#100 days before the command

[filmjunky-99]

1 0 0 d a y s b e f o r e t h e c o m m a n d (cто дней до приказа), 1990 🎬 dir. hussein erkenov

[notesonfilm1]

José Arroyo in Conversation With Siavash Minoukadeh

At Cinema Rediscovered I attended a panel on film programming and film curating chaired by Maddy Probst and found the collaborations between the festival and the young programmers impressive and inspiring. The strand I attended most assiduously was Siavash Minoukadeh’s Queer Cinema From the Eastern Bloc, co-curated with Fedor Tot. In the accompanying podcast I talk to Siavash about how he came to…

[foxika]

"most decorated clone in the grand army"

i 100% had snubton's story, you believe me like a god, on the mind. chapter 3 with scout had me on my knees. so you can consider this fanart of it. very abstract fanart...

[caffeinewitchcraft]

AITA for divorcing my vampire husband because he lied to me about his human job?

I (542 vampire) and my husband (260 vampire) have been together for a little over two centuries. There’s a saying in the vampiric community that it takes a century for a tryst to become an enduring partnership and another century to become soulmates. I thought that was true and that Matthew (using his real name because fuck you, Matthew) and I would be together forever…until this week.

First, let me explain a few things to the mortals here. I don’t mean that negatively – I came here specifically to get the opinion of those with a finite lifespan. However, I want to be fair to Matthew as much as possible and some of his decisions are very immortal-minded.

Both Matthew and I are vampires who have chosen to forsake some of our powers in exchange for the ability to daywalk. We made the transition together on our 100th anniversary almost 115 years ago. It wasn’t an easy transition for me. I was very dependent on human blood and I spent the first twenty years in almost constant sleep as my body adjusted to running off of less lunar magic and more solar magic.

It really felt like I was losing everything. My body got physically weaker and my powers began to disappear one by one. It felt like every time I woke, another part of me was missing. One day I could turn into a wolf, the next I could barely turn into a vapor. I could command a legion of undying servants, and then I could barely convince the mailman he didn’t see me levitate down from the second floor.

Matthew, however, took to daywalking like a werewolf to a sheep farm. He barely seemed to feel the pain of losing his power, maybe because he was so much younger than me. Whatever the case, he was out all the time once he stabilized. He would be gone for days sometimes and when he came back it was with fantastic stories about the humans’ new inventions or the new structures being built in whatever town we were in.

I’m not saying I regret transitioning. Just that Matthew and I had very different experiences. It felt like he barely changed at all while my entire being got rewritten. Being immortal makes you comfortable in your own skin. I never doubted myself or my power after I turned 100. But becoming a daywalker made me feel like I was being born as a human again. It was humiliating and vulnerable. I have to admit there were times I resented how easily Matthew did it. I blamed him for not supporting me like I thought he should. I would daydream about draining a human in front of him, showing him what I thought of his fascination with them. I had all sorts of vile and vengeful thoughts. I’m not proud of the person I was and now I’m grateful Matthew wasn’t there to see the lows I sunk to.

Despite all my awful thoughts, I didn’t quit. I don’t know why, but I didn’t. I stuck with it and, day by day, things got easier.

After 26 years I began to stabilize. The benefits of being a daywalker slowly blossomed before me.  Now I can say that I am completely happy with my daywalker status and all the changes it’s brought.

I am the most mentally stable I have been since my Turning in 1482. It’s like I’m awake. The fits of rage that used to consume me for months at a time have completely disappeared. I don’t experience the same level of obsession I used to which has freed up a lot of my time that I used to spend stalking my victims.

However, that drastic of a change would be challenging in any relationship. Matthew and I ended up together because of my obsessive nature. Our relationship became strained when that part of me went dormant. He expected me to follow his immersion into the human world just as I had followed him in his revenge quest against his Master. He expected me to support him wholeheartedly and with everything I was. He wanted sacrifices from me that I used to not even flinch at before making. But something was just…different. We wanted different things. I wanted different things.

Matthew was obsessed with being the perfect human. He craved full immersion. He still makes it a point to get a human job every twenty years or so. Me? I’m happy to live off our investments and some mild mind control while enjoying the art and theater community the humans have evolved.

It got bad. Some years, we spent like ghosts in our own house, drifting by each other without a glance. Other years, it was like we were spies behind enemy lines. He would do whatever he could to thwart me and I would go out of my way to ridicule him. Our vitriol poisoned the earth. Matthew didn’t speak to me for a full decade when that poison killed off an entire town.

About twenty years ago, it all came to a head. We had a serious sit-down talk about our relationship. It wasn’t easy. What they say about teaching an old dog new tricks is sometimes true. Matthew wanted me to be as involved with the humans as he was. He wanted me to care about them like he did. I wanted him to travel with me like we used to and not just hop from town to neighboring town (which he did to maintain a human identity with references so he could keep working). When it became clear that we were at an impasse, I brought up the idea of separation.

Separating in the vampiric world isn’t easy. There are a lot of alliances and blood oaths to be considered. Over the two centuries we spent together, we became known as a unit to a number of supernatural entities that we maintain an uneasy truce with. Separating would mean creating new oaths and alliances with the same individuals. And there was no guarantee that those individuals would make new pacts with both of you. A LOT of vampire couples end up in blood feuds while separating. Neither of us wanted that.

There was also, of course, the emotional side of things. While a lot of immortals tend to only feel muted emotions (especially vampires as old as me), Daywalking had made both of us more sensitive than we’d been before. We were both attached to the memories we shared and neither of us could imagine life without the other. After 200 years together, it felt like Matthew was my right arm, and I his. When I brought up separation, we both felt it like we were discussing an amputation.

After about a year of talking, we finally reached an agreement. We didn’t want to separate, and so we would compromise. I wouldn’t interfere with any of Matthew’s human jobs for the 15-17 years if he could hold them without arousing suspicion. In exchange, he would take a year off to go traveling with me before finding another town for us to live in. In between my trips, he would go to plays and galas with me to enjoy human artistry at least once a month.

Maybe our deal was in his favor. At the time, it felt practical and fair. A year of traveling wouldn’t undo Matthew’s string of connections. We would still see each other frequently by going on dates that I liked. Matthew would get to stay immersed in the human world at the level he wanted, and I could stay within my comfort zone.

Which brings me to my current problem.

We are currently at the start of one of Matthew’s work cycles. He’s been everything from a fireman to a politician to a subway worker to a barista. He craves knowledge and connection to a terrifying degree. If it weren’t for how we move every 20 years and he goes without protest, I’d call it obsession.

This cycle, Matthew told me he was going to be a teacher. I was hesitant. While the humans have become more tolerant and less violent over the years, that doesn’t mean they will tolerate us near their young. Enough humans know about vampires that staking in the modern era is a real possibility. Matthew could incite an angry mob against us or, heaven forbid, get a vampire hunter on our tail. I have yet to be shot, but I hear that they have silver bullets that hurt like Hell.

When I voiced my protests, Matthew reminded me about our agreement. He said that I wouldn’t interfere with his jobs and he’d go to all the plays I liked. He even pointed out that, as a teacher, he could get us into high school plays and expositions. I was uneasy, but agreements are penultimate to immortals. I silenced my objections and let him get a job as a science teacher at a local high school.

When Michael has had jobs in the past, I’ve never really paid attention. One time he was a state senator for ten years and I never even heard him speak. I didn’t consider it worth my time to hear whatever his facsimile of a human would say. Real humanity is in the art they create, not in the parody Michael enacts.

But this one…I couldn’t ignore this one. Maybe it was because I was still uneasy about his proximity to human young or maybe I could sense his lies even at the beginning. Whatever the case, I watched him.

The first thing I noticed was the hours. He would go to work early and would often come home when it was time for us to sleep. When I asked him about it, he said that he wasn’t used to grading and that he had underestimated what it took to put a good lesson plan together. I visited some online forums and that’s apparently reasonable for first year teachers.

He would also sometimes go in on the weekends. He missed one of our dates because there was a “grading emergency” that needed his immediate attention. Something about a student’s test getting lost and then found and he needed to input their grade before the deadline which was on Saturday. Humans like silly rules like that so I didn’t even look that one up. I just reminded him that he couldn’t miss our dates again or else he was breaking our deal. He apologized and said it wouldn’t happen again.

Then about three months into his new job, the phone calls started. We have a private room in our house for when we need to talk without any visitors overhearing. Michael moved all his school supplies in there, saying that he needed a silent space to concentrate on his grading. Whenever he got a call, he would never answer it in front of me. Instead, he’d say “Sorry, work” and just go into his office.

I also noticed that he didn’t dress very professionally. Human fashion changes quickly so it didn’t register at first. A sweatshirt here and there slipped past me, and also the Gucci slides. When he started wearing baggy jeans and jerseys to work, I noticed. I may not be up to date on all the newest fashions, but I do go to classy events. I know what a slob looks like and it didn’t sit right with me that he was wearing that to school. When I asked him about it, he always had an excuse. “This is what everyone wears” and “It’s a theme day” or, bafflingly, “It’s spirit week!”

I tried to leave it alone. The reason we have stayed together for so long is because of our agreement to not interfere in each other’s lives. But between his hours, the phone calls, and his appearance, something didn’t add up.

Then, last Thursday, he missed another one of our dates. We were supposed to go to the Nutcracker together. Even though I prefer matinees (when the cast is fresh), I agreed to get us tickets for the evening show so that he wouldn’t have to leave work early. When he wasn’t there at 7pm, I called him and he didn’t answer. Then, when I called him again, his phone was switched off.

I was furious. I spend nearly two decades in these tiny towns so he can live his human fantasy and he can’t even show up for one two hour show? It was the first time since becoming a daywalker that I felt that angry. I was scared about what I might do, so I made myself go home to wait for him.

Only, he never came home that night. At 3am, he sent me a text apologizing and promising to make up our date on Saturday. But the Nutcracker was only playing until Friday and that would be too little, too late. To be honest, it already was. I texted him that and he never responded.

He never ended up coming home last weekend. I texted and called him probably a dozen times and he never responded. I got angrier and angrier as the days dragged by. Did he think I was someone to be taken lightly? Did he not realize that the fragile agreement between us was all that was keeping us from separation?

Yesterday (Monday), I couldn’t take it anymore. If he wasn’t going to come home or respond to my messages, then I would go to him. If he was so obsessed with this new job that he would ignore me for it, then I knew exactly where to find him.

I arrived at his school at 10am. I researched enough to know how to go to the office and sign myself in. I asked the office assistant which room Mr. Duetto was in.

The lovely young woman looked confused. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give that information out to anyone but family,” she said.

“I am his only family,” I said.

She clicked a few more keys and looked more confused. “His paperwork only shows his mother, Delilah Duetto.”

That’s right. His mother. But I still didn’t understand then.

“That’s me,” I said.

“You are not the mother of 17-year-old.”

“I’m his wife,” I said.

She was upset by that. I won’t bore you with every detail, but I had to alter her memories so she wouldn’t call the police. I may not look like someone who has a teenager, but I also don’t look like a teenager. I ended up having to alter her memories so she wouldn’t call human CPS on an apparent adult swearing she was married to a minor.

I went home and broke into his office. There weren’t any lesson plans. There were no graded papers. There were syllabus from different classes, homework with his name on it, and a few polaroids taped to the bottom of his desk of him at a party with children.

Human children. I don’t honestly know which is worse.

(EDIT: I know the child part is the worst part. I misspoke because of my anger. It’s not the humans’ fault that my husband is a pervert.)

I broke into his laptop and used that to check his text messages. He’s been texting like a high schooler. He’s been to parties with them, listened to their problems and even fabricated a few of his own. He’s caught in some sort of weird love triangle where a freshman girl likes him but his “best friend” likes her. He has texted both of them about it, promising his “bro” that nothing is happening and then turning around and leading this girl-child on.

Some choice quotes: I should know better than to get close with you. You and I come from very different worlds

To which she replied, lol maybe we should let our worlds collide

!!!!

I find the entire situation disgusting. Matthew is several centuries older than them and he definitely knows better. He’s literally wearing the sheep’s fleece amongst the flock. He has no business forming relationships with human children and even less pretending to be one of them. He’s not a baby. He is over two centuries old!

What is he doing flirting with a child? It’s vile and disgusting and I was set to kill him for it.

I confronted him about it when he came home last night. I told him that he was sick and dangerous and if he loved humans then he needed to stop immediately. I told him we either left town today or I would make sure he never set foot back in that school in a way he really wouldn’t like.

 He threw a huge tantrum over my invading his privacy. He shouted at me that I had broken my promise to never interfere in his job. He called me controlling and crazy.

I told him he was the crazy one for chatting up a child. He told me he wasn’t, she was just his friend. I asked him to read their texts out loud if he was being so friendly. I also pointed out that there was no way a 260-year-old vampire is a child’s friend.

He told me I was a hypocrite because I basically cradle robbed him (we’re almost 300 years apart.) He said if anyone was disgusting, it was me for taking advantage of him.

I pointed out that he wasn’t a child, he was over 60 and had already been a vampire for four decades. He argued that that was basically being a child in vampire terms.

I was so angry at that point that the house was shaking. I told him if he felt that way, then we could get divorced right then and there. That that was what I wanted to do anyway because I couldn’t be married to a pedophile.

He asked me if I was seriously going to start a blood feud over him immersing himself in human society. I said no, I’m starting a blood feud because he’s become every predatory stereotype humans have of vampires.

He called me a hypocrite again and told me he was leaving. He said not to call him unless I was ready to apologize. I told him that the next time he sees me, he’d better run before I showed him the real difference between us. And it wasn’t just 300 years.

When I calmed down, doubt started creeping in. From an immortal perspective, what he’s doing isn’t really wrong. I hate to say it, but most immortals don’t view human lives as significant. I know a few vampires who would say that divorcing because he’s playing with his food is idiotic.

Plus, there’s the agreement to consider. During our fight, Matthew pointed out that being a student is a job to humans. So therefore I didn’t have the right to interfere. A big part of me thinks that’s bullshit, but a small part of me wonders if he’s maybe right about that?

I also have to ask myself why this even bothers me. I’m the one in the relationship that is aloof from humans. I’m the one that’s always saying we are from different worlds (Yeah, he stole that from me) and for good reason. 

But over the years, I’ve become fond of humans. No immortal makes art like them. I may not remember my time as a mortal, but there are works that give me a sense of nostalgia. Sometimes I think I can remember being a child myself, standing in a field like in Monet painting, staring at the wheatstacks and waiting for the miller to come. 

The thought of Matthew playing with them makes me sick. It’s like even after all the years of him living amongst them, he thinks of them as props in his twisted play. It’s even worse that he’s doing this to children. 

I can’t help but think something went really wrong with my husband when I wasn’t looking. At the very least, I’m planning on divorcing him. But would I be the asshole if I killed him too?

 Separating from him will be violent and messy. There will likely be human casualties. But I don’t see any other way. So, I ask.

AITA for divorcing my husband for lying to me about his human job?

----

Thanks for reading! I loved answering some of the responses I got when I first posted this over on my Patreon (X)!

These collaborative story telling pieces are the highlight of my week. Next week's story is about a witch who wants to know if she should attend her high school reunion even though she's responsible for stripping two former classmates of their magic...

Please check that out here (X) if you''d like early access! Otherwise I'll see y'all next week :)

[ozzgin]

I was 100% thinking of the Shinsengumi when the brainrot struck, but let us assume a more generic, unnamed circumstance for this. Random, uh, elite group of swordsmen working for the shogunate in the Edo period. Here's the awkward, horny himbo I had previously mentioned. Content: female reader, historical setting, crossdressing, NSFW

Yandere!Captain commands his group with an iron grip. Many people in the Capital know his name, whether it's fellow warriors or petty merchants, and not without reason. His unmatched skill with a sword had even reached the ears of the court, and he was quickly appointed as the head of a newly formed group of samurai meant to maintain order in the city.

