-injury or not, the cattle cabin must be rebuilt before the herd moves back into the pastures after winter, and there was no way Stiles would be able to do the work all by himself.

And so it was decided. His dad had hired Derek. And when the time finally came, sent Stiles off to fetch him from the train station, neglecting entirely to mention the small matter of the man being a fucking werewolf.

we’re still writing pages by elisela (3k, G)

Autumn is Stiles’ favorite time of the year—leaves are falling, the air is getting crisp, the whole of Market Street smells like cinnamon, and he gets to spend Saturday mornings watching his daughter tear around a football field like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

The Curse of the Love Sweater by HisBeloved (56k, E)

The "sweater curse" or "curse of the love sweater" is a term used by knitters to describe the belief that if a knitter gives a hand-knit sweater to a significant other, it will lead to the recipient breaking up with the knitter.

When Stiles and Derek were children, a misunderstanding created a rift between Claudia Stilinski, owner of The Hale Yarn Company, and Talia Hale, the best knitter and spinner in the county, leading to the opening of Lucky Ewe, Claudia Stilinski's yarn store.

Stiles and Derek have been lifelong competitors at the Beacon County Fair and after their mothers died, became owners of competing yarn shops. Derek is a budding knitwear designer on the eve of the release of his first book of patterns. Stiles wants him on his popular knitting YouTube show despite the decade-long feud between the Stilinski's and Hales. Hijinks, fluff, and ridiculousness ensue, and the boys get their happy ending.

Love Cake by kellerific (4k, T)

Stiles, newly home from college, shares an important family tradition with Derek.

Fallen leaves can be picked up by the shovelful by dearericbittle (3k, T)

Stiles has been working so hard to keep his magic a secret from his roommate, and it’s worked pretty well for the first month or so. And then he can’t resist playing around in the leaves and well… Apparently he’s been sharing a room with a werewolf? Suddenly this Emissary thing he’s heard about makes a lot more sense.

Like Leaves by lanalua (2k, G)

When Stiles moved to Vermont to train as an emissary, he didn't expect to fall quite so hard.

Spring

among your heart-shaped leaves by dappledawndrawn (12k, T)

After rebuilding the Hale house, Derek enlists Stiles' help in planting a garden.

It’s a Date by JoMouse (1k, G)

Roscoe breaks down in the rain on his way to surprise Derek.

Promise of Spring by Still_beating_heart (1k, T)

Spring showers bring ruined picnics and an opportunity to dance in puddles.

A peony for your thoughts by changez (2k, T)

“Don’t you dare,” Stiles hissed at the thief, waving the floral tape in as threatening of a manner as he could muster. (It was the closest object. Don’t judge.) The thief looked at Stiles as if to say: “oh yeah? Try me,” stuck his nose up in the air, and sauntered out of the shop, a rose clenched in his maw.

The Bright Side of Disaster by Gia279 (5k, T) *this is me

Tucked between fresh harvested vegetables and fruits, homemade skincare products and lovingly knit scarves and sewn shawls, were booths and tables selling potions, amulets, crystals, and herbs, athames and wands, scrying glasses and hand-embroidered altar cloths. Beacon Hills was a hotbed for magical activity, and it drew the supernatural community like moths to a flame. There were rumors that magical tools crafted in town were more powerful, potions more effective, even herbs more potent.

Barefoot in the Sand by wulfnerd (100, T)

The Stilinski-Hale goes to the beach, the water is too cold, and Stiles feels possessive.

#sterek #fic recs #rec list #spring fics #autumn fics #sterek fic recs #teen wolf #stiles stilinski #derek hale #recent recs #gardening fic #werewolves are known fic #human AU #ateez fluff #magical farmers market #flower shop au #we've got it all here

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todieforimages · 1 year

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Southern Motel Sign-Cordele, Georgia

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#Cordele #Crisp County #Georgia #vintage sign

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leiascully · 2 months

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@edierone gave me the words "vinegar", "soliloquy", and "ficus". So here's a three-fer.

Scully flicked the hem of her coat as she exited from the lobby of the county sheriff's office, a sartorial middle finger to the lounging locals. Mulder sauntered after her. He moved slowly on purpose, squaring his shoulders. These were the kind of men who saw themselves as predators; any perceived attempt to flee would incite their chase instinct. His dress shoes stuck to the tacky floor. Whatever color the linoleum had originally been, it had an amber tint now from decades of nicotine and neglect, and a delicate adhesive quality. No wonder all the deputies wore big boots with rough soles. It wasn't just overcompensation.

When he was outside in the crisp air, he opened up his stride, trench swirling around him as he caught up to Scully.

"You're full of piss and vinegar today," he observed. "You sure you don't wanna go back in for round two? I'll rub your shoulders."

She whirled on him. He absorbed her fury, feet braced. Somewhere, a seismic shock would register with no known cause. "Did that amuse you, Mulder?"

"No." He put his hands in his pockets. "But it didn't surprise me."

"It didn't surprise me either." She kicked at the ground with one pump. "Son of a bitch."

"Which one?"

"All of them." She tipped her head back, exposing the lily stalk of her throat, but anger still glinted in her eyes.

"You knew that was going to antagonize them," he pointed out.

"Yes, for some reason, telling people the truth about someone they consider one of their own often antagonizes them," she snapped. "I still considered it more effective than your strategy of delivery a soliloquy about the attack patterns of the Missouri apeman to an artificial ficus."

"I knew it was artificial," Mulder said mildly. "I don't think ficuses usually produce used chewing gum."

"My quibble with it was not whether or not the ficus was artificial." She fixed him with a steely glare. "It was the fact that you didn't back me up."

"I was right behind you."

"Pontificating to a potted plant."

"You had everything under control." He tipped his head. "Do you really want me hulking out every time some two-bit deputy gives you the hairy eyeball? Should I rent The Bodyguard this weekend for tips? Make some popcorn, get some beers? There's probably a video store in this one-horse town if you think I need immediate advice."

She softened. She understood as well as he did the way people automatically looked at him as the authority figure in their partnership; it frustrated them both. His absentminded professor act let her competence shine. "I would watch The Bodyguard."

He put his arm around her shoulders, steering her toward the car. "Honestly, I think if anything, you're my bodyguard. You're a better shot, for starters."

"You're lucky I've been going to the gym."

"I know exactly how lucky I am," he said, and handed her the keys.

#my fic sort of #thanks for the prompt!#leiascully fic

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upsidedownwithsteve · 2 years

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Promptober: Day Twenty Nine

Steve Harrington x fem!reader 714 words.

You didn’t know you were going to the county fair until Steve picked you up from work that evening, an extra sweater of his on the passenger seat and an excited smile on his face.

“Babe, it’s freezing,” you told him mildly, already shedding your coat to pull the sweater on underneath. It smelled like the boy, like mint and the forest and something that reminded you of home. “You hate the cold.”

Steve shrugged, pulled out of the mall parking lot and headed towards the park. “But you love the fair,” he’d reasoned.

And that was that.

He promised you a dinner of corn dogs and funnel cake, sticky cotton candy and a caramel apple to share. He already had a hat on, dark navy with a bobble on the top that wiggled when he spoke, that pushed his messy hair out around his eyes and you were hopeless with the way you stared at him.

“What?” He’d asked you as he opened your door for you, hand extended, gloves meeting, touch softened by wool. “What’s wrong?”

Steve blinked and you grinned, pushing up on your toes to finally greet him properly, a kiss that was as sweet as the smell in the air, buttered popcorn and cinnamon, fresh doughnuts and pumpkin pie.

“Nothin’,” you told him as you pulled away, “you’re just really cute.”

The boy turned pink at your words, five years together and still soft for you, cheeks flushed and smile shy as he rolled his eyes and tried to feign annoyance. He tugged at your hand, led you across the leaf strewn parking lot.

“C’mon, pretty thing,” his voice was impossibly soft, honey and sugar, just for you. “I’ve gotta win you some sort of stuffed animal.”

You laughed, everything about the night bright and crisp, the park lit up with string lights that were hooked around tree branches, across stall awnings. The Ferris wheel blinked red and yellow, the candy stand flashing pink and violet.

“A big one?” You hummed, teasing, letting go of Steve’s fingers only to needle your arm through his, your hand pushed into the depths of his pocket.

“So big it won’t even fit in the damn car,” he promised.

“You talk a good game, Harrington. I’m holding you to that.”

The boy grinned, stopped you in your tracks to kiss you in the middle of the crowd, the night sky black above, the fair a mass of colours and smells, everything so much sharper in the cold, October air. His kiss warmed you, hands pushed into each other’s pockets, chilly noses pushed to pink cheeks and you could feel Steve’s smile, could taste it.