As if keeping hot-blooded thugs under control wasn't enough, he is now stuck with an even bigger issue: you.

"We can't have women in here", he declares with a grimace.

"I can pretend", you counter stubbornly, pulling your hakama pants up by the sash, almost in an act of defiance. "In fact, I don't see any woman here. I came to apply."

Yandere!Captain’s reputation does not only revolve around his intimidating strength. Among his underlings, he is known for being completely and utterly uninterested when it comes to women. Will he join his group for drinks after a long day of work? Absolutely. But that’s where the fun stops. When the others begin to slip away with smiling courtesans, he remains at the table with a somber countenance. It is a running joke that nothing can deter this man from his duty.

Thus, your presence at the headquarters should make no difference. He had to begrudgingly accept that you spoke the truth when you'd said you can handle a sword. It's not uncommon for women to keep a small tanto underneath their obi for additional protection, but your knowledge doesn't stop there. You arrived with your own katana and backup wakizashi, swiftly proving their worth upon your first city round when you slashed the arm off a street hooligan.

Well, that's one less worry for the captain. Except, to his great shame, it's not as simple as that. He is the only one aware of your secret, which means that he is the only one available outside of working hours. He was terrified to discover the hesitation in his hands when bandaging your ribs after a stabbing incident, or the halt in his step when he happened to find you switching to a night gown. Oh, how deplorable! Have his morals crumbled into nothing? His latest perverted thought nearly caused him to draw a blade across his stomach.

It is with this faltering confidence that he greets you before the bath one evening.

“You don’t have to do this”, you tell him. "I can wait until you're done."

His struggles haven't escaped your observant eye. You were initially amused by his rather obvious awkwardness; then, a certain idea insidiously made its way into your mind, impossibly tempting: for how long could he keep this façade?

You find yourself going out of your way just to tease your poor captain, perhaps secretly hoping he'll soon break down and give in to his yearning.

“They will become suspicious if you never join us. I do not care for your nudity. Undress at ease”, he says, throwing away his own towel and lowering himself into the hot water. “Get in whenever you want.”

If he insists.

You nonchalantly follow suit, sitting across from him with your arms resting against the rocky edge of the hot spring. You can tell his eyes have wandered involuntarily. His face is red, and he’s wearing a humiliated frown.

“You’re awfully quiet, Sir.”

His lips are pursed indeed. The tall man shuffles briefly, avoiding your gaze. A smirk crosses your features as you decide to approach him.

"In fact, I'd go as far as you say that you're in dire need of help."

To your surprise, he doesn't protest when your hands stray to his lower half, feeling up and down his erection. The small grunts escaping his mouth encourage you to pick up the pace, now equally aroused.

Soon, you feel his heavy arm wrapping around your waist, forcefully throwing you out of the water and onto the cold ground. You open your mouth to complain, but it's quickly shut back by his hot lips, suckling and biting in a desperate hunger to have you.

“It’s improper for a subordinate to take the lead”, he finally says in a low, breaking voice.

He can only hope no one else decides to use the hot springs, though that’s as far as his concern currently goes. He’s much too preoccupied with other pressing matters, holding onto your folded legs for support as he thrusts into you in a depraved, delirious need. His movements are jerky and erratic, with an almost predatory glimmer in his eyes. You wonder how often he imagined this happening. All of his shame and guilt, coming undone at once.

Days later, during one of the hangouts, you find him whispering to one of the courtesans.

“What, you suddenly have a taste for women now?” you question discreetly, unable to hold your tongue.

You’d hoped to be on the receiving end of any future lust-driven gestures from the captain, not some common worker.

He appears to hesitate, twiddling his thumbs and glancing away.

“I was just…asking how you properly please a woman”, he finally confesses.

If he’s going to continue fucking his subordinate behind everyone’s back, he may as well do a good job while at it.

[More Original Works] | [Yan!Swordsman Concept]

[derekhighwaytf]

Welcome to the Team, Bro

TW: Misogyny, Homophobia

Your twenty-first birthday had been going absolutely perfect. Of course, you’d surrounded yourself with all your closest friends, all girls, obvi.  Drunk off cheap grocery store champagne being sipped out of red solo cups, you all continued laughing and enjoying your annual birthday roast, regardless of how uncomfortable everyone was stuffed onto your small college apartment couch. It was all in the name of light-hearted fun—typical jokes about how you wear the tightest of clothes, how you seem to have retained more Sex and the City quotes than anyone else alive, and of course, your nonexistent love life with guys. The usual, nothing that cut too deep. You laughed along, leaning back in your chair, feeling comfortable and safe being with your gal pals.

But then the door swung open, and Levi, Jessica’s ultra jock boyfriend, walks in. The room goes completely silent for just a second, the atmosphere shifting rapidly. Levi, an absolute douchebro, is the kind of frat guy who dominated a space just by existing. Tall, muscular, and that same cocky grin permanently plastered on his face. He saunters into your living room like it was his own frat house.

"Hey, birthday boy!" Jessica teases, giving you a nudge. "Levi asked me if he could take a turn roasting you. He says it’s good practice for his stand-up career.  Can you please let him go up?  I promise he won’t say anything too horrible."

You blink. ‘What on earth could Levi even say?  He doesn’t even know me?!’ you think to yourself. The other girls exchanged worried glances. The guy’s not exactly known for being subtle or sensitive, but before you can protest, Levi stepped towards the middle of the room, cracking his knuckles as he sized you up.

"So this is our little birthday bitch, huh?" His voice booms, loud and commanding. He stands in front of you, creepily grinning as he looks you up and down your skinny, twinkish frame. "Man, look at you. You’re such a fucking stick. Bet you couldn’t lift up a five pound weight, even if your life depended on it. What, a gust of wind gonna blow you over, fag?"

The girls laugh sporadically, forcing a chuckle just to try and relieve the tension. But as the words leave Levi’s mouth, a hot, uncomfortable sensation ripples through your body, and out of nowhere, you feel a tightness push itself against your pale skin. You glance down and your eyes widen—your biceps are swelling, your pecs thickening themselves into two smooth mounds of man meat. Muscles you’ve never even fathomed having in your life start to form, bulging out of your once-slender frame. Your shirt strains at the seams as your chest broadens to it’s sides, your chest pushing forward until they’re massive, rock-hard slabs, rivaling the tits of your girlfriends.

"Whoa, dude... what the hell are you saying, man?" you mutter, your voice suddenly much, much deeper, almost as deep as Levi’s.

The girls gasp, their eyes widening in shock, but Levi just keeps going, pretending to be unaware of what’s happening to the poor boy.

"But you know what?" Levi grins, his tone dripping with smugness. "I bet you’re the kinda guy who’s so obsessed with looking good that you wouldn’t even know what it means to get truly dirty, huh? Probably shower three times a day, all prim and proper. Nah, man. A real dude doesn’t give a shit about smelling fresh.  Real men smell like bulls.”

As soon as he says it, a wave of heat rolls through you again. This time, it’s not just gonna stay inside yourself, no. It’s... in your gut. A thick, rumbling pressure builds up more and more inside you, and before you can stop it, a loud, wet burp escapes your mouth. 

BRRRRRRRP!!

The girls squeal in disgust, but it doesn’t stop there. A loud, long fart rips through the air, and the smell is rank—sweaty, cheese, and 100% pure man odor.

PFFFFFFFFFFTTTTT!

Your armpits start to sweat profusely, staining your rapidly shrinking tank top shirt, and the once-fresh Polo cologne you had on is completely overpowered by the raw, animal scent of your dick stink. You can feel your skin getting greasy, and when you scratch your balls—without even thinking about it—they itch more, like you haven’t showered in days and you can’t help but touch it more and more.

"Ugh, gross!" one of the girls groans, wrinkling her nose. But as she pulls away, her eyes, they…change. Like she can’t stop glancing at your new Adonis body, completely disregarding, maybe even enjoying the smell. And she’s not the only one. All your former “gal pals” are starting to shake and whisper amongst themselves, their giggles turning into flirtatious murmurs, their shirts opening up as if he thermostat had been turned up to a hundred.

Levi leans in closer, his grin growing wider. "But hey, it’s not just about the looks, right? I bet this little fucker still can’t get laid to save his life. Probably jerks off to Tumblr stories every night instead of actually getting some pussy. Pfft. Bet he couldn’t handle a real girl if he tried."

Something snaps in your formerly gold star brain. You’ve always been gay, but now, that feels... weird. Incorrect.  Immoral.  Suddenly, the thought of even just hugging another guy seems wrong, as if you were worried you could catch gayness. Your eyes flicker over to Jessica and the others, and a new heat ignites inside your groin. Your mouth waters at the sight of your friend’s curves, their massive cleavage, their clean shaven legs. You want to be inside them. You need to be.

Memories shift. Nights spent dreaming about guys and writing fanfictions about male celebrities blur and twist into hazy recollections of fucking girls—lots of girls. So many, you couldn’t even remember one of their names.  You can taste their pussies, hear their moans. Your cock twitches in your pants, straining against the fabric of your newly materialized gym shorts as you stare at the girls who used to be just your friends. Now, they’re more than that. They’re... opportunities.  Sluts, ready for the taking.

"Fuck you asshole, I get laid all the fuckin’ time," you hear yourself shout, your voice deeper, more arrogant, your words rolling out in laughter like they’ve always been true. The girls giggle, blushing and shooting you lingering glances, clearly wanting your dick in their mouths. All of them. And in the pit of your stomach, you know they’ll all be yours by the end of the night.

Levi laughs, clapping you on the back. "Now that’s more like it, stud!" He steps back, crossing his arms, admiring his work "But let’s be real, this guy just thinks far too much, huh? He’s always overanalyzing shit, worrying about dumb stuff. A real bro doesn’t waste his time thinking. Just acts. Bet this guy’s head is still full of that nerdy fag crap."

You feel a sharp, dull shot of pain go through your head like a bullet, as if half of it is being yanked out. Your vision swims around the transforming frat room of breasts, and suddenly, it’s hard to think—like there’s a deep fog settling over your brain, clouding everything, mushing it into a few simple desires. The things you once knew—your studies, your hobbies, your passions—fade away, replaced by simpler, more immediate thoughts. Working out. Fucking. Drinking beer. All the things that matter to a real man.

The last thing to go is the memory of who you used to be. That skinny, smart, gay kid? Gone. Replaced by the image of you as a dumb, horny jock, the kind of guy who lives for the gym and pussy. The kind of guy who doesn’t need to think—because he already knows he’s the shit.

You blink, grinning stupidly at Levi, feeling the last vestiges of your old self disappear. "Yo, bro, I ain’t no faggot. Hey, where the fuck’s the beer at? We gotta get shwasted, man."

The girls are all over you now, practically throwing themselves at you. And why wouldn’t they? You’re hot as fuck, and you need to dump your cum in their needy holes.  You’re gonna make these formally open-minded liberal intellectuals into perfect American mothers.

"That’s my boy," Levi laughs, handing you a beer. "Welcome to the team, bro."

[13uswntimagines]

Safe Harbor (Alessia X Singer!R)

Summary: R is a very famous singer at the end of a very long, very crazy tour. Alessia is there to take care of her.

Warmings: Established D/s dynamics. The use of Daddy, and Collars. No smut.

You knew that you were living a dream.

You knew that millions of people would trade everything to be in the position you were in. 

They would do anything to have stadiums scream their name and for their songs to play on the radio for the world to hear. 

You had been plucked out of obscurity after you unsuspectingly played a bar in Leeds in front of Ed Sheeran when you were 16. A year and a half later you had taken Billboard's Hot 100 by storm, broken the record for most weeks at number one by a new artist… twice, and you were opening for Taylor Swift’s 1989 tour.

That had just been the beginning. 

Now you were on your 3rd world tour, selling out stadiums for yourself, with one of the best-selling albums of all time. 

It was… crazy that a kid from Maidstone who barely had enough to eat growing up had thousands of people screaming your name every night, singing your lyrics back to you like they were anthems. 

Your music was raw, personal. Painfully autobiographical. 

Your fans picked apart every lyric, dissecting your words with obsessive precision. The heartbreak, the loss, the fear woven into every track—they clung to it like it was their story, too. Before You Go, Say Something, Thinking Out Loud—each song became a window into your soul. And they were desperate to see more.

It was why your first album had gone platinum overnight, and every album after it had debuted at number 1. 

They resonated with your honesty, and that’s what made people fall in love with it.

You had expected that part. 

What you hadn’t expected was that they hadn’t just fallen in love with the music—they had fallen in love with you.

The girl with the sunny personality, and the commanding stage presence. The girl who smiled brightly at every meet-and-greet, made them laugh at every interview, and always took time to meet fans, even after long days in the studio or on music video sets. They built you up as their idol, their friend, their fantasy. They flirted with you in meet-and-greets before you were 18 and treated you like you belonged to them. Like they were entitled to every part of you.

At some point, you became an enigma—Y/N Y/L/N, the nine-time Grammy winner. The infallible pop star. The face that was painted on the side of billboards, and smiling in Colgate commercials. 

At some point, just Y/n failed to exist to them, and you liked it that way. 

You did well to dodge their invasive questions, running interviewers around in circles, and answering fans with witty remarks to avoid answering. And over the years (and through 4 albums), you only got better at preventing the fans from learning anything of substance about your private life. The only glimpses they got were through your music, and you liked to keep it that way. 

You did your best to keep it that way.

The only time you let them get close, let the world peek behind the curtain, was during the piano set of your concerts. 

It was dubbed the surprise song set by the fans even though 2 of 3 songs never changed. It was where you sang your most emotional songs, and where you let yourself be vulnerable. Open. Real. 

Tonight was no different. Or at least, you were trying to convince yourself of that.

You sucked in a long breath, your fingers tracing the black and white keys as the final chords of Bruises echoed through the stadium, curling off the walls and over the crowd. Their energy buzzed around you, rolling like an ocean wave.

You could feel it crashing against your chest, adding to the adrenaline bubbling through your veins. 

You took another deep breath, the air catching in your throat as you tried to control your breathing enough so you could talk. So you could give your signature speech before revealing the night's surprise song. 

Maybe tonight was different. 

You felt more… exposed.

More… vulnerable. 

This year was nothing short of a whirlwind. Eighty sold-out shows across the U.S. in the summer, followed by another thirty in Europe and the UK. Three back-to-back number-one singles—no small feat—only knocked from the top spot after 18 weeks by Taylor Swift herself.

It was amazing and incredible and exhausting all rolled together. 

You dearly loved your fans, their passion, and their devotion, but you were drained. 

Your eyes slid closed, allowing the bone-deep weariness to cut through the buzz from the crowd for just a second as you pulled your fingers from the keys, briefly rubbing the leather braided bracelet around your wrist as you reset for the next song.

It was the closest thing you’d had to your girlfriend's touch in nearly 2 months, and it wasn’t nearly enough. One soft touch from her would make it all melt away. 

One touch and she would take away the burden of control that had plagued you since you started the tour. 

You would finally be able to let go and just be.  

There were only 6 songs left and then you would be with her, your lighthouse on rocky seas. Your anchor on stormy nights. 

You took another deep breath. 

It was the last show of an incredible year, and you had something very very special planned.

Something no one would see coming. 

Your eyes blinked open as the crowd noise dipped, and you painted your signature smirk on your face as you leaned back toward the mic. 

“So Wembley, how are we feeling?” You asked into the microphone, smiling widely at the roar from the audience that met you. “Fantastic,”

You brought your fingers to the piano, letting them dance delicately across the keys. They had no particular rhythm, though they were in the key that your surprise song would be in. 

You wanted to avoid giving the surprise away yet. 