He hummed, content, happy. His eyes were still closed as he spoke, lashes blinking across your own, nose bumping against yours.

“What do I get if I win, huh?” His voice was low, familiar, stirring the heat in your tummy that his kiss had started.

You could’ve told him a hug, a chance to pick the movie later on before bed and you knew the boy would’ve been just as pleased. But you felt playful, the jingles and sounds of music and laughter lifting your spirits, the same ones that eight hours at work had dampened.

But then Steve came, Steve fixed it.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” you murmured, lips brushing his, once, twice. “Could do that thing you like.”

You laughed when he choked, his breath hitching and catching in his throat at your implication and Steve’s cheeks were rosy as he thought about your lips and your tongue and the sounds you could pull from him.

His fingers hooked into your coat pockets, lips twisted as he tried to hide his grin and his bobble hat wiggled as he shook his head at you. “You’re a fucking menace,” he whispered.

“The big prizes are at the stall by the pond,” you simply answered, grinning wide. You could see your breath in the air, a huff of smoke that floated to the moon above. “C’mon, hot shot.”

The boy merely grinned wide, eyes bright and full of promise, ‘cause he was still thinking about you and damn mouth. He let you tug him across the grass, a little dazed, happy to follow you anywhere.

“Yes ma’am.”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington one shot #upsidedownwithsteve's promptober

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idolatrybarbie · 8 months

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the world tipped on its side

chapter one - a helicopter

series masterlist | read on ao3

pairing: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader

word count: 5k

rating & summary: mature | you are a stunt coordinator on an action film. frankie's the stunt pilot you need. everything's gonna be airplanes, rainbows, and sunshine…right?

warnings: references to physical injury, chronic pain, prescription medication & medication usage, references to surgery, reader has a disability.

notes: thanks iz for beta'ing this. just occurred to me that some people might find issue with writing about disability but i am #disabled so idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

You don’t know when you make the smooth transition from sleep to wakefulness. Suddenly your eyes are open—or maybe they’ve been open the entire time. It doesn’t matter, really. You stare up at the ceiling, curtains still drawn, tucked neatly under your duvet. Brain silent, waiting.

It’s almost every day now that you beat your five o’clock alarm. A funny recurrence, like your body knows. Moving your head is slightly painful, cheek brushing against the pillow to turn and look. The neon of the alarm’s display stings, burning the numbers behind your eyelids when you blink. 4:58. Waiting…waiting…

The machine only manages a single pathetic, high pitched squeal before you shut it off with a harsh thwack. You’re up and moving in the dark, closet door folding open with a rumble to reveal your capsule wardrobe of workwear. Everything is organized neatly along their plastic hangers, by clothing item and colour; your small collection of nearly-identical black pants next to the dark teal and navy pencil skirts, followed by a heather grey blouse, plaid ankle pants…it’s all very dressy. No one would guess that these clothes are the fruits of several weeks of careful curation at the thrift store. That’s kind of the point.

Getting ready at dawn is a blur these days. Nothing more than going through the motions. Clothes, then you brush your teeth, styling your hair in the bathroom mirror with the cheap toothbrush between your tongue and palate. Breakfast is a glass of water from the tap of your tiny apartment kitchen; the fridge sits empty, spare a stray tomato and a few expired string cheeses that you toss on your way out the door.

Outside, the sky is still dark, slowly lightening with the rising sun. You’ve come to appreciate the moon like this, waiting for its overbearing big brother to get the day moving. The definition of the clouds up above is enough to have you staring up for hours, if you had the time. It feels like looking at a famous painting—a Van Gogh or something, the edges of each vaporous form crisp against the changing blue.

The twenty minute commute from sleepy Cobb County to metropolitan Atlanta is driven in silence as you organize your thoughts. It’ll be another sixteen hour day of shooting, surely. That’s what you prepare for and are never disappointed. You make a mental note to order groceries while you’re on lunch, hopefully getting the latest time slot this time. Last time, Whole Foods left you with five bags of perishables in the front lobby that sat for six hours before you got home. Half of it was inedible.

The lot is unchanged from yesterday as you drive in, flashing your I.D. badge at the parking gate attendant before he lifts the striped arm up to let you through. Ashton is waiting for you outside of the soundstage, because of course he is.

“Good morning,” he smiles.

You give him a mumbled greeting in return, nodding as you pass him on your way in. He follows you, keeping the brisk pace of your heeled flats.

“I wanted to walk-and-talk,” he says.

Of course he does. “Sure. What’s up?”

“So we got new pages last night,” Ashton says, his dingy sneakers squeaking across the floor beside you.

“Okay,” you say.

“It’s a whole new scene.” You still aren’t sure how this concerns you. “A stunt.”

You stop abruptly. He isn’t expecting it, almost tripping over his own feet to pause. “What?”

“I figured you would have that reaction,” he says.

You close your eyes with a slight huff, ignoring the comment. “What do you mean ‘a stunt’? I thought we had them all outlined in pre-production. I got a list of—”

“The studio wanted some changes to that big arrival scene. They wanted a helicopter.”

“A helicopter,” you repeat.

“A helicopter,” Ashton confirms.

Fuck. “How am I supposed to get a helicopter?”

Ashton shrugs, helpful as always. “You’re the stunt coordinator,” he says.

In your brief Hollywood career, you would have to say he is the most useless functioning part of a production that you have ever worked with. Who the fuck gave this guy a blockbuster?

“A helicopter.” You let the word sit in your mouth, wrapping your brain around the idea a little more. With a sigh, you relent. There is nothing to be done about it now. “Fine. Give me a week.”

“One week,” Ashton agrees. “I want to get that scene out of the way as quickly as possible. It’s all just flashy nonsense.” He nods at you once more before disappearing amidst members of the crew, the area filling up slowly as people arrive on set for the day.

You wonder who’s going to tell him. This whole thing is flashy nonsense. When you first read the script, you could barely parse out the plot beyond the action scenes outlined for you, practically dripping in yellow highlighter. You don’t mind so much, though; every day on set is another day of getting paid. It isn’t your job to worry about the artform of cinema, but to make sure the punches look like they land without anyone losing a tooth. This could be the next Transformers threequel, and you wouldn’t care.

Mia’s shoving a paper cup of something warm into your hands, pulling you from your thoughts.

“You’ve got that glassy look in your eyes, which means I know you’re ready for a caffeine re-up,” she says.

You take a sip. Coffee, black. You savour the acrid taste for a moment, burning your tongue before you swallow. “Did you hear about this?”

“No?” she asks. “What?”

“The helicopter,” you say, and her face immediately falls.

“What helicopter?”

“The studio wants a helicopter stunt.”

“But that wasn’t—” she starts.

“I know,” is all you say. “And of course, Ashton brought it to me instead of, you know, a producer?” You two are walking now, moving past bodies and equipment to the attached office space.

“I’ll talk to Moby,” Mia says.

“It’s not talking to Moby that’s the problem,” you say. “This is the biggest movie that I’ve ever done and…”

“Come on. Don’t get all defeatist on me.”

“Maybe this isn’t for me, is all I’m saying.”

“What?” Mia looks aghast. “You were the greatest stunt actor I’ve ever seen,” she says.

“Were. I had, what? Four good years of doing flips and expertly dodging rubber katanas, and now I can barely fall asleep at night.”

“Even with the new mattress?” Mia asks.

“The new mattress doesn’t do shit,” you say.

Every once in a while you still lose some sense of feeling in your right arm, muscles in your legs spasming uncontrollably, keeping you up at night. On lucky days all you are left with is the unending stiffness in your neck.

“With all this shit… Maybe it’s time for me to move on,” you say.

“Don’t say that. You say that and we’re all screwed,” Mia says. “You’re going to finish this movie, and it’s going to look awesome, and then you’ll get your next one. Okay?” She won’t stop staring at you with those imploring doe eyes until you nod hesitantly. “Great. Good. I’ll call some people, get a beat on this helicopter. You just…do your thing. Make that movie magic.”

You groan. “You know I hate that.” Movie magic. The term oozes nothing but cheese.

Mia’s walking away now, a smile on her face as she calls back, “But you love me!”

And you do. You met Mia back in community college, when you were both aimlessly jogging through life. Your shared love of movies is what brought you together, an unlikely duo; she’d been a star athlete in high school, spanning volleyball, cheer, gymnastics and rugby. You, on the other hand, skipped class to practice parkour at the abandoned strip mall with your friends.

You’d gotten your associate’s degree in digital media arts, dreams of editing bays and Adobe software crowding your future. Mia moved to California and lost contact, until you got a phone call six months later asking if you could catch the next flight down. She had a stunt job she couldn’t take, something she swore you’d be perfect for. You didn’t even know she’d gotten into acting.