“So you know, I was thinking about what song I was going to play tonight, trying to figure out which one would be the perfect end to such an amazing tour,” You couldn’t help the little laugh that left you as the audience got impossibly louder, cheering out an indistinguishable mix of song titles that you had yet to play on this tour. You paused for a long second, feeling their cheers only grow, popping your in-ear monitor out for effect. 

It was endearing really, how into it they got (especially when you found out that they had created an entire fantasy league about what version of your outfits you would wear and what songs you would sing). They made it easy to pretend like you were having the time of your life instead of fantasizing about what you would be doing in 40 minutes. 

You shook your head, popping the monitor back into your ear and your fingers returning to the keys, letting their chants fill you up, and drive you forward. 

“And I was talking to one of my favorite people,” You continued, starting to pick out a tune that was a bit closer to the song you were going to play. “Now you all know I don’t normally take requests, but this being the final night of the Eclipse World Tour, and with such special guests in the audience I couldn’t quite say no,” 

Your eyes instinctually found Alessia as you hit the opening chord, and though you could see her expression you could feel her gaze burning into you. 

Seeing through you. 

Even surrounded by people, her attention was the only one you craved. 

“It’s a song I haven’t played for a long time, so I’m going to need your help.” You continued, Never breaking eye contact with her. “Will you help me tonight Wembley?”

The crowd roared in approval, and goosebumps erupted on your skin at the sheer energy they projected at you. It filled your chest and fueled your fingers as you finally hit the signature piano riff that opened the song.

You flashed the crowd your signature smirk, all essence of yourself slipping beneath your on-stage persona. 

And when you opened your mouth to sing the first line; it felt easy. It felt right.

Have you ever fed a lover with just your hands 

Closed your eyes and trusted

Just trusted 

*****

Watching you perform was magic. 

It had always been magic. 

Whether it was a show in Wembley in front of 100,000 people, or one when you were small with a guitar the same size as you, Alessia had always been mesmerized by you. Even before the two of you were old enough to put names to what you were feeling. 

It didn’t matter that she had seen you play thousands (hundreds of thousands) of times, nor that this was not her first time attending one of the shows on this tour. 

She leaned forward on the barricade separating the VIP tent from the Floor sections as you began to play the piano break. 

“She’s incredible,” Leah said, leaning closer to Alessia to be heard above the crowd. “They’re eating out of the palm of her hand,”

Alessia hummed. “She is,”

The audience was glued to every move, every breath you took on stage. She was too, and so were all of her teammates. 

What made it even better was that you were hers, and she got to enjoy you from her favorite seat in the house. 

They hadn’t originally been slated to be in the VIP tent.

Viv had organized the tickets, picking an area on the 2nd balcony because they were the only ones left. Alessia had gone along with it, only mentioning to you that 800$ was crazy for a 2nd tier balcony ticket in passing.

You had sleepily agreed, cursing Ticketmaster and reminding Alessia of the 10-hour meetings you had endured when your fans crashed the site during pre-sale. You hadn’t said anything about it since, so she assumed you had forgotten. 

You did not forget. 

There had been a team waiting to escort them when they arrived, and you had made sure the tent was loaded with all of their favorites. You had also refunded the tickets, and given them away to 23 fans outside of the stadium. 

You liked to do things for her. It was a way for you to serve her even from a distance, and she enjoyed telling you how good you were afterward. 

She definitely had plans to do that tonight. 

She leaned forward on the barrier as you got to the final chorus. 

There was a reason this spot was always her favorite to watch the show from, and why she had been hesitant when they escorted her and her friends to the tent. 

They were close to the stage. Close enough that Alessia could see the cracks in your carefully crafted facade. 

She could see the dark circles under your eyes, and how your smile never met your eyes. She could see the slight curl of your shoulders, and how you kept twisting your bracelet tightly around your wrist. 

She could see the command you had of the crowd wearing on you, and just how in your head you were. 

All of her instincts told her to protect you. To wrap you up, and take the reigns so you could just exist without thinking. So you could submit and know that she would take care of you. 

And sure, her teammates had caught glimpses of the dynamic between the two of you, but you both liked to keep the heavier aspects to yourselves.

It was harder for her to do that when she had watched the toll this tour had taken on you, and knew just how close you were to being able to let go. 

“Is it just me or does she look shattered,” Katie asked as the song came to an end, the final note ringing around the stadium as your eyes once again closed and you sucked in air through your nose. 

Alessia didn’t take her eyes away from you. “Not just you,”

She followed the rapid rise and fall of your chest, and how your fingers silently fluttered over the keys before you began to play again. 

“She’s barely slept at all this week because of end-of-tour meetings,” Alessia continued as you began picking out a new tune. “And she’s been co-producing an album that comes out next month, so she’s barely had time to think, much less do anything else.” 

Leah hummed from her other side. “I’m just surprised you haven’t stepped in yet.” 

Alessia made a low sound in the back of her throat. 

It was… complicated. 

While Alessia had rules that you followed (even while you were on tour) to help protect both your physical and mental health, you both had boundaries when it came to your careers. 

She understood that you had responsibilities and that sometimes you had to prioritize work to make everything run smoothly. (She also secretly relished watching you in boss mode, knowing that you would be kneeling at her feet later.)

The agreement you had was that she would only interfere under 2 conditions. First, if you crossed the Limits the two of you had agreed upon years ago without communicating with Alessia first. Second, if you asked.

“Tonight I will,” Alessia said as your eyes opened and you leaned back towards the microphone, your fingers dancing along the keys.

“Since we have the incredible women of Arsenal in the audience tonight, I think there’s one more song we have to do before continuing the show,” 

The audience roared in response. 

Your smile was charming, even as your eyes danced vacantly across the screaming fans in the pit next to the small stage that held your piano. 

Alessia could imagine the edits that would be online later, the people swearing that your expression was solely meant for them. They would think the way you twisted your bracelet was to show them how much you liked the copies they wore. 

She shook her head. 

The chords under your fingers changed, shifting into another familiar tune. 

North London Forever 

Whatever the Weather

You pulled back from the microphone, tilting your head to the sky as the fans picked up the song all around you. 

The stage lights swelled around you, illuminating the crowd as they sang for you. Your fingers deftly played the background music for the song. 

She could understand why it was a tradition for you. Why you always added North London Forever to the last show of your tours, especially when you ended in London. 

And my heart will leave you never 

My blood will forever

Goosebumps erupted on her skin as the crowd of 100,000 sang the rest of the chorus, and pride swelled in her chest, replacing her worry for just a moment. 

You wouldn’t have done a sing along if you were too far gone. 

Your relationship was built on trust, and Alessia trusted that you were ok for now. She would step in when the show was over, and you were ready. 

****

“Thank you London,”

The final notes of Shut Up and Dance pounded through the stadium. 

You held your arms out wide, as if to physically soak in their cheers as the stage lights dimmed, leaving only one shining against your back, silhouetting you for the audience In a perfect replica of your album cover. Then everything went dark, and the platform you had been standing on lowered so you were under the stage. 

“Great show Y/n,” Your tour manager, Aubrey, said as you stepped off the lift, the crowd noise barely fading.

You nodded in response, your tongue suddenly feeling too heavy in your mouth to form words. it felt like you were trying to think through an old television with terrible reception, the images staticy and broken. Fatigue settled into your bones, heavy and cold. 

A soft robe was draped over your shoulders by one of the production crew, and you twisted the bracelet around your wrist until the edges cut into your skin.

You focused on the pain, letting it ground you as you put one foot in front of the other and allowed your team to guide you from beneath the stage. 

your security team flanked you the second you were out from under the stage, acting like a protective wall. 

“You need to rehydrate.” Steve, your head of security said, pressing a blue Gatorade into your fingers.

They instinctively closed around the bottle, and Steve nudged you again to get you to bring it to your lips. 

“Small sips kid,” Clint added from your other side, as the third member of your security team, Natasha, made eye contact with Steve

You tried to follow their directions, but your hands were shaking so badly you almost dropped the drink. 

You felt Powerful. 

You felt… floaty.

It was so… weird. It usually took you hours to come down from the high of a show, and devolve into… whatever this was. 

To finally give in and call your girlfriend for help. 

You had been… reluctant to bother her in the last few weeks. 

She had been busy with international friendlies, and you didn’t exactly like exploring your dynamic while you were separated. 

Dropping into sub space was hard for you on a good day, guided by Alessia‘s firm but comforting presence. Doing it while the two of you were doing long distance was a painful impossibility. 

The few times it had actually worked were misery for you. Like your brain was made of broken glass and no one was there to help you knit the fractured shards back together. 

Even with her voice on the other end of a video call, it had been brutal. 

You had put it off, and put it off, and now it seemed that your body wasn’t going to give you a choice. 

“I’ll be back.” Natasha said, turning on her heel as Steve shifted to shield you from the people buzzing around backstage. 

You didn’t even acknowledge her, blinking slowly as cling helped you bring the bottle of Gatorade to your lips. 

“Take deep breaths.” Clint said gently. “We have to get to the tunnel.”

You tried, but it was like you were under water, or sucking air through a straw. 

You were crashing, and you still had to face the public one last time before you could let go. 

You swallowed hard, forcing the fog in your brain away and your signature smirk on your face. 

It would satisfy the people waiting for you to make your way out from behind the stage and into the safety of the stadium halls, away from prying eyes.

“Let’s go.” You muttered, pushing the Gatorade back towards Steve. 

It took all of your strength just to utter the word, and you knew it would take every bit of mental fortitude you had to wave at the fans as you passed. 

But it was required.

It was the least you could do for the people who bought obstructed view seats. A thing you had done for every one of your other shows. A thing fans would absolutely notice if you didn’t do it. 

It didn’t matter how much you didn’t want to. 

“Let’s do it.” Clint agreed, positioning his hand on the small of your back, while Steve did the same on your other side. 

You straightened and squared your shoulders. 

You could do this one last act for your fans. Then you could let go. 

*******

“That show is incredible,” Beth said, leaning against the VIP barricade. “I don’t know how she runs around like that for 3 and a half hours,”

“A lot of cardio,” Leah shrugged. “She released a whole behind the scenes video of how she trained for the tour.”

“That video felt staged though.” Viv said. “She was very different then she usually is with us, or you Less,”

The English striker hummed. “She likes to keep separation between her professional life and her private life.” 

“Makes sense.” Katie agreed. “Did you see how many people had braided bracelets in all different colors?”

“I did.” Alessia nodded, her eyes trailing across the area near the stage, looking for your personal assistant. “But they have no clue what hers actually means. You all know her, but the fans just know the idea of her. It’s easier to keep it all separated.” 

It was strange that she hadn’t seen your assistant yet. That she hadn’t come to retrieve her and the team. 

Chloe was usually waiting at the VIP tent to take her backstage before the last fireworks of the show had even finished. 

It had alarm bells swirling in her brain. 

“It’s kind of amazing how confident she is on stage.” Beth agreed. “It’s like she’s 2 different people.” 

“Sometimes she is.” Alessia trailed off spotting a different redhead coming around the stage. Your security instead of your assistant. 

It was hard to wrap her head around the dichotomy between your loud, confident persona on stage and the quiet girl she knew you were, and as your career grew, that difference had only gotten larger. 

Her eyebrows furrowed as Natasha approached them, nodding towards her friends before meeting her eyes. “I need to borrow you, please,”

Katie whistled. “Get it Lessie,” 

“Gotta get that post concert energy out,” Kyra snickered, and the tear erupted into laughter behind her. 

She shot a glare towards her cackling team. “Of course,”

Natasha was a part of your personal security. She didn’t need words to convey that you needed Alessia, and you needed her now. 

“Alone please,” Natasha said, her eyes flickering towards the girls who tried to exit the tent with Alessia. 

The laughter stopped around them, and Alessia nodded once, turning back towards the team. 

“We’ll catch up with you lot tomorrow?” Alessia said, authority that the team rarely heard leaking into her tone. “We can do lunch, or maybe Dinner.” 

Leah stepped forward and nodded, knowing this was not the time to argue with her. “Tell y/n thank you for the tickets and that we send our love,”

“Go take care of your superstar,” Beth nodded towards Natasha.

“I will,” Alessia nodded, stepping out of the tent. 

She meant it. 

You had taken care of yourself for most of the tour. It was her turn now. 

******

You didn’t remember how you got to your dressing room. You didn’t remember waving to the fans, smiling widely and sending them hand hearts. 

one second you were backstage, and then you blinked and Steve was gently closing the dressing room door behind you. 

You paced the room, pushing the dark robe off of your shoulders. You didn't know what to do with yourself. 

It was too warm and too cold. The dress shirt you wore on stage was too soft and too scratchy. Your mind was racing too fast and moving too slow all at once. 

your breathing hitched, and you brought your trembling fingers of one and to your lips to prevent the sobs threatening to bubble out. The other tugged useless at your collar, trying to get air. This was not normal. It was rare you dropped, let alone this hard or this deep. 

It was like quicksand, sucking you into the chaotic spiral deeper, faster, with more force the more you tried to fight it. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess, and your brain was going to rip itself apart trying to untangle them. 

You were in free fall, plummeting faster than you ever had before with no net to catch you. You had put it off for too long, and now you had no choice.

You knew you needed to do something, but making the decision of what you should do felt impossible. 

You were done making decisions for the foreseeable future. 

The sound of the door clicking open and shut again was nearly drowned out by the buzzing in your ears, but you Instinctively turned towards the presence that entered. 

The air shifted around her as she stood in front of you like a mirage, immediately capturing all of your attention. For just a split second, your racing thoughts went quiet, and you were wholly consumed by her presence. It crackled like a warm fire on a cold day, or like a lightning storm over the sea. You couldn't decide. 

You didn’t want to decide. 

And you knew you didn’t need to. 

Alessia- No, your Daddy was here and she would take care of everything. 

Her gaze swept over you, taking in every twitch of your fingers against the buttons of your shirt, and the tremble that snaked its way across your shoulders and down your spine. You felt naked, despite the clothing scratching at your skin. 

She crossed the room in 3 long strides, her hands catching your wrist before you even registered that she had moved. 

”That’s enough, little one.” She said, keeping her voice gentle despite the command clear in it. “You’ve done so well, and I’m so proud of you, but I’m here now.”

She carefully unwound your fingers from here they were tearing at your shirt, placing them on her hips before deftly undoing the buttons. “I’ve got you. Just take deep breaths for me, love,” 

You tried, but it felt like it was stuck in your throat, trapped by the inhuman sound now bubbling past your lips. 

She carefully slid the thin material of your shirt from your shoulders, and you met her eyes. 

The sob you’d been holding in finally broke free, your knees weakening as the weight of it all hit you. But before you could completely crumble, Alessia’s arms were around you, pulling you into her chest. Her scent, her warmth, everything about her surrounded you like a safety net.

Her fingers tangled in your hair, and she rested her cheek on the top of your head. “You’ve done so well, you can relax now. I’m here with you and I’m not going anywhere,” 

Her other hand ran soothing circles on your back, easing the prickles on your skin like the world's best Aloe. “Just breathe, love.”

Her comforting touch seeped past your skin, settling deep into your bones. It eased the knotted panic in your chest, and dulled the sharp, frantic edges of anxiety that raced through you. 

“That’s it little one,” She cooed, her grip on your firm and unyielding. It was tether to reality. An anchor in the crashing storm that was your mind. A lifeline when you were being pulled beneath the tide.

“You’re safe. You’re here with me, and I will always keep you safe. Just relax,”

Her voice was as steady as her grip on you. Commanding in a way that couldn’t be ignored, but soft enough that it didn’t bristle your sensitive instincts. It was a mixture that only Alessia seemed to be able to achieve. A tone she could modulate to perfectly match the situation. 

You melted into her chest, nodding weakly as your tears slowed. Your entire body shuttered with each inhale, and hitched with each breath you blew out. 

You were moving past the uncomfortable phase of the drop where your brain felt like a shattered glass mirror, fractured and sharp, and into the lapping warmth that only Alessia seemed to be able to bring you. 