It was definitely non-union, and certainly dangerous, but the experience was unlike anything you had ever done before. Now, six years later, you mostly sit on the sidelines and watch other stuntpeople pretend to duke it out in front of greenscreen, or land safely onto crash mats one hundred feet below them. You still love this, still want it. But things aren’t the same. On top of seemingly never-ending demands, the thought of getting into a harness to show an actor how to maneuver around has your stomach churning, the axis vertebrae at the base of your skull flaring with that cushioned stabbing pain.

Life was a lot of that now. Pain, pain management, doctor’s visits and specialist appointments. You are set to make thirty thousand dollars this year, counting every penny to assure that you qualify for health insurance. Pill bottles click and clack in your belt bag, the only thing interfering with your business casual persona. Lyrica twice a day, at noon and night time, and a concoction of Panadol and naproxen throughout the day for when the pain acts up beyond what the anticonvulsant can cover alone.

There are always odd glances, looks exchanged between your crewmates when you pop a pill next to the catering table or trip over yourself simply standing, due to the side effects. The job is already alienating enough, outside of your assembled stunt team, that you can shrug it off in the moment.

Your wristwatch is telling you that it’s almost six, giving you another ten to fifteen before you have to meander back onto set for the first call time of the day. You lean against the chair behind you, not risking a sit down right now, and sip at your coffee.

You’re watching, waiting. Mikey Schultz is at the edge of a lime green block, waiting for the call to action. Keeping your knuckles at your lips, you stand next to Ashton, trying to get a view between the wide camera monitors and the real deal in front of you.

“Action!” Ashton yells from beside you.

The cameras are already rolling, panning up to focus on the actor perched at the edge of the greenscreen structure. Without hesitation, he jumps, managing the pseudo-superhero landing you’d revised over thirty times in pre-production flawlessly. His knee digs into the foamy crash mat, surely to be edited away in post and replaced with the jungles of the fictional South American country that’s been created for this movie. Despite your quiet, distant opinions on that matter—on the whole movie really—you can’t help but be proud of this moment.

“Cut!”

The end of the take marks the end of your work day.

“Good job everybody! We’ll be back here tomorrow bright and early.” Ashton nods at you, a motion you politely return before walking off set.

Bright and early is, bless the heavens, not the reality for you tomorrow. Tomorrow is what you like to call a dialogue day. They film all the sappy shit—the emotional core, as Ashton loves calling it—and you don’t have to be there until noon for the hospital fight scene.

You find Mia first, approaching her with a wave. She smiles back, walking to meet you in the middle. She has two bottles of water in her hands, and you already know that one is for you. She knows it’s about time to take your meds again; she’s also known you long enough to be hyper-aware of your aversion to drinking water unless instructed to.

“So how was that?” she asks when you’re close enough.

“Another day, another dollar,” you say, taking one of the bottles from her. “I’m going home to crash, for sure.”

Mia nods. “Same. I think—” A ringtone interrupts her. She reaches for the back pocket of her leggings, whipping out her phone. “Hello?”

There is silence for a moment before Mia’s face lights up; you know exactly who it is on the other end. She doesn’t get that sparkling Eiffel Tower look for just anyone.

“Babe, hey,” she says, and then Mia’s frowning at you, mouthing a sorry as she holds up her pointer finger. Just a sec. “I don’t know, what do you want to do for dinner?” She turns away from you, covering one ear to hear her fiancé over the bustle of people hauling ass off set.

A small knot forms in your throat. Not because you’re jealous, and not because Mia’s a bad friend—quite the opposite. Even amidst all of the commotion on set, this still feels like a moment. You’re here, standing, waiting like a jackass for your friend to hang up on the love of her life. Sam’s up visiting from Texas for a week, so it’s been phone calls like this the whole time. Every private tinge of annoyance makes you feel like an awful person.

“Hey, I’m just going to go. That okay?” you ask Mia, who’s only half listening.

She pauses, holding her hand over the speaker of her phone as she pulls it away from her ear. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

Mia nods, giving you a thumbs up, and then she’s fully consumed in the phone call.

Your car is too warm, the Georgian sun filling it with heat while it sat on its own in the parking lot. The A/C is blasting on the drive back to Mableton, its hissing thrum the only sound around you other than the open road. You sprinkle a small white capsule pill from its script bottle, putting it in your mouth and swallowing it down with the water.

Sam and Mia have been engaged for a year, dating for three. You remember their first meet cute, in some new artsy Los Angeles coffee shop that closed the following year. He’d bought both of your coffees for the morning, and she’d asked for his number. He’s cute, in a nerdy way. You remember the handful of guys Mia was involved with while you two were in college. Sam is definitely an upgrade.

It was an odd occurrence; going through the motions of mourning your health as time neared the anniversary of what happened, only to see happy, smiling engagement photos all over your socials. Mia called you not long after, gushing over the phone. You’d done the part of the good best friend, sharing in her excitement and all of the beautiful potential of the future. After sending her one last peppy text, though, you went radio silent for about three weeks.

You weren’t upset, and if you were, it certainly wasn’t with Mia. The way you liked to think about it was this: it’s very hard to feel good about being miserable when everyone around you is terminally thrilled. You needed space to be despondent. Mia needed space to be elated. Ultimately, you’re still unsure if she ever noticed the intention behind it.

The wedding is planned for next spring. When this shoot ends, it’ll be August, and Mia’s made you promise to block out a few chunks of time here and there to help her out with the specific bridal party details. It’s a part of the job of maid of honour, after all.

Anybody else, anybody normal, would be thrilled. You aren’t. You’d been secretly hoping that Mia would choose her little sister to take on the title. No dice. You’ve told her a million times that you haven’t ever been to a wedding, only funerals, but she wasn’t having any of it.

The things that make the role usually undesirable aren’t even what it is that you’re dreading—picking out a spring colour for yourself and two other women to wear that looks both cohesive and flattering across everyone isn’t that hard. It’s moreso all of the questions, the whispers from the old bitties about the distinctly solo bridesmaid—oh god.

Working in film and television doesn’t really afford you the luxury of a relationship. Up until two years ago, you’d lived the life of a creative nomad. You’ve had five apartments since you graduated college, bouncing around the continent with no station to go back to after your father sold your childhood home. There’s a map in your front hall now, charting all the places you’ve lived with thumbtacks and red string: Montreal, North Hollywood, Calgary, Culver City, and now Mableton, Georgia. It’s your own personal serial killer wall.

You had the apartment just outside of Los Angeles when the accident had happened. When you finally got home, everything felt…wrong. The person who’d lived there before wasn’t you, or you weren’t her, everything haunted in the places she’d last left them. So you dumped half of your shit in a Beverly Hills storage locker, bringing the rest with you in boxes down south.

Everyone in California expected you to bounce back right away, like a cervical spine injury was something you could pull yourself up from to walk it off. The doctor forced six months of bed rest on you after the surgery, at minimum. She didn’t know at the time that your life is defined by minimums: minimal pay, minimal oversight, minimal time. You had a job lined up four months in, spending the rest of the other two wondering how many ways you could craft the same placating email to the production company.

You park at the side of the road, looking up at the windows of your apartment. The windows are dark, the curtains drawn. No one is waiting for you up there.

Sometimes, you long for something like that. Wish for the windows to hold light, the shadow of another human being in the light cooking you dinner, watching television. Your mind wanders to the sets of the epically corny love stories you worked on at the very beginning of your career, hauling around lighting equipment and taking coffee orders from the talent. Most of the time, though, you want exactly what you have now.

You take the elevator up in silence, checking your emails and clearing them as you go. When the sleek metal doors slide open before you, you stroll to the end of the tiled hall and wiggle your key into the lock, letting the door squeal open. You toe off your flats at the entryway, leaving them to sit on the floor as the door closes behind you. The light comes on in your kitchen automatically, sensing your presence. It’s only then that you remember the groceries you were supposed to order, jamming the heel of your hand into the middle of your forehead.

“Shit,” you mutter, the shadows on the walls surely berating you silently.

There’s nothing more to do than sigh and scour the cupboards. You find bread tucked away in one of them, one last decent slice and the heel waiting for you in the crinkly plastic.

You stick them both in the toaster Mia got you last Christmas, stacking them onto a plate when they're done. Walking to the couch a mere few feet away, you turn the TV on to the fireplace channel, the one reserved in most households for snowfall and holidays. The toast feels dry in your mouth, wood crackling through the television speakers. Your bones are too tired to do anything else.

Somewhere between ten and eleven, you realize you aren’t going to make it to bed tonight. Your feet feel too wobbly beneath you, eyelids heavy as your vision blurs. So you make yourself comfortable, laying your head on one of your throw pillows, the fabric gritty against your cheek. A last notification lights up your phone, slowly but surely sapping itself of battery beside you. An email. You can just make out the subject line and email addresses; your own CC’ed onto the exchange, and two others.