Alessia’s hands continued their slow, comforting path up and down your back, her breath even and calm, giving you a rhythm to sync your own to. 

“That’s it, little one,” she hummed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You’re such a good girl for me. You’ve done so well. Just let it all go.”

You whimpered. 

It felt too raw, too exposed. But Alessia knew—she always knew.

Her fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her eyes were soft, but her tone left no room for argument.

“Look at me.” She said, using a finger to gently tilt your chin up. “You’ve done so well being in charge. You’ve run this entire tour, and made so many people happy. I’m so proud of you, but you can let go now. Let me be in charge for a little while,” She capped the statement with a gentle peck to your lips. 

You tried to lean in to continue the kiss, but she pulled away. 

“Later,” She promised, and you nodded once, sinking back into her chest. 

You understood that she didn’t like to start anything while you were like this unless it was well discussed beforehand. While there was any chance that you couldn’t consent, or feel like you could remove consent. 

You weren’t sure how long she stood there and held you, rocking gently from side to side and scratching your scalp. Long enough for the storm in your chest to mellow and for your brain to slowly begin knitting itself back together, grounded in the gentle pressure of your girlfriend. Your daddy.

“Let’s get cleaned up and then we can go home,” She said, when you pulled back enough to look at her. “Do you want your collar?” 

you nodded against her chest, kissing gently under her chin. 

“I need a verbal response, little one,” She said, dominance leaking into her tone to help you wade through the thick fog coating the crevices of your brain. 

It took you a long second to think of the words, and another to push the fog in your mind back enough to actually verbalize them. 

“Yes Daddy,” You said, frowning at how horse and garbled your voice was. 

she hummed, carefully maneuvering you back towards the door. One hand stayed securely wrapped around you as the other reached into the bag you hadn’t seen her enter with and pulled out your soft, brown leather collar. 

You hadn’t seen it since you left for tour, and just the sight was almost enough to send you back into a drop. 

“Easy,” Alessia murmured, guiding you towards the couch that existed in all of your dressing rooms. She sat you on the edge, and kneeled in front of you so she was slightly shorter than you. 

She trailed her hand down your arm to the bracelet around your wrist, carefully unclasping it and tucking it into her pocket. She then brought the soft leather of your regular collar to your neck, gently buckling it closed, making sure it wasn’t too tight. 

Your shoulders immediately relaxed, the full weight of her claim settling on you. 

“Let’s get cleaned up,” She said, catching your hand and standing you up. You went with her easily, leaning your weight on her as she led you to the bathroom. 

The way she undressed you both and got you settled into the warm water of the shower was familiar, routine even. 

You could feel yourself settling as she washed your hair, and cleaned your body of the sweat from the show. 

She touched you like you were delicate, but not like you were fragile, and it was everything you needed to wade back to reality. 

By the time she was using a towel to dry you off, and slipping one of her old UNC sweatshirts over your head you felt almost like yourself again. Your thoughts didn’t hurt anymore, and you were more grounded then you had been. 

“Kneel for me,” She said softly, settling herself on the couch, and placing a pillow at her feet. 

You hummed, and did as she asked, letting her guide you to lean back on her legs. 

You sunk into the warmth of her sweatshirt, surrounded by the scent of her perfume as she toweled off your hair and braided It for you. 

The rhythmic movement of her fingers through your hair and the feeling of safety and Alessia that encompassed you were enough to have your eyelids drooping. 

You blinked heavily at the knock that sounded on the door, and the blonde head of your head of security poking his head in. 

Steve didn’t look at you, steadfastly keeping his eyes on Alessia. “Miss Russo, we have the car ready whenever you are ready to leave.” 

“Thank you, Steven,” She said softly, authority still dripping from her tone. “We’ll be out in a few minutes,”

He nodded and closed the door quietly as he exited. 

“You’re all done, little one,” Alessia said, rubbing gentle circles in your shoulders, as you leaned further into her, your eyes sliding closed without your permission. 

They only opened when she shifted behind you, and you turned to look at her sleepily. 

She smiled gently at you, unable to stop herself from leaning in and pressing a quick peck to your lips. 

This was her favorite version of you, soft and sleepy, unguarded and completely trusting. It was the version that only she got to see, and she was honored that you had chosen her to be your safe place. 

”Alright little one,” She said, her finger hooked into the O-ring at the front of your collar, tugging lightly as she stood. “Let’s go home,”

[jakubrozalski]

'Zygmunt and Zośka'

Ewka joined the "Zośka" battalion before the outbreak of the uprising, together with her beloved Tomasz. She met Tomek in the Grey Ranks two years ago, they participated in many reconnaissance and sabotage missions together.  They both welcomed information about the planned uprising with excitement and euphoria. Those moments seem so distant now... The uprising has been going on for a month now...  Tomek is gone. All she has left are memories of long walks by the Vistula and those short moments together when they felt free and happy, despite the horror surrounding them. Now, with a Colt M1911 in her hand, which she received from one of the "Cichociemny" fighting in the Old Town, she is waiting for the Germans assault, leaning on Zygmunt statue, her last sanctuary, last support. They will both fall today, the old king Zygmunt and brave Ewa from the Zośka battalion. -

Exactly 80 years ago, 1 August 1944 at 5:00 p.m. the Warsaw Uprising broke out. The Uprising was supposed to last a few days at most, but it did last sixty-three days and claimed hundreds of thousands of lives. Directly, of course, it was aimed to liberate Warsaw from the occupation of the falling German Reich, but indirectly and politically (as part of Operation 'Burza') was aimed against the USSR and Stalin's plans. This was also one of the reasons for its calamity and the help ( of the Red Army ) that never came. It was definitely too optimistic for the Polish underground resistance command to count on any help from Stalin, whose plans concerning Poland were known and who, as a vindictive and unforgiving person - in my personal opinion - certainly wanted to take revenge for the 1920 and his personal defeat.

There is no doubt, however, that it was an uprising of brave young women and men, full of high ideals, passion and dreams of a free homeland, who wanted to feel a little freedom, self-agency and relief, but also to take revenge after 5 years of terror and occupation. Very tragic and beautiful at the same time. It is to them that I wanted to pay tribute and honor their memory. 

I also observe with great concern and sadness what is happening in the world currently. Not even 100 years have passed since the apocalypse of WWII and the world is again full of divisions, tension, polarization, violence and hatred... For this reason I believe it is worth remembering and reminding about history, to try to stop it from repeating itself, over and over again...  Honor and glory to the heroes who fought for freedom and higher values ​​against evil. Work process: https://jrozalski.com/projects/QKmkRd

[ariasakka]

Nanami in bed 18+ MNDI

3k words. Female reader.

Spoiler he’s a simp for poc women

All nanami stories by me will be under the hashtag NanamiAria

Soft dom Nanami

Nanami would be a soft dom. Loves giving you lots of prep for him. Lots of sushing. Sushing if you squirm too much. Sushing if you become overstimulated. He wants to be the one who does all the work. He doesn’t want you to move just stay still and take his gentle love making. He won’t let you lift a finger. If it becomes a bit too much he’ll gently push your limits staying in slightly longer each time to build your stamina. I see him as someone who can last a long time and like long sessions so he will try to slowly and gently build you up to his level.

Occasionally rough fucks you and degrades you slightly when you tease him too much or when he’s had an extra rough day at work. He prefers to be gentle but when you push his buttons too many times you’ll find yourself bent over his desk, dicked down with no preparation. Immediately after a rough session he’ll go back to being sweet. Leaving soft kisses over your whole body. Pulling you in for a hug or cuddles. Saying things like “are you alright love?, You’re perfect., I love you darling.”.

He likes being the provider the one to do all the work so he would prefer being with someone submissive in the bedroom. If you were a top he would let you grind on him a bit but after a few mines Kento would grab your hips, ending up taking charge, being the one bouncing you up and down on him. He’s never aggressive about needing to be the one in charge it’s just in his nature I don’t think he would even realize he’s like this often times.

Nanami experience level

Not that experienced probably has only been with three people tops. Probably hates casual sex or one night stands. Despite his low experience Kento fucks like he’s a porn star quite literally. He can last forever if he wants to, even cum on command. Always knows the right words to say to get you off too it’s like it was scripted but it wasn’t. Love making just comes naturally to him.

You’d think based on his professional quiet composure that he doesn’t think about sex often but that would be a lie. I think he’s quite hyper sexual. Though he would try to match whatever sex drive you had out of respect. To get off when he’s not in a relationship or when you’re not around I don’t see him being the type of guy to watch porn. I see him reading smutty novels. He honestly reads them quite often. As sort of a guilty pleasure. Thats probably where he learned his skills and pillow talk from.

Nanami’s taste in women

Everybody headcannons him as liking women of color. I 100% agree! He loves tan skin, olive skin, dark skin, dark hair, long hair, wavy hair, curly hair, braids, straight hair. Hispanic women, black women, Asian women, mixed women, he loves it all. He would be captivated by some woman that doesn’t look like the usual girl he sees walking around town. He’s never really liked a white girl before especially if they’re blonde because it reminds him too much of himself. He doesn’t realize this consciously he’s always just liked who he’s liked in his eyes. I see him getting turned on everytime you get a tan. Everytime he sees the contrast of your tan skin next to his pale tone. It makes him want to eat you quite literally. He’ll use any excuse he can to drag you down to the beach with him to see your skin glow and grow darker under the sun. Also as an excuse to see you in the new bikini he secretly bought for you. If his woman wore a bonnet he would find it adorable whenever you had one on. He would often buy you new ones that are the highest quality silk in your favorite colors to spoil you. He’s obsessed with dark hair. Doesn’t matter if it’s straight, curly, wavy, braided, coily. He loves it all. You’ll often times find Nanami sneaking up behind you to smell your hair or finding any excuse he can to run his fingers through your locks/touch your hair. He’s quite literally obsessed with all of you. If you were from a different culture he would get turned on everytime you cooked him meals that you grew up with or spoke your native language. He would learn how to speak your Native language secretly to surprise you. Especially as a cute way to propose and a sneaky way to spice up things the bedroom. He would do little things to learn more about your culture overtime to feel closer to you and get to know you better. I see him liking curves on your bottom half. Such as thick thighs, juicy bottom. Definitely more of an ass man. I don’t see him caring if someone has a big chest or not it’s just something that’s either there or isn’t. He’ll cherish whatever body shape you bless him with.

Body hair preferences.

He literally does not give a single fuck what you do with your body hair. He’s obsessed with you no matter what. Nothing will stop him from eating you out. Pubes. He loves you bald, trimmed, different patterns, landing strip, bush. He will love and cherish whatever you have whenever you have it simply because it’s you. Other body hair. He doesn’t care if you shave or not. I think he’d be used to someone who did shave their body hair but wouldn’t tell you what to do. Hes a grown man he doesn’t find body hair to make someone any more or less attractive. I do think he would probably be with someone who preferred to remove all their body hair and preferred him to have some specifically just because I see him being with someone more feminine and traditional. Traditional fem women seem like the type prefer those things at least to me.

For himself I see him having light chest hair and leaving it untouched. Lightly trimming his underarm hair. For his pubes I see him leaving them trimmed, preferring just a little something on his skin. If you asked otherwise for him to be bald or bush he would do whatever you asked to please you.

Nanami dad

Everyone headcannons him as wanting children but personally I would think he’d be scared of that. He would find children to be cute yes but at the end of the day he wouldn’t want his children growing up in a world they ultimately just have to work a stressful 9-5 and probably overtime in. He doesn’t like work he just does it because he has to. He knows he would have to work more if he had a kid and wouldn’t be able to spend the time he wanted with his family. He wouldn’t want to curse a kid with that life.

Regardless of kids he would ask you to quit your job and let him be the provider. He doesn’t want you to feel the same stress he does over work. I think pregnancy would worry him too much. He’d hate how hard it was on a woman’s body. He’d constantly think something bad would happen to you because he’d spend too much time on the internet trying to learn every possibility of something that could happen to stay ahead of it. I do think he has a kink for cuming inside you so he would most likely get a vasectomy so no accidents happen. If you really wanted children he would fuck you silly and remind you with his words how you wouldn’t be able to take him like this often if you were pregnant or busy with kids. When he’s finished with that he’ll buy you a cat instead to keep you occupied and hopefully for you not to ask again or he’ll buy another cat. I see him being a big cat person. Seeing you take care of the cats just doing simple things like that turns him on a lot.

Jealous Nanami

He tries not to be too possessive or jealous. He’s a grown man and understands a woman can live her own life, have her own friends, and what not. Though he tries his hardest to be good but he’s such a jealous man. He tries his best not to show his jealousy thinking it’ll turn you off. Not knowing that you’d actually love that side of him. Everytime you come back from an outing that he didn’t attend he missed your attention so much he’ll fuck you till your dick drunk off of him hoping you’ll feel so good and spoiled from him that you won’t leave again without him anytime soon. Any time you’re out together and a man looks at you he grips you tighter. It makes him want to take you to the nearest restroom, pin you up against the wall, fuck you passionately with love, while he begs you to tell him he’s the only man for you. He’s not insecure he knows you won’t leave or cheat. He also likes when men look at you he likes seeing their eyes shine at you then gaze up to him and realize they can’t have you. He still get’s so jealous from it though he can’t really understand why.

Nanami turn ons.

Doing domestic things turns him on a lot. Such as bringing him lunch, making him coffee,

cleaning, doing laundry. He likes it more than you wearing lingerie especially if you’re doing your chores wearing his shirt. Not that he thinks a woman has to do the domestic labor but he is old fashioned and traditional so he prefers traditional roles. He sees you doing these things as a sign of love and care. He also does the household duties when he has time off of work if there’s anything that needs to be done. Knowing you get to relax while he takes care of a household duty turns him on. You’ll often find him dragging you into the shower with him to fuck you silly when he’s finished mowing the lawn, or mopping the floors. He especially loves it when he comes home to find you doing something you love like cooking. When you’re cooking one of his favorite meals he’ll often eat you as the main course first as a way to say thank you for spoiling him.

He would never admit it but loves when you’re bratty on occasion because it gives him an excuse to bend you over his knee. He loves when you talk back without a care like you don’t know he’ll quickly put you in place. Nanami loves when your bratty self teases him while he’s at work. Weather it being you sending him pictures, videos, or you showing up and getting down on your knees under his desk toying with his waistband.

Husband Nanami

He loves being a husband. He would get married quickly. When he finds the right woman he doesn’t see the need to wait. He’s a hopeless romantic. Just being married turns him on. Knowing you have his last name, knowing he gets to take care of you from now on, it drives his mind wild. Anytime you casually call him husband or remind him that you’re his wife his member perks up instantly.

Nanami dirty talk

“Shh shh look at me love I have to break you in or you’ll never be able to take me. Just let it sit here I won’t thrust alright.

“Shh I told you to let me love”

“You’re so beautiful when I’m inside of you love. I always love how you let me take my time with you.”

“I’m so glad i met you. I feel so spoiled having such a sexy wife. Maybe i should spoil you with my tongue?”

“Shh hold still my love. Relax.”

“I love you darling. That’s right. I love it when it’s all the way inside your pretty walls”

“Yes that’s it love, let it out. Dont you dare hold back those moans from your husband.”

Kinks

I see him as old fashioned. Not super kinky. If being a care giver (not age play just like being the protector and provider) and a top in bed is a kink you can count that. Also finishing inside of you. Not sure if thats a kink but he has to finish inside of your pussy. He loves the feeling it gives both of you. On the rare occasions you last long enough for him to finish twice he’s in heaven. He’s obsessed with you being filled with him. He pulls back up your panties after and lifts up slightly to push his cum further inside you he doesn’t want anything dripping out of you. He wants it to sit inside of you for the rest of the day/night so that every time you feel filled you remember the sweet love he made to you. I see him enjoying spanking. Bending you over his knee when you’ve been bratty. Or slapping your ass while he fucks you from behind. Eyes winding and mouth watering with he sees you grow wet/wetter from his slaps. Aside from that I see him liking to use his tie to occasionally tie your hands behind your back. Mainly when you’ve been bratty and he wants to fuck you rough. Aside from that at most he would probably use a vibrator on you if you wanted/needed but would prefer to use himself.

Name calling

I don’t think he would be into much name calling. I mean maybe he would be into daddy or sir? Though I see him being softer I could see him having a darker side to him and liking it. But I think he would probably prefer you to names like; love, my darling, husband, baby, both in an out of bed. He would like calling you the same names in an out of bed as well.

Nanami receiving

He loves getting his dick sucked. Groaning at the sound of you lubing him up for your hole. He loves guiding your movements with his hands tangled in your lucious hair. Though he loves this he doesn’t like cuming in your mouth he prefers to cum down your cunny instead. He has a lot of stamina and control so he can prevent himself from cumming down your throat waiting until he uses your other hole.

Thats about the most receiving he likes the rest of the time he’d rather do all the work. Even though technically while you’re sucking him he still doing all the work by being the one to guide all your movements and telling you what to do.

Nanami moaning?

He’ll give soft grunts and moans occasionally. He’ll softly moan and grunt or pant heavily when he finishes inside you. He’s more of a talker than a moaner In my opinion. He loves whispering sweet things into your ears and sushing you quite often. He loves the sound of your moans he doesn’t Sush as a sign to be quiet but more as a sign to “take it” and also out of habit. He’s so used to saying “shh” he sort of does it out of instinct instead of moaning.

All nanami stories by me will be under the hashtag NanamiAria

[wordsinhaled]

thinking about how much crowley and aziraphale have been getting slammed for their poor communication and on the one hand... absolutely, i agree 100%. they have so much work to do in that department, they are always missing each other when it comes to seeing what they each want from the other and expressing it clearly. but on the other hand... like... encompassing six thousand years into a conversation? six thousand years of knowing each other. six thousand years of gravitating toward one another

like... the bit that really gets me, in crowley's confession, is - "...and we've spent our existence pretending that we aren't. i mean, the last few years, not really" - this implication that like... at least on crowley's part... since they saved the world together he's allowed himself to be more open in how he feels about aziraphale. that in his mind he's already long since chosen Their Side, they've chosen their side in their behavior towards each other, and they've talked about... our car, our shop, but even before that...

we see in the minisodes, the way they already act. they're a pair that shows rather than tells all the time and it's so abundantly clear that everyone around them can see it, is constantly asking about it, assuming it, reading it on them like they're an open book - with everyone but each other.

but like how do you put into clumsy human words how much love you feel for someone who stood next to you while you created the stars? who helped you create them? how do you say openly how you feel to the one person who understands you and your nature better than anyone else, who indulges your every whim because they want to see you happy while everyone else says you were built wrong, you're too indulgent, you're too soft but you're perfect for him, specifically, because you stood at the beginning of the universe together?

like how are they supposed to talk about that? especially when it's so forbidden to talk about that?

there are so few words that truly feel like they properly encompass what love truly and genuinely means? what loving someone TRULY means? how it's giving up your onliness and entrusting yourself into the hands of another, now you're not just you, now you're you but the world is brighter and sharper and more beautiful because of another? how we're all stuck on a spinning rock in the middle of space in the middle of the universe in the middle of the galaxy in the middle of eternity just little grains of sand and then there's another little grain of sand in the scheme of things, but it's the most important one ever created because of how happy it makes you?

but multiply that by six thousand years

so like of course you fucking cry and you stare at each other with tears in your eyes like you're absolutely ESSENTIAL to one another. but like how do you make it work in words when you don't know if there are even words for the prospect of existing without one another? and you have this absolutely incandescent and fragile thing between you that everyone understands to exist, you understand it to exist too, and sometimes it is scary as fuck to admit that you need someone. it is terrifying and uncomfortable and vulnerable and we're just people who live maybe 100 years on this earth? a blink of an eye compared to six thousand years of shared existence?

like...? truthfully i don't think i could talk about it easily either because oh my god that's fucking terrifying. that six thousand years of your comfortable and beloved shared existence could go up in smoke with one misplaced word. like no fucking WONDER he can't get the words out. and no fucking wonder, it's easier to couch things in terms like group and team and everything when you're on the verge of falling apart into a million pieces because the other half of your soul wants to leave you behind. it's easier to say come with me, work with me, be my second in command, than to admit he's first in your heart and mind every second of every day since you saw him bringing light at the beginning of the universe???

just... you know? they need a fucking break. they need a vacation. they need a cottage in the south fucking downs

[fluentmoviequoter]

Words to Die By

The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader

Summary: Seven years after failing to become an LAPD officer, you return to Los Angeles as a literary analyst with the FBI's behavioral analysis unit to catch a serial killer.

Warnings: angst, violence, discussions of autopsies and forensic science, literary references, fluff and banter, improper use of a meat locker

Word Count: 13k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

As the slick black SUV with US government plates parks outside the LAPD Mid-Wilshire station, you try not to reminisce. It would be too easy to remember how excited you were to walk in on your first day after the police academy, too easy to remember the devastation and heartbreak you felt walking through the same doors after surrendering your badge. You open the car door and focus on the current job, keeping your head down as you follow your team into the station that once felt like home. After finding an empty space out of the officers’ way to wait while your boss speaks to the watch commander and captain, you unlock your phone and scroll through the case details you reviewed on the flight, looking for anything you might have missed.

“Can I help you?”

You look up from your phone, the case detail email disappearing as you press the power button and smile at the LAPD officer standing before you.

“Sorry, I’m waiting for the rest of my team,” you explain before brandishing your badge.

“Oh, no worries. This is my first time working in a task force,” she replies. “It’s exciting.”

You nod and subconsciously tug on your sleeves. Officer Chen is obviously a rookie, and her enthusiasm is refreshing.

“Is this your first time in LA?” she asks.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Chen, Bradford wants to see you before roll call,” another officer calls.

“Is Bradford your training officer?” you ask.

“He is. Do you know him?”

You look around, then say, “Tim is on, what? His tenth plain clothes day washout?”

“Eleventh,” she answers, surprised.

“Nice to meet you, Officer Chen.” You offer your hand and say, “I’m number five.”

Chen’s jaw drops before she asks, “And now you’re FBI? How did that happen?”

“Long story… But I’m a literary analyst for the behavioral analysis unit, not exactly a field agent.”

A passing officer stops, then steps backward to look at you. “Are you on Hotchner’s team?”

“I am. I assume you remember him?”

“You know an FBI agent, Officer Lopez?” Chen asks.

“He was responsible for over 100 convictions of corrupt cops six or seven years ago. Five of them were LAPD, and one was our watch commander,” Lopez explains. “Chen, we need to get to roll call.”

You nod to Lucy, then return your attention to an email from Penelope.

“Your phone should be at least twelve inches from your face to limit blue light exposure,” Spencer says as he enters the station. “Sixteen to eighteen inches is preferable.”

“Spencer,” you reply, smiling as you turn toward him. “Penelope used what appears to be 6-point font and then zoomed out. I appreciate the concern for my eye health but take it up with her.”

Spencer frowns and murmurs, “Sounds like a job for Morgan.”

“What’s that, pretty boy?” Derek inquires as if he was summoned by the utterance of his name. “Gettin’ girlie here a date?”

“In Los Angeles?” you ask incredulously. “Hard pass.”

“Right, because the location is the issue with the plan. Not the fact that we’re working a case, and new evidence was discovered this morning,” Hotch deadpans from your side.

“I can multitask, boss man,” Derek defends, tossing his arm over your shoulders.

“Psychologists have determined the human brain isn’t designed for successful multitasking,” Reid begins. “It can cause switch cost, which results when attention and information retainment are suddenly redirected from one task to another, and cognitive efficiency and performance diminish-“

“Says the walking brain with at least fourteen tabs open,” Derek jokes.

“They’re waiting for us,” Hotch reminds. “I mean, only if you’re ready.”

“Your station,” Derek tells you, shaking your shoulders gently as he follows you toward the roll call room.

“… and there is no excuse for failure to communicate,” Sergeant Wade Grey continues as you follow Hotch into the roll call room.

You stand between Hotch and Derek as he speaks and look around the room. Fourteen officers are seated at the tables, listening intently even as their eyes stray to the case board. JJ joins you a moment later, mouthing an apology to Hotch before passing him a folder.

“More evidence?” you whisper.

She nods, then whispers something to Spencer, who furrows his brows and squints at the case board. You know the look, and it increases your concern about the case. Though there have been two notes and a book tied to the previous crime scenes, you’re unsure why  Hotch decided you needed to join them in LA. You could have stayed in Virginia with Penelope, you think, but you trust him and the rest of your team. Turning away from JJ, you fight the urge to peek into Hotch’s open folder as you run your eyes up and down the rows of officers. You recognize Chen and Lopez from this morning, but stop when you see Tim Bradford.

Hotch notices your shoulders stiffen in the split second before you relax, and he taps his elbow against you. You look up at him, and he nods once to reassure you. You’re not alone, and unlike the last time you were in this station, someone else knows the truth of what happened.

“Any questions about the case?” Grey asks. He sighs when someone raises their hand and says, “Yes, Nolan?”

Nolan doesn’t seem concerned with Grey’s lethargy. “What’s the connection between the zoo and the first victim?”

Spencer shifts beside you, and Derek shakes his head in amusement. You can imagine the rambling fighting to get out of Reid, and you smile at Derek rather than laugh.

“I should’ve been clearer. Any questions about our side of the investigation?” Grey amends, and this time the officers stay quiet. “In that case, I’d like to introduce Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner of the FBI, the BAU unit chief, who has brought his team across the country to assist in this case.”

Hotch walks to the front of the room and sets his files on the podium. He fixes an evaluating glare on the officers before him, then nods.

JJ leans toward you and asks, “Remember how intimidating that look used to be?”

“Still makes me stand up a little straighter,” you admit.

“We’re here to help,” Hotch begins. “But that means that we need you to be as committed to solving this case as we are. If you’re not ready for that, you’re free to go.” No one moves, so Hotch says, “Good. Sergeant Grey has briefed me on each of you. You’re good officers, but street smarts and police procedure won’t get this monster off the street.”

“But talking about the suspect’s feelings will?” one of the officers jokes.

Hotch’s eyebrows raise, and his serious look fades into a knowing glare. “You must be Bradford.”

JJ takes your hand, and Derek exhales. They know more about your history in LA than the people in LA do, and you appreciate their friendship and presence.

“Sorry, sir,” Tim replies. “I only meant that there is tangible evidence at these scenes, and it seems to me that concrete proof will help us find this guy faster than dissecting his mind through his habits and words.”

Hotch returns behind the podium and admits, “I understand how our process could seem like a waste of time, and criminal profiling is not an exact science, we’re wrong sometimes, but you know as well as I do that there’s no one right way to solve a crime. The important thing in this situation is to get a killer off the streets before he claims more lives. If our behavioral analysis can assist in that, we’d appreciate your cooperation.”

“I can assure you that you have the LAPD’s complete cooperation,” Sergeant Grey interjects, looking pointedly at Tim. “And anyone unwilling to do so will be removed from this task force.”

Tim crosses his arms across his chest and nods, a position you remember well from your limited days as a rookie. You expected this type of attitude from him and possibly more cops. You truly believe that the BAU can offer insights Tim can’t glean from analyzing a crime scene or going through the processed evidence.

“Do any of you have questions for me or my communications liaison?” Hotch asks.

Several officers ask questions about task force protocol, what your team does, and other run-of-the-mill inquiries about the federal agency and its duties.

“I believe it is time for introductions?” Hotch says, stepping to the side as he welcomes Sergeant Grey back to the front of the room.

“The LAPD has selected fourteen of its best officers-“ He turns away from the room and lowers his voice to tell Hotch, “If you’re against rookies on the team, I’ve got some other officers on standby.”

“If you trust them, they’re welcome to stay.”

Grey nods and turns, then continues, “Officer Lopez, Officer Bishop and her rookie, John Nolan, Officer Janssen…”

You tune out most of the officers’ names, trusting Spencer to fill in any blanks for you, until you hear, “Officer Bradford and his rookie, Lucy Chen.”

You were in Lucy’s position just over seven years ago, and now you’re looking in from the outside. You love your job and appreciate the FBI and the BAU for giving you a home and a rewarding career. Yet, sometimes you’re still plagued by the inevitable wondering, what if?

“Pleasure to meet you all,” Hotch responds. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner, behind you is my team: Special Agents Reid, Morgan, Jareau…” Hotch meets your eyes before introducing you, and you watch him rather than Tim, who turns quickly in his chair and stares wide-eyed at you before controlling his expression and returning to his usual composed demeanor.

“How is a literary analyst helpful?” someone questions softly.

“This unit has taken down more serial criminals than you can name,” Wade snaps. “Show a little respect.”

“We’d like to brief you before the media,” Hotch explains. “If it’s possible to reconvene before tomorrow’s patrol begins, of course.”

“Not a problem. I want all of you back in here fifteen minutes before beginning of shift tomorrow,” Wade tells his officers. “Keep the conversation in this room, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the officers respond as they stand and file out of the door, some whispering together, others leaving quietly and alone.

“I think that went well,” Derek says as Hotch gathers his things.

“Socially speaking, there was a divide and a complete lack of faith in us,” Spencer argues. “Though there is the question of authority and a misunderstanding regarding our purpose and purview.”

“Pretty boy and I are going to go find some coffee.”

As Derek and Spencer leave, and JJ excuses herself to answer a phone call, you’re left alone with your current supervisor and former watch commander.

“It’s good to see you,” Wade says, smiling as he pulls you into a hug.

“You, too,” you respond. “Sorry I haven’t been back as much as I’d like.”

“I understand,” Wade assures. “And it seems that you’ve found your perfect place in the BAU.”

“We like to think so,” Hotch agrees. “Although…”

“Bradford won’t be a problem,” you interrupt.

Hotch tilts his head questioningly, and you add, “He fights back on new things, but he’s a good cop, so he’ll do what’s right in the end.”

Hotch hesitates, then asks, “Do you trust him?”

“With my life.”

“He’s the best I’ve got,” Wade comments. “But if there’s a question about him…”

“He’s Morgan, but more serious,” you tell Hotch. He doesn’t change his stare, so you sigh and promise, “I want him here. There’s no bad blood between us and he’s going to be invaluable in this.”

Hotch nods and looks away from you finally and begins asking Wade about one of the files turned in the night before, which you understand as your cue to leave. After you step out into the bullpen, Derek returns to your side.

“Where’s Spencer?” you ask, looking over his shoulder.

“Telling Officer Chen about the health benefits of doing something boring. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Hotch doesn’t seem to think so.”

Derek gasps and holds your shoulder to exclaim, “You have two overprotective father figures to work for now!”

You consider arguing for less than a second before you realize he’s right. Wade stayed in touch after you left LA. Hotch has never left room for you to wonder how he sees you and his need to protect you. So, you’re working on a case that feels like two different versions of your personality, and parts of your life have combined into one perfect yet terrifying case. And you haven’t even talked to Tim yet.

“I hope our hotel has a hot tub,” you lament.

“Plain clothes day washout number five, huh?” Lucy asks Tim as they patrol Los Angeles.

Tim shakes his head and doesn’t answer. He’s gone seven years without talking about you, only having to relive the heartbreak on your face and the disappointment he felt during his loneliest nights. Tim saw great potential in you, considered you more than a rookie, and taking your badge had affected him in a way he never expected. Now, you’re in the FBI, which is news to him, and you’re working on a case that he hasn’t been able to solve even with ten crime scenes to work with.