[email protected]

Stunt Pilot - Urgent Inquiry

It’s just after noon. You sit in a folding chair, watching the scene play out before you. They did all of the blocking before you even got here, a rare occurrence, letting you walk on set ready to watch Mia in action. She performs a wall flip over a stray hospital bed effortlessly, like she was born mid-air. When she kicks Andy square in the padding at his chest, you stifle a bit of a chuckle.

They cut, Mia staying on her mark as her and the actress starring in the film—you’re blanking on her name—swap places. Mia has worked with her on a couple projects now. For a while, you were picking her up for lunch over at the Warner Brothers’ lot when she was doing a couple seasons of some teen superhero soap.

Ashton calls action again, and everyone watches as the actress stalks down the hall with her nostrils flaring, splattered in drying blood. Mia sidles up beside you to watch, too, her chest heaving silently as she chugs a bottle of water. They do several takes of this scene, definitely more than necessary. Ashton says that she isn’t capturing enough ennui and your eyes almost roll to the back of your skull.

The break for lunch cannot come any sooner. Hailey from makeup hands Mia a baby wipe to clean up the smear of stage blood on her face.

“I have a surprise for you,” she says, trying to remove the waxy, fire engine red lipstick that tints her mouth.

“Is it a pony?” you ask, injecting the enthusiasm of a preschooler on Christmas morning into your voice.

“No,” Mia says. “For you, it’s more like a unicorn.”

You arch a brow at her, barely noticing that she’s guiding you away from the catering hall in the direction of the side doors. You realize too late, shielding your eyes to the blazing sun when Mia pushes them open. You mutter a curse at the blinding light, eyes downcast for a brief moment as you still follow her out into the parking lot.

“Are we going to lunch? Or do you just need help getting something out of your car?” you ask, looking at her again.

She meets your eyes, and you watch as her gaze shifts to something in front of you. Following her eyes, you see an unfamiliar pickup truck in the spot to the left of you. It looks a little old, beaten up. You can’t tell what the colour of the body really is, a thin spray of dirt coating most of the hard surface.

You give Mia a strange look. “Did you get me a carpenter?”

“Better,” she says.

You both watch as someone—he—gets out of the driver’s side, muscles in his back flexing against the grey shirt that stretches across his shoulders. The truck door closes with a firm toss, and then he’s turning to face the both of you. He’s tall, dark and one might caution to say, handsome. Not you. Mia, probably, if he weren’t standing right there.

Mia’s unicorn lifts his baseball cap off, pushing long hair away from his face before returning it to the crown of his head. A beard, more like scruff, lines his jaw and a bit of his cheeks. If Bass Pro Shops had a Man of the Month calendar, he would be Mr. March.

“Francisco!” Mia calls out to the man, waving him over with a smile. He saunters over, bootcut jeans tinged with dirt at the bottom hems.

When he meets you at the sidewalk, he shakes Mia’s hand and then yours.

“Frankie’s fine,” he says, a small smile breaking out across his face.

“I’m seeing a distinct lack of a rainbow horn here,” you say, mostly to Mia. Frankie’s smile morphs into confusion, your words pulling a light laugh out of his chest.

“You’re her unicorn,” Mia clarifies. Then, to you, “This is Frankie Morales. He’s a stunt pilot.”

“Think Art Scholl without the tragic plane crash,” he says.

It’s your turn to laugh, a small, brief thing punched from your lungs. “And he’s got jokes.”

“And he’s going to fly your helicopter,” Mia says.

“Really?” you ask, looking at Frankie now.

“You need a chopper flown, I’m your guy,” he nods.

A chopper.

“I guess…you should meet Ashton, then,” you say.

“Oh, yeah. Totally,” Mia agrees.

As the three of you walk back into the studio, you notice how Frankie looks at everything. Not a simple scan, a glimpse over the walls. Looks, like he’s noting every security camera along the walls, every exit sign, the handle on each closed door. That’s definitely something.

Ashton is forking greek pasta salad into his mouth everso gracefully when you find him at lunch. You wonder what Frankie thinks of him upon first glance, taking in the designer polo shirt and the beady-lensed sunglasses drooping off the bridge of his nose as he laughs too hard at Gwen’s bad joke. Everyone knows he’s trying to get into the script supervisor’s pants.