“What happened?” Lucy tries.

“None of your business, Chen,” he snaps. “That case, Hotchner’s team, all of it stays in the roll call room for now. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

A bell chimes above your head as you enter your favorite Los Angeles diner. It’s your first night in the city, and since you don’t know how long you’ll be here, you wanted to revisit it while you had a chance. When you mentioned the diner, your team gave you their orders to bring to the hotel, where they’re currently reviewing the autopsy reports. It feels wrong to leave them, but you sigh in the comfort of a place that once provided you a refuge after long days.

“Old habits?” you ask as you approach the counter.

Tim looks up from the laminate and watches you. You don’t meet his gaze but look at the menu while you wait for the waitress to return. This was your favorite diner when you started at the LAPD, and Tim has never given himself time to wonder why he kept coming back even after you left.

“Something like that,” he says. “So, uh, the FBI. That’s incredible.”

You shrug. “Not what I wanted, but I love it.”

Tim nods, unsure what else to say. You’re not the girl you were on day one in the academy, not even the girl who left the station in tears after washing out. Tim still sees you, the woman who fought for what was right never gave up, and was smarter than she ever realized. That’s not the person he saw your last week on patrol, but he knew you were still in there somewhere.

“How long have you been with the BAU?” he inquires.

The waitress returns, and you take the excuse to not answer Tim. You retrieve your phone from your pocket and read a large order from the screen, then pass a shiny, FBI-issued credit card over the counter.

“It’ll be a few minutes, hun,” the waitress informs as she returns the card. “Feel free to have a seat.”

You thank her and slide onto a stool, ensuring you leave an empty seat between you and Tim.

“Failing to become a police officer was one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced,” you confess. “A few months later, Aaron Hotchner knocked on my door. There was a case nearby, a serial rapist who was leaving personalized love letters with every single victim. He found my résumé on a local job board and came to ask for help because of my background. The rest just fell into place, I guess.”

“You get to carry,” Tim points out, gesturing toward the holster on your hip, concealed from everyone else by your shirt. “They don’t let people who just ‘fall into place’ do that.”

“I did everything by the book, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m wondering what changed on plain clothes day,” he responds. “You were on track to be an amazing officer, and then that last week, you just… something changed.”

“I did.”

“There’s more to it.”

“There’s really not,” you insist. “If you don’t want to be on this task force-“

“I do. I wish you could see that you have the potential to lead it.”

“Hotch saved my life. I trust him.” Tim understands the part you don’t say: that you trust him more than yourself.

The waitress returns with two full bags, and you stand as you take them from the counter.

“Goodnight, Tim. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow.”

As you leave, the bell chimes over the door again, and Tim hears your voice in his head, the promise of another chance, but he doesn't miss the fact that you leave every time you see each other.

“What if - and hear me out on this - you just told him the truth,” Derek suggests.

You take a drink from a cheap Styrofoam cup and nod. “You’re right, Derek, why didn’t I think of that?”

“You know, most hotel chains serving breakfast fail to maintain proper culinary heat-“

Hotch raises one finger before Spencer can ruin breakfast for everyone. “Don’t.”

“I agree with Morgan,” JJ says. “There’s clearly questions there, and if you explain what happened, he’ll trust you more.”

“And he can deal with some of the guilt,” Hotch grumbles.

“What guilt?” you inquire, pausing with a cheap metal fork in your hand.

“He clearly blames himself for letting you lose your position,” Hotch explains.

“He knows how good you are, so that final week probably doesn’t make any sense to him,” Derek adds.

“He doesn’t,” you mutter. “He told me last night-“

“You saw him last night?” JJ exclaims.

“I ran into him at the diner.”

“He still goes to your diner?” Derek questions.

“It’s just a diner! But I saw him there and he insisted that there was more to what happened than me changing.”

“And you lied to him?” Hotch responds. “It’s over, you can tell him, you can shout it from the top of the Chinese theater.”

“That would be illegal,” Spencer mumbles.

“And wouldn’t change anything,” you add. “We’re here to work a case, not mend a bridge that has been-“ you scramble for the right word before finishing, “disintegrating for nearly a decade.”

Derek groans as he leans back in his seat, and Hotch finally looks up to say, “If this gets in the way of the case, I’ll have Garcia email him everything he needs to know.”

“I’m cutting holes in all of your quarter-zips tonight,” you threaten in return.

Hotch frowns and mouths, You’ll never find them all.

“Good morning,” Sergeant Grey calls as the door closes behind the twentieth and final member of the task force. “SSA Hotchner is going to fill you all in.”

“Thanks for coming in early,” Hotch begins. “There have been no new developments in the case since yesterday, but my team has created a preliminary profile based on the preexisting evidence and details from the first ten victims.”

Your phone buzzes with an incoming call from Garcia, and you exit the room to answer. “Whatcha got for us, gorgeous?”

“Ooh, does Derek know you’re talking to me like this?” she replies, her keyboard clicking in the background.

“Not like he’s competition,” you say with a playful scoff. “Find anything on the deep dive?”

“Nothing inherently helpful. The prelim suspects are all pretty similar, though one of them did alibi out. Carson Gillery was working remotely from Chicago during the second and third murders. Hotel and airline checks corroborate that.”

“I’ll tell Hotch. Anything else?”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine. Why?”

She stops typing suddenly and then inhales sharply.

“Garcia?” You ask.

The line beeps as she disconnects, and a phone on the desk closest to you begins ringing. A Virginia area code appears on the caller ID, and you stretch across the desk to pick up the receiver.

“Penelope?” you ask hurriedly.

“He’s in the data!” she explains, typing again. “He’s not doing much, but someone is overriding minor coding and there was another line tied into our call. I could hear him breathing; thought you were crying at first, but now I’m running a backward search to find this psycho.”

“None of the prelim suspects would know how to do that,” you point out.

“Uh oh,” Penelope breathes. “I think…  I think he left you a message.”

“What is it?”

“It’s in the seventh victim’s ME report, overwriting the details of the posthumous wounding to the back. It says 2/18/17… It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”

“Henley,” you murmur, trying to connect the dots as you forget the first half of the message.

“There’s more,” Penelope says. “A copy of your one-way ticket to Virginia with an alternate ID that says, ‘thanks for the perfect opening night.’”

“It’s about me?” you whisper.

“I’m going to trace these messages,” Penelope declares. “You tell Hotch about this, and please, please do not try to investigate this on your own.”

“You got it. But can you send me a scan of page 39, no- 38, from the William Ernest Henley book in my office? I need the annotated copy of Invictus.”

“You got it. Tell Morgan and I said hi and I’m wearing-“

You hang up and take a deep breath as you return the receiver to the cradle.

“Agent Hotchner,” you call as you return. “I need a word.”

“Let me finish-“

“There’s been a development,” you interrupt. “An urgent one.”

Hotch sees the look in your eyes and calls Spencer to the front of the room to continue reviewing the patterns in the killings and to discuss the psychological traits and drivers they suspect the killer will have. Derek watches as Hotch and Grey follow you out of the roll call room. Meanwhile, JJ watches Officer Tim Bradford as he manages to conceal his concern but not his interest as he watches you through the glass walls.

“Garcia called with information on the prelim suspects,” you explain. “Someone tapped into the call, and then… whoever it was started manipulating her date on the FBI server. She did say that Carson Gillery alibied out, he was out of state for several of the murders, but whoever this guy is, he is incredibly close to this case.”

“Manipulated the data how?” Hotch asks.

You wring your fingers together as you answer, “He left a message. Garcia thinks it was for me.”

“Left it where?” Grey inquires.

“The seventh victim Mel Houghton’s autopsy report. It was a date and a line from a William Ernest Henley poem.”

“The date?” Hotch presses.

You inhale deeply before saying, “February 18, 2017.”

“The day you lost your position in the LAPD,” Grey remembers. “What does it mean?”

You look toward Hotch, and he shakes his head twice. There isn’t an obvious answer to Grey’s question, but the implication that this case has something to do with you isn’t good.

“He… he also had a picture of my plane ticket to Virginia and added a note, something about ‘thanks for the opening night,’” you add. “Hotch, if you have to take me off this case-“

“We need you,” he interjects. “The literary aspect of this case is progressing.”

“Does that mean we could limit our suspect search?” Wade asks, looking between you and Hotch.

“Not likely,” you reply with a sigh. “Plenty of literature enjoyers can’t be located purely based on that. There’s no evidence he’s educated or active in book clubs, debates, anything.”

“Garcia’s tracing the data changes?” Hotch assumes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we work what we can until she gets back to us.”

“I need to see the novellas left with the victims,” you request. Hotch begins to speak, and you add, “Not the scans, the actual, physical stories left with their bodies.”

“I’ll get someone to go through the evidence with you,” Wade assures. “Any preference?”

You look into the roll call room through the glass sheeting, your eyes drifting past Tim as you decide, “Officer Chen, please.”

Wade nods once, then returns to the podium inside as Spencer concludes his comments on the psychology of the killer’s modus operandi.

“What are you expecting to find?” Hotch asks you.

“I really wish I knew,” you answer softly. “Hotch, what if this is all my fault?”

“The delusions of a killer have nothing to do with you. If something you did as an officer triggered him to start, there is no reason to assume he wouldn’t have started later. He’s clearly reality-challenged, living in a space between this world and the events of his imagination, and that is not on you.”

You nod, rubbing your forehead as you think. “Literature is clearly important to him. If it comes to it, will you let me go with JJ to a press conference?”

Hotch hesitates, and you know he doesn’t like the idea of putting his team in public view, unless absolutely necessary, but he says, “Fine. Only if it gets that far.”

“Hotch? February 2017 had massive storms. Urban flooding, mudslides, wind, snowfall, there was mayhem that week. I mean, a police chase with a DUI driver, a car fell into a sinkhole. I used some of those cases to…” You trail off, remembering all of the things you did wrong.

“Talk to me,” Hotch encourages.

“Any one of the people who had contact with the LAPD that weekend could have been pushed over the edge. He could have been killing for seven years, since whatever happened, but just got bold and brazen enough to make it public.”

Hotch leaves your side for a moment to wave Spencer out. When he joins you and Hotch in the bullpen, Hotch gestures for you to explain your theory.

“I suppose,” Spencer muses. “The killings have progressed minimally since the first victim three months ago. It does point toward a more practiced unsub, someone who has, in their mind, perfected their method. Yes, it’s completely possible.”

“The books,” Hotch points out. “Those are new. Unsolved cases with novellas or poems shoved down victims’ throats would have caught someone’s attention by now.”

“Serial killers gain experience with each new offense,” Spencer explains. “The learning curve is steep because of the logistics it takes to commit a murder. If he’s been killing without being caught, the thrill of killing would empower him to take more chances. In this case, the trophy aspect of his MO could easily have changed, but his idiosyncratic psychological needs remain the same.”

“We don’t have enough people to comb through seven years of cold cases to find similar killings,” you lament.

“We do have the media,” JJ interjects, sliding her phone into her pocket as she approaches. “It’s a long shot, but if we could find one or two, would it be enough to complete a profile?”

“An estimate of how long he’s been at this, with Garcia’s trace and the analysis of the literature at the scene… Yes, we could establish a firm MO and improve the unsub’s psychological profile.”

“Hold on,” Derek urges into his phone as he joins the rest of your team. He looks at you and says, “Give me your phone.”

You pass it to him, and he flips it in his free hand as he listens. He gives you an apologetic look and then drops it.

“Morgan!” Hotch exclaims as Derek brings the heel of his boot down on your phone screen.

“Unless Penelope told you to do that, I’m going to be very mad,” you say.

“Alright, baby girl, tell us all,” Derek requests as he puts his phone on speaker.

“I found our guy, or his IP address at least,” Penelope says.

“And?” Hotch asks. “Where is he?”

“That’s the thing. He’s in an apartment a few miles from the station.”

You recite your previous address and Penelope murmurs, “That’s the one.”

Penelope explains how she traced his data trail before you interrupt to ask, “Is there anything about another cop in it?”

“Uh, there were some numbers,” she answers.

“34381?” you guess. “And 6147?”

“Amongst others, yeah. Do they mean something to you?”

“One is Officer Bradford’s badge number. The other is Sergeant Kenneth Adamson.”

“I’ll run the rest of the numbers against the LAPD database and get back to you.”

“Are all of our phones in need of stomping?” Spencer asks before Penelope hangs up.

“Not yet,” she replies, and then the line clicks.

“Running everything is going to take too long,” you complain. “He’s probably already targeted his next victim. He could be writing the novella for all we know!”

“His system is organized,” Spencer explains. “We can use that. The past victims have been a week or more apart. Even if he does change his timeline because we’re here, he needs time to plan, write, correct?”

“Yes,” you answer. “He could do it overnight if the circumstances called for it.”

“Assuming he’ll take a break between kills, however…”

“We have two days,” Derek concludes. “Let’s hope he’s not too organized, doc.”

“He’s a criminal,” JJ says. “They all get stupid and forgetful.”

“We don’t change anything. He’s changing the rules, pushing himself, but we’re not playing his game,” Hotch says. “And, for the moment, we keep the LAPD connection to ourselves.”

“What if they could help?” JJ argues.

“No.”

“Act like we have a week, and he won’t expect us to be ready to go,” you say. “In that case, I’ll start analyzing the literature.”

“Speaking of which.” JJ pulls a paper from her bag and says, “The homicide detective said CSI found this on a secondary scene analysis.”

You read the scan of the evidence, and your eyes widen as you look up at Derek. “Good thing you came with. He’s building a bomb.”

“Whoa,” Derek says with little intonation in his voice, but his hands raise as he moves his head in surprise. “Explain the progression from writing stories to bombs.”

“Postmodern literature is the most recent literary movement that contains vulgarity in diction and violence. It’s often used as an authentic portrayal of humanity, depicting violence against gender, race, and the human body,” Spencer answers. “Epic poetry was one of the first storytelling forms to depict interpersonal violence.”

Derek rolls his eyes at Spencer’s reply to the rhetorical question, and you add, “The Victorian literary period was marked by violence through the use of suffering and physical dangers as literary themes. The gothic genre aestheticized the darker elements of human life, explored sexual violence, dramatic monologues, and realistic violence like robbery, beheadings, even serial murders.”

“Which affects us how?” Hotch inquires.

“William Ernest Henley was a prominent figure in the later years of the Victorian movement. He sent lines from Invictus to Garcia, and that piece has been the poem of choice for extremists and terrorists to justify their violence in the last few years. There is some hardship beyond our killer’s control, and this is how he’s dealing with it.”

“Still doubting your hypothesis?” Hotch deadpans.

“Wouldn’t he have to stop all of the suffering somehow?” JJ asks.

“Yes. But he hasn’t decided on an endgame yet, we’ll see the signs of that when it comes. The beginning of a plan for a bomb isn’t concerning yet. For now, we continue as planned, but he will likely strike again in 24 to 48 hours.”

“They’re getting concerned,” Derek whispers, waving toward the roll call room.

“I’ll handle them. You have your assignments,” Hotch states. “We reconvene tonight after end of shift.”

“Yes, sir,” you agree with the rest of your team.

As you return to the roll call room between JJ and Derek, you keep your eyes on the front of the room, ignoring how Tim turns to look at you. Hotch gives an acceptable excuse for your team’s private meeting and then provides tasks with Sergeant Wade.

“What about me?” Lucy asks as the other officers exit into the bullpen.

“You’re with me,” you reply, stepping toward her as you smile. “If that’s okay.”

“Yes!” Lucy cheers. She clears her throat and amends, “Yes, of course, I’d love to help.”

“Keep me updated,” Hotch tells you.

“Yes, sir. Oh, and…” You move your fingers in a scissor motion to remind him of your previous threat before concluding, “Spencer has the information you asked for.”

Hotch nods once, and Wade smiles. Suddenly, you’re hit with the feeling of being torn apart, stuck between the life you wanted and the one you have. When the case is solved, the killer is behind bars, and you’ll have to leave these people again. At least you’ve finally remembered that planes travel both ways.

“Ten victims,” you say as you pin the last picture to the bulletin board in the office you and Lucy have set up. “Six novellas, a book, two pamphlets, and a bloody poem.”

Lucy’s eyes follow the red thread connecting the victims to their evidence and the order of the killings as you stare at the T.S. Eliot poem from the fifth scene with your hands on your hips.

Plus, a William Ernest Henley poem meant to bring me into the killer’s world, you think.

“Ready?” you ask Lucy.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You laugh and invite her to use your first name, then spread the evidence pictures from the first murder on the metal desk. It isn’t the same as reviewing the physical books and poems, the thick paper holding the twisted ideas of a serial killer left warm from the printer beside the lives he claimed for the sake of his own story. It’s the best you can do for now.

“Janice Davis, our first victim. The killer stapled a San Diego Zoo pamphlet to her chest.” You flip through the case file and add, “Antemortem. Ouch.”

“That looks like a building staple,” Lucy muses, leaning over the picture.

“It is. Your forensics lab determined it’s a Powernail galvanized seven-eighths inch crown staple. Intended purpose is woodworking and flooring, and one side of the staple extends out at an angle, so even if she was conscious long enough to try removing it… well, it would’ve hurt more to take it out.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Unknown,” you read, furrowing your brows. “Manner of death: homicide. But it looks like they couldn’t determine the cause. Any chance ME Daniella Smith is still around?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy confesses. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sorry, you’re good at this, I keep forgetting you’re a rookie.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever told me.”

You smile, then return to the evidence before you. “The next victim, Gregory Hunter, was found with a copy of Orwell’s Animal Farm open beneath his head. The page, as far as I can tell, is irrelevant.”

“Then what’s the point of leaving it there?”

“Hunter was Davis’s boss, and apparently they had been involved a few years prior to working together. Animal Farm presents Orwell’s ideas on power, equality, socialism and corruption.”

“All things the San Diego Zoo has been accused of abusing throughout history,” Lucy adds. “Along with the animals.”

“Precisely. Then it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that our killer was wronged by a failing class structure, abuse of power and control, inequality, or socialism.”

“That’s a lot of options.”

“Which is why we keep looking. Victim number three had a personalized novella…”

“The method of killing has been consistent with every victim. They’re injured, kept alive for three to twelve hours, and then killed. Janice Davis, victim one, was ruled as undetermined cause of death, but there was no evidence of blunt force trauma, gunshot wounds or poisoning, which we’d expect based on the sudden killings of the others,” Spencer explains.

“You can tune him out,” Derek whispers. “When his voice drops an octave, he’s about to ask a question.”

Tim nods, but he wasn’t listening to begin with. His mind keeps drifting to thoughts of you. He watched you talk to your team, has worked with you, and knows the depth of your talent and potential. Yet he continues to wonder how you truly came to work at such an elite division in the FBI and what you’re hiding.

“Do any of you have experience with crime scene investigation?” Spencer asks.

Several officers raise their hands, including Angela. Tim has guarded scenes and looked around on his own time, but he isn’t sure when his unique skills will be required for this case.

“Morgan,” Hotch calls from the doorway. “Take an officer to gather the literary evidence. Someone with a station ID has to sign it out for us.” He looks towards the front of the room and sighs. “And tell Spencer to wrap it up.”

“Doctor Morgan,” Derek calls as he stands. “Perhaps we should move on to the evidence snapshots and physical profile?”

Spencer nods and shifts his attention to the tools and proposed appearance of the killer.

“I’ve got a station ID,” Tim tells Derek. “If you need that evidence now.”

Derek sighs but waves for Tim to join him. He remains quiet while they walk to the evidence lockers, largely because he’s evaluating Tim. Derek knows about your time in Los Angeles, and even if he did encourage you to talk to Tim, he isn’t sure if Tim deserves your time.

“You were military?” Derek asks as they wait for the evidence to be thoroughly signed out and accounted for.

“Army,” Tim responds. “FBI always the goal for you?”

“Oh, nah, I started as a cop up in Chicago. Things just happened.”

“Seems to be a lot of that,” Tim murmurs, remembering your ‘fell into place’ excuse.

“Why be a TO?”

Tim shrugs. He’s never had a good answer for that question, and if he starts thinking, he might get caught up on his fifth washout.

“Special Agent Morgan,” the evidence officer says as he places a large box on the ledge. “Your supervisor has to sign this form upon evidence return.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

Derek picks up the box and steps back, but the officer places another box behind it. Tim takes it without a word and follows Derek to an office with a closed door.

He taps his foot against the door and calls, “Open up, pretty girl, these muscles are just for show!”

You smile as you open the door, and Tim clenches his jaw at the realization that Derek Morgan just called you ‘pretty girl.’

“I fear you’ve mistaken me for Penelope,” you tell him as you hold the door. “Thank you so much.”

Tim nods as he places the box down, and then looks at the case board.

“Oh, Tim,” Lucy says. “Do you know if ME Daniella Smith is still working?”

“She retired,” Tim replies.

You drop your shoulders and nod. “Thanks.”

“I can get her address and phone number, though,” he offers, partially to help and partially because he hates how disappointed you look.

“That would be amazing!” you reply happily. “Lucy, feel free to go with him, move around for a few minutes.”

Lucy follows Tim, and you close the door to talk to Derek. You explain that the literature points toward class structure, abuse of power, or socialism.

“Maybe he should move to Canada instead of killing then,” Derek muses. “Have you told Hotch?”

“Not yet. There’s also the string of violence in the literature. At first, it was metaphorical violence, a symbolic representation of the dangers of power in society, but it’s gotten more blatant, more Victorian in its realism.”

“The novellas?” he guesses.

“I haven’t gotten to read them in their entirety yet, I’ll start that now, but I’d guess he’s outlining his preferred method of violence as well as the reason.”

“Think it will shed some light on the explosives schematics? Which, by the way, are pretty weak. A bomb like that would be hard pressed to flip a Prius, it wouldn’t do major damage unless it was an incredibly confined space.”

“Ask Spencer what he thinks about the space,” you suggest. “The killings have been in relatively open spaces, but he’d know better than me if it means anything.”

“I’ll run it by him if I can get a word in.”

You laugh at Derek’s joke, but he turns serious again to ask, “Are you okay? I know this can’t be easy for you, working a case here after seven years.”

“I’m okay,” you promise. “I’ll let you know if that changes and I need a Morgan hug.”

Derek smiles as he opens the door, and Tim and Lucy return soon after.

“She lives three miles from here and said she’d talk to you,” Lucy relays.

“Let me tell my team.”

Tim raises a hand to stop you as you gather your things and repeats, “She said she’d talk to you. She recognized your name.”

“Oh.” Hotch walks by the door, and you step out quickly to explain, “I found the ME who couldn’t determine Janice Davis’s cause of death. She’s retired, but lives nearby and agreed to talk to me, but only me.”

Hotch weighs his options, but when he sees Tim behind you, he suggests, “Then you should probably take your TO.”

Your eyes widen in shock, but you trust Hotch, so you nod and step back into the office.

“You don’t have to,” you begin as Tim asks, “Ready?”

You fail to find the right words for several moments, then say, “Lucy, do you want to help Derek Morgan review crime scenes for construction and security?”

“Sure! Let me know if you need more help with this stuff when you get back,” she responds. “Good luck!”

“Thanks,” you say, though you think I’ll need it.

“Do you want to drive or should I?” Tim asks once you’re alone.

You lift keys from your pocket and say, “I will. Do you think Smith will be any help?”

“We can hope.”

“Can I address the elephant in the room?” Sergeant Grey asks.

“Be my guest,” Hotch answers, not looking up from his improved profile.

“Bradford isn’t operating at his usual level.”

“She is.”

“Which is why I think there may be more to his side of the story.”

Hotch looks up to propose, “You think he had something to do with Adamson’s misconduct?”

“No,” Wade assures, “nothing like that. But two days of fire-able offenses and not a single correction from her TO? Bradford either didn’t care that she gave up or, for some reason, he wasn’t in a position to.”

“The corruption we found ran deep. There’s a chance he was hoping to get a piece of the takeaway… or he was in a similar position to her.” Hotch reaches for his phone quickly after he speaks and raises it to his ear. “Garcia, I need you to run the badge numbers again. Tell me how many of them had a direct connection to Keith Adamson.”

“One second,” Penelope requests. “Software’s running it now. Oh, the medical examiner, Smith, she resigned less than an hour after the charges against Adamson came in. Thought that was interesting.”

“That’s one connection.”

“Okay, yep, all ten of the badge numbers embedded in the coding have connections to Adamson. Seven subordinates, his captain, and two IA investigators.”

“Thanks, Garcia.” Hotch ends the call and tells Wade, “Whatever Adamson did, it wasn’t just skimming the evidence pile, it pushed our killer over the edge.”

“I remember Janice Davis,” Daniella Smith says as she passes you a mug of hot tea. “She was young, twenty-six, I believe, and had a construction staple in her sternum.”

“Your official report listed the cause of death as indiscernible,” you reply, wrapping your hands around the mug as your thigh presses against Tim’s on the small settee. “Do you remember if you may have had any hypotheses?”

Daniella sighs as she lowers into a chair across from you. “It was asphyxiation. Her mouth was sealed with superglue, and she couldn't get enough air after a few hours of lying horizontally.”

Tim looks at you before demanding, “Why didn’t you put that in the report?”

“I was scared.”

“And you think the people living here weren’t?”

“Tim,” you whisper harshly. You shake your head as Daniella shrinks in her seat. “Why were you scared, Ms. Harris?” She shakes slightly, and you give her a moment to breathe before you ask, “Did someone at the police station ask you to lie?”

She laughs once, a sad sound before she wipes her nose and corrects, “He threatened me if I didn’t.”

“Who?” Tim asks.

“Sergeant Keith Adamson. He was the watch commander at the time. My career, my life, my marriage, he threatened to ruin it all if I didn’t cover up how she was killed.”

“Was there residue?” you inquire. “From the superglue?”

“There were trace amounts, and the lab was able to identify it easily.”

“It was the only death to be covered up, why do you think that is?”

Daniella looks up quickly, her eyes wide as she states, “Because it was an experiment. The others were killed more conventional, faster: a slit throat, hammer to the temple. Her death would have taken time.”

“Was the time of death in your report accurate?” you ask. “Because it was around the same time as the others even with the changed MO.”

“It was,” she explains, “he must have taken her earlier to get a head start.”

“You said it was an experiment,” Tim repeats. “She was victim number one. If it didn’t go well, wouldn’t the others have just been an improved, or changed, MO?”

Daniella frowns, and you lean forward to ask, “How many more were there?”

Tim slams the passenger door as you return to the car. Daniella disappears from the front window, crying as you start the engine.

“The FBI will charge me if this car gets damaged,” you mumble as you shift into reverse.

“Thirty deaths that she knows of!” Tim exclaims. “How could she cover all of those up?”

“Pretty easily. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator.”

“This monster has been at it for years. You were probably on the job for some of his murders, how can you say that?”

“It’s not my place to judge everyone involved in this case, Tim. Not yours either.”

Tim scoffs, but he’s interrupted by your phone ringing. You answer by saying your last name and Hotch’s voice fills the car as he speaks.

“There’s been another murder,” he says. You slap the steering wheel before he continues, “A double murder. I’m sending you the address. Drop Bradford at the station and meet us there.”

“Yes, sir.”

After the call ends, you grit your teeth to keep yourself from yelling. You spent too much time with the retired ME, and two more people are dead now.

“I’m going with you,” Tim states.

“No, you’re not. You heard him, you’re going back to the station.”

“You need me-“

“Actually, we don’t. We have jurisdiction now, Tim,” you snap.

“Do they know about everything you did your last week on the job?” Tim challenges. “How you ignored calls, put yourself, and me, in danger just to let the clearly guilty criminals go? I mean, you let a guy get away with assault and your handcuffs!”

You don’t reply because your mind begins racing. You had forgotten about that specific incident. Your last two days on the job were a blur, just forty-eight hours you have done everything you could to forget.

“Alexander Riley,” you murmur.

“What?” Tim snaps.

“Nothing, Tim. I’m sorry you’re not happy, but you don’t have authorization to join me, and I’m done breaking the rules.”

“Convenient.”

You hit the brakes too hard as you stop outside the back entrance of the station. Tim slams the door again before he walks inside, and you shift into park to call Derek.

“Are you still at the station?” you ask when he answers.

“We’re about to leave,” he replies. “Did you beat us to the scene? You know speed limits still apply to federal agents, right?”

“No, I’m at the station too. I need you to - without raising suspicion - get Hotch and Sergeant Grey out here.”

“Okay,” he agrees slowly. “Why?”

“Because I think I know who the killer is. Bring the novella from the ninth scene, it’s Heralded Angels.”

“You got it.”

You can hear the strain in Derek’s voice, but there’s too much on your mind to dwell on his reaction right now. After Hotch, JJ, Derek, and Spencer join you in the FBI-issued SUV, you follow Sergeant Grey, driving an unmarked car, to the double murder scene.

“You had something for me?” Grey asks as you approach the townhouse.

“I do. Trust me for a few more minutes and I’ll tell you everything?”

Wade nods, and you enter the bloody living room with your team. JJ waits outside, and as you squat beside a bookcase covered in blood splatter, you know you’re right.

“Alexander Riley,” you announce, pushing against your knees to stand. “I think he’s our killer.”

“Why?” Spencer asks. “Wait, who?”

“Alexander Riley is one of the men I should have arrested my last week as a rookie.” You look toward Wade as you continue, “He assaulted a store owner while looting during a flood, and I let him get away. He ran away with my handcuffs, but I didn’t try to stop him because I was sure Sergeant Adamson would have used it against me.”

“Abuse of power,” Hotch deduces.

“Right, and class system. You know, cop doesn’t do what cop is supposed to do. So, he may have taken his escape as a sign that something needed to change.”

“Based on his killings, I’d agree that he saw a wrong that needed to be fixed, but why murder?” Wade asks. “How does that fit his idea of making things right, evening everything?”

“He chose victims he viewed as outliers,” Spencer explains. “The first two victims were romantically involved, and then she got a job in his company.”

“The fifth victim was a single man with adopted children, and he left a copy of T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Hollow Men,’” you add. “He went after people who didn’t fit into our traditional class system or who benefitted from misused power. And, if that isn’t enough… there’s an extra novella in here.”

“What?” Hotch and Wade say, stepping toward you simultaneously.

“It’s a little bloody, but the words cop, dirty, and corrected system are showing up pretty well. My name’s on the first page, and I’d guess it’s on the last, too.”

“He’s going to target you?” Derek translates. “That’s not okay.”

“We need to find him first,” you reply. “He’s not going to press pause until he can get to me, he thinks he has to fix the entire world.”

“I’ll get a BOLO out,” Wade offers.

“Wait, Sergeant Grey,” Hotch calls. “I think this should come from us.” He turns toward you and adds, “It would mean more from you.”

“I’ll do it. Although, some of those cops aren’t going to like hearing that I had something to do with it.”

“Just send ‘em my way,” Derek jokes.

“Our profile is complete,” you begin, looking at the entire task force. “And we’ve used that profile, along with scene evidence, literary analysis, and previous arrest records to identify Alexander Riley as our killer. Sergeant Grey has posted a BOLO, and we’d like to send you out in patrol teams to assist in the search for Riley.”

Tim has his folder open, and you’re sure he’s reading the incident report filed after you let Riley get away.

“Maybe you should get out there and find him instead of sitting in our station and reading,” he snarks, closing his folder.

“Bradford,” Wade begins.