“Ashton!” Mia calls for him, interrupting their surely riveting conversation. He frowns at the sight of the three of you.

“Mia,” he says, wiping at his mouth with a napkin.

“We’ve got good news for you.”

“About the helicopter,” you say.

“This is Frankie. He’s going to fly the thing,” Mia says.

You’re expecting Ashton to stand, hold out his hand and greet the man—you know, the polite thing to do with someone you’re about to work with. Instead, Ashton stays seated, pinching his fingers along the left arm of his sunglasses to pull them further down his nose. He gives Frankie a onceover, his mouth settling into a line of a smile. Thoroughly unimpressed.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Ashton says.

Immediately, the mood between the four of you shifts. It’s awkward, not because this has to be but because Ashton is making it that way. You can see Frankie tense, visibly drawing a blank as to how he’s supposed to respond.

He opts for, “You too,” raising his eyebrows as he says it. He shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

“Great,” Mia says, the end of the word tipping up into a question. She steers Frankie away from the interaction. You stay put, gaping a bit incredulously before shaking your head, turning to follow them.

Mia is standing near a catering table, already stammering out a string of sorrys.

Frankie shakes his head. “No need to apologize,” he says. “Not you’re fault that was…whatever that was.”

“Jesus Christ,” you say.

“He’s not usually like that,” Mia says, which is a lie. “Since you’re here, though, you might as well stay. Grab a sandwich?”

You nod. “You can sign the contract after lunch.” Which means you’ll be spending the hour drafting it.

Frankie appears hesitant, looking between Mia and yourself. You’re not much of a persuader, but Mia can put on these giant sulking doe eyes when she wants to. It’s crippling, shattering any viewer’s ability to not bend to her present wish. With that look, you’re fairly sure she could bring about world peace.

“Okay, sure. Why not?” Frankie asks.

Mia smiles, mission accomplished, and wonders off to raid at the salad bar on the other side of the room. You watch her go, shaking your head.

“She always like that?” Frankie asks, still standing behind you.

“Mia? More or less,” you say.

Frankie walks to the end of the table you both stand beside, grabbing a plate. He offers it to you, and you take it. Then he grabs one for himself, shoveling tuna macaroni salad onto the porcelain.

“She’s a good kid, though.”

“Aren’t you two the same age?” he asks.

“Yeah. Kind of feels like I’m her older sister, in a way,” you say.

“In a way?” He watches you grab a set of tongs, a bunch of salad landing on your plate.

“We’ve known each other for a long time. I was usually the more protective one, when we were younger.”

“Not now?”

“Well now she doesn’t really need it. And even if she did, not like I could do it,” you say. On your worst mornings, you can barely make it out of bed.

A question dances across Frankie’s eyes, but whatever it is, he keeps it to himself.

“Where did she find you anyway?” you ask, changing the subject.

“She emailed me. Just last night, actually, but I’m always in the business for work. Summer’s usually pretty busy, but I’ve got more time on my hands than I’d like this year.”

“So, a stunt pilot. Air shows, then?”

“Air shows, state fairs, military celebrations,” Frankie says. He uses a giant metal spoon to scoop cooked legumes on his plate.

“And you always dreamed of a life in aerobatics, or…?”

“I was in the military for while, as a pilot. Couple tours. When I came home, I still had that itch, y’know? Now that I’ve done it I can’t stop doing it.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” You cringe internally at the lame response.

“What about you?” Frankie asks.

“Went to school for video stuff, did some stunts for a while. Now I do this. Make sure no one loses a limb,” you shrug. The walls are starting to feel a little too close, the scattered conversation of the voices around you peaking in your ears. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but you interrupt. “I hate to leave you stranded but I should probably get back to work.”

“Right, yeah,” Frankie says.

“I’ll have Mia give you the contract when everything’s wrapped up in here.” You smile, hoping it looks more grateful than grimacing.

Throwing a baked potato onto your plate to join the salad, you ditch Frankie at the other end of the table and make a beeline for the doorway. Your stomach twists in your gut, guilt settling before you’re even finished being rude. Someone should tape a sticky note to your back: Hi, I’m an asshole.

#frankie morales #triple frontier #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fanfiction #pedro pascal #i am so nervy omg why it's fanfic i've been doing this for years #hello people of pedroland please like me smiley face #pedrostories #fic: the world tipped on its side

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