“No, it’s okay,” you assure. “I will be assisting in the search, and I will admit that my incompetence likely played a role in Mr. Riley’s progression from petty thief to serial killer. However, we have reason to believe he was killing in private long before he felt the need to leave his victims in plain view for Los Angeles and all of America to see.”

“Officer Bradford, he listed you by name in the novella left at Liza Renner’s murder,” Hotch interjects. “Do you know why he may have done that?”

“No idea. Sir.”

“I’d appreciate if you would stay and help review the story to find an idea, then.”

You look between Hotch and Tim quickly, but their icy stares make you look away before you continue explaining what the manhunt entails and how the FBI will assist.

“Be safe out there,” you conclude.

As officers stand and leave, Hotch and Wade walk to Tim’s side, and then all three of them exit through a different exit.

“That was fun,” you mumble to Derek.

“On the bright side, no one has been publicly executed in the US since 1936, so it’s unlikely you’ll be burned at the stake,” Spencer says.

“That is bright,” you respond. “Thanks, Reid.”

An officer asks for your assistance and leads you to an observation room. Your eyes widen when you realize Tim and Hotch are on the other side of the glass in an interview room. Rushing into the room, you’re surprised when Hotch invites you to take a seat. As the door closes, Tim clenches his fists and begins to stand.

“Sit down,” Hotch demands, unmoving as Tim rises from his chair. Tim turns, face-to-face with Hotch. “Sit down,” Hotch repeats, quieter yet firmer.

Tim falls back into his seat and crosses his arms to stare at you.

“You can blame me if you want,” you offer. “But it won’t change anything. Twelve people are dead because of me.”

“Then why is my rookie still patrolling the streets of LA looking for the man your team decided did this? Hotch here covering for you again?” Tim challenges.

“Shut up,” Hotch says as he sits beside you, across the Table from Tim.

“Kenneth Adamson,” you say. “Do you have any idea of what he did?”

“Fired you for taking the easy way out when you decided you didn’t want to be a cop anymore?”

“Intimidated me,” you reply. “Got indicted for it, but it was never made public knowledge because ‘he was facing enough personal and professional issues for the widespread results of his corruption.’ Good excuse, right? Tim, I happened to be the person who put cuffs on Alexander Riley and allowed his delusion to take over. I didn’t mean to turn him into a serial killer, but I still feel like I have blood on my hands.”

“Wait,” Tim requests, raising his hand. “Adamson intimidated you?”

“Yes.”

“You could have told me.”

You scoff, and Hotch raises his brows. “Like you would have believed me,” you reply.

Tim leans across the table, ignoring how Hotch moves closer to you, protective and ready to finish this case.

“He intimidated me too,” Tim confesses. “We should have told each other, but we messed up, and I’m sorry for that. Adamson was going to tell IA about something I did in the Army and twist it to get me fired if I didn’t find a way to get you off the force. Then you suddenly stopped trying and I thought… I guess I didn’t think about it, or I would’ve seen it.”

You look at Hotch, who shrugs. There likely isn’t proof that Adamson did to Tim what he did to you, but you have to make a choice. You can believe Tim Bradford or walk away.

“I caught him stealing evidence,” you say. “Skimming money from scenes before CSI got there, pulling jewelry from robbed houses, little things he didn’t think anyone would miss. When I saw him outright lie to a victim who only wanted her late mother’s locket back, I said something. And he was going to make my life a waking hell for it. So, I did what he asked and threw away my career.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apologies, Tim. I want you to help me find Alexander Riley and put cuffs on him before he goes after another innocent person, because there is nothing to stop him from progressing to killing cops he sees as corrupt. We kept it from the other officers because of that, so please don’t make me regret trusting you.”

Tim nods and murmurs another apology. You read his lips as he says it, and when Hotch stands, you’re prepared to accept it.

“One more out of line comment and you’re off this task force, Officer Bradford,” Hotch says as he buttons his blazer.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do everything I can to assist you.”

“Do you know why Riley would have used your name as a cursed wanderer in Liza Renner’s novella?” you ask, standing beside Hotch.

“Cursed wanderer?” Tim repeats.

“Remorseful, unabsolved character tormented by their fate and their actions.”

“He must not remember you well,” Hotch tells Tim.

“He’s not a very good writer,” Spencer mutters as he flips the page of one of Alexander Riley’s novellas.

“Maybe we should find a way to charge him for that too,” Derek grumbles. “I mean, ‘Tim Bradford carried the weight of his sins, heavier than the Kevlar on his chest. Each day he was forced to face the memories of how he’d failed his partner, the only woman he may ever love, but would never deserve.’ That’s awful.”

You and Tim turn to face each other quickly, each wondering if you heard what Derek read correctly.

“Derek, does that- when you read it, does it seem like he’s saying his partner is the only woman he’d ever love? Same person?” you ask.

“Yeah. You.”

“That’s what I got too,” JJ agrees. “There’s characters in the third novella that look exactly like the two of you, but they’re married. Doomed by the narrative to watch each other die, but…”

“Are there characters like that in all of them?” Hotch asks.

The sound of papers flipping precedes several firm answers of “Yes.”

“They always die?” you add. “But he doesn’t know. He sees a relationship that isn’t there.”

Tim doesn’t say anything, but you ignore him as you ask JJ to use her laptop. After signing in to your email, you pull up the scans Penelope sent you from the books in your office.

“In the clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed,” you read. “Black as the pit from pole to pole.”

“Are you gonna explain it or is this like Jeopardy?” Derek questions.

“He doesn’t portray our characters as corrupt,” you cheer. “We’re unfortunate, ‘doomed by the narrative’ players in a bigger game. I need the newest novella, the extra one from the double homicide scene.”

Wade knocks on the open door as you look through the evidence boxes on the table. He glances between you and Bradford before he asks, “Have any of you heard from Lopez and West?”

“They’re revisiting the last scene,” Hotch says. “They haven’t checked in?”

“Not recently.”

Tim looks at you, and when you meet his eyes, he offers, “We’ll find them.”

“Be careful,” Wade implores. “And keep me updated.”

“Can you do me a favor?” you ask.

“Anything,” JJ and Derek answer together.

“Look for any sign of restoration or avenging. It’ll probably be in the first novella, but I need to know if my character in his story is avenged somehow.”

“Revenge is a psychological response to wounds from others,” Spencer says. “Why would he be motivated to retaliate and justify this level of violence for you, if you’re the one who did wrong?”

“I think he may have changed his motives after Keith Adamson was indicted. If you find something, let me know, if not, Hotch probably has a better idea.”

You follow Tim to an unmarked car and ride in the passenger seat like you’ve pressed play after seven long years of having this part of your life on pause. Somehow, it feels better than before.

Tim's radio crackles as he makes the last turn to reach the crime scene.

“07-Adam-07,” Angela radios. “Sergeant Bradford, contact on channel 3.”

Tim changes the dial to channel 5 as he slows on the curb. You point to the dial, and he raises a thumb to tell you it wasn’t an accident.

“07-Adam-19,” he replies. “Go ahead, Lopez.”

“I think we found something that might be helpful to the detectives. Meet me at the scene and see if you agree?”

“I was already on the way. To tell you the truth, I don’t trust the feds. ETA two minutes.”

Tim returns his radio to the dash and then sits back to wait.

“Don’t trust the feds, huh?” you ask, smiling as he rolls his eyes.

“You really think he realized we were just as aggrieved as him?” Tim asks.

“Big word,” you murmur before dodging Tim’s weak backhand. “Why else would he keep us in the grand story he’s trying to write?”

“You said your character died in the new one.”

“All I saw was my name. I made an assumption without enough evidence. It was stupid.”

“Welcome to the club.”

Your phone buzzes, and you shake your head as you read the message from Penelope. “FBI tech guru Garcia hacked into the house’s security system. She’s got cameras inside. Riley has Lopez and West holed up in the master bathroom. My team and your watch commander are watching, ready to breach if this doesn’t go well.”

“You think it will?”

“I think Derek is going to be very mad after I do something reckless. That’s how it usually goes.”

Tim clears his throat awkwardly, then asks, “Are you and Morgan…?”

“No,” you answer with a laugh. “He’s just one of the many protective men I work with.”

“It’s been a minute and a half,” Tim says, changing the subject and breathing a little easier. “Are you ready?”

“I hope so.”

You exit the passenger seat as Tim pops the trunk. He passes you an LAPD bulletproof vest and a standard-issue belt to help you look more like a cop and less like a fed. After pulling the vest over your head, you struggle to get the belt in place beneath it. Tim gently takes it from you, his hands moving carefully around your waist as he clips the tactical buckle and slides the gun holster to its correct position.

“Thanks,” you whisper as he straightens, mere inches from you.

Tim drops his hands away from your sides but doesn’t move away. “Channel 3 is Lopez’s code,” he explains. “She only uses it when something’s wrong.”

Your phone buzzes again, and you turn away from Tim to answer it. “Hello?”

“Riley is armed,” Hotch says. “He’s got Lopez and West in the master bedroom on the ground floor. They’re uninjured, but he’s fidgety.”

“Did Derek ask Spencer about the bomb?”

“He did,” Spencer replies. Hotch’s phone is likely on speaker, and you turn your phone to allow Tim to hear too. “The bomb schematics were for a very closed-in space… like the townhouse you’re about to go into. It’s not incredibly enclosed, but given that Riley has issues with control, it could be a manifestation of claustrophobia. If his anxiety has caused a fear of enclosed spaces, based on the fear of losing control in those spaces, then he may be attempting to overcome that by giving himself power in the situation.”

“Could he be a cleithrophobe?” Tim wonders.

“What is that?” Derek asks, and you can imagine him looking around Wade’s office.

“I haven’t seen evidence of it,” Spencer answers. “He doesn’t seem to mind being closed in; the murders in the townhouse didn’t seem to affect him, but he is clearly concerned with power, control, and the hierarchy of those. It relates more to claustrophobia. Though I wouldn’t advise locking any doors to test it.”

You hang up suddenly and gesture to the townhouse. Tim looks up in time to see the curtain in an upstairs room fall back into place. He takes the lead, walking to the door with purpose and his hand on his gun. You follow him and look around the front porch for any sign that Riley is planning to kill anyone today.

Tim pushes the door open carefully, nodding to tell you it is unlocked before Angela calls his name. The novella with your name in it is still by the bookcase, and you remove it from the evidence bag and slide it under your vest. You trade places with Tim, going up the stairs first as he covers you. At the top of the landing, Alexander Riley steps out into the hallway with a gun strapped around his shoulders.

“You made it,” he says.

“We’re here to help, Riley,” you explain softly, holding your hands where he can see them. “You know that.”

He nods before jerking his head toward the doorway. You walk past him and stop in the center of the bedroom, scanning Angela and Jackson for any wounds. Luckily, they appear to be fine other than the handcuffs secured around their wrists.

“What’s the plan here?” Tim asks. “Not much room for error, Mr. Riley.”

“Give me your gun,” Alexander replies, holding his rifle with one hand as he extends the other toward Tim.

Tim complies, but his glance at you is a clear communication to not surrender your FBI-issued piece.

“Against the wall,” Alexander tells Tim. “You’re right, there isn’t room for error. But I’m prepared. I’ve been preparing since I lost everything.”

Tim sits against the wall, less than a foot from Angela. Alexander turns toward you, and his gaze softens. You were right, it seems. Alexander Riley has a soft spot for you; he thinks you’re like him, wronged by corruption and abused power, and you’re going to work that soft spot until he’s in cuffs.

“Take your vest off,” he requests. “Please.”

You don’t move but look pointedly at his gun before raising your eyes to his face.

“I won’t hurt you.”

Despite your instinct to refuse, to call in the cavalry and help Tim incapacitate the killer before you, there is too much at stake, and the longer you’re compliant, the longer Riley will keep everyone alive. So, you pull the vest over your head, not bothering to catch the novella as it falls to the floor, the blood on the cover contrasting the neutral carpet below your feet.

Back at the station, Hotch clenches his jaw as you open yourself to Riley, and Derek says, “Don’t do it… I might kill her for that.”

“You wrote it, right?” you ask, gesturing toward the stapled manuscript. “You wrote all of them.”

Riley fidgets, then nods.

You step toward him, keeping your expression soft and conveying understanding as you add, “I read some of them. They’re good, Alex. Can I call you Alex, or do you go by something else?”

“Alex is fine,” he replies, whispering your name under his breath like a prayer.

Tim shifts as Alexander’s attention changes slightly, morphing from a fierce protector into someone who wants to be by your side after you’ve been saved. You don’t spare a glance toward Tim, and for a brief moment, he wonders where you learned to do this. Then reality crashes back in like a wave that knocks Tim off his feet, the reminder that he could have taught you if he hadn’t let Keith Adamson get to him.

“In Brightest Day, you wrote a character who was a young cop, naïve and desperate to do the best thing,” you continue. “Who was she?”

“You know who,” Alex mutters.

You smile and ask, “Was I in all of them?”

“Of course.”

“That’s why you went to my old apartment before you sent the message to my friend in the FBI? Because I’m part of this? No, because you’re improving the character, right?”

“You were so far away,” he whispers.

“Alex, did you learn how to code just to talk to me?” you inquire softly.

He nods, then looks to the novella at your feet. The toes of your boots are inches from the paper, and his mouth twitches like he wants you away from it.

“Kick it,” he demands.

“Why? It’s art, it’s part of your soul,” you argue.

“Kick it.”

Tim nods in your peripheral, and you swallow before kicking it toward the door. Alex doesn’t hesitate to shoot the paper. You turn away from the noise, covering your ears even though it’s too late to keep your head from pounding. As the noise fades and your hearing returns, you see the shredded paper surrounding the hole in the floor.

“How does the story end, Alex?” you ask, stepping toward him again. “Are you like the truck drivers in Animal Farm? The cursed wanderer in Render Down you wrote for Liza? Or are you some new character that only cares about usurping the power for yourself?”

“It was never about me!” he replies, louder than you’ve heard him before. He softens his voice to repeat, “Never.”

“She was mine first,” Tim interjects suddenly.

Alex spins on his heel, the barrel of his rifle rising as he faces Tim. You shake your head wildly, desperate to stop him from saying something that will make Alex pull the trigger again. Angela looks down quickly, and you see her gun beneath the bed. As Alex’s chest heaves, his eyes locked unblinking on Tim’s, you move closer to the weapon, to Alex, and to freedom where you all walk out of here alive.

“I was saving her!” Alex roars. “From corruption, from Adamson, from you!”

“Adamson is the only one who hurt her,” Tim argues.

“February 17, 2017. You took your rookie to a noise disturbance call, and when you got there, four stupid young men were looting a flooded store during a break in the storms. She handcuffed one of them, but the rest ran. Then… then you started yelling at her, blaming her for all of it. While you were busy berating her, the other man ran with the handcuffs. I got away, but the power, the corruption, the greed was all getting to be too much. We hurt the owner because she was too worried about not getting insurance money for the water damage to empty out the register.”

“Something changed,” you say from beside Riley.

He doesn’t move away from Tim but stops talking to listen.

“In the first novella, it was you and me, wasn’t it? You wanted to make a new world together, save me from the love you thought would corrupt me.”

“Adamson used you too,” Alex tells Tim. “I made room for you to come with us and this is how you repay me? Chasing me for making things better. You’re back where you started.”

“Maybe now isn’t the time to act,” Jackson West says. “What if the world could’ve healed on its own and the people you killed might have helped?”

“Fool! They’ve gotten to you, too.”

As Alex’s finger slides onto the trigger, he turns toward Jackson. You don’t hesitate to lunge forward, closing the distance between yourself and Alexander. While you tackle him to the floor, he squeezes the trigger, and the shot rings through the now-silent townhouse and seems to echo for hours as your team watches in horror.

Tim pulls the handcuff key from his belt and passes it to Angela before he crawls on his hands and knees to reach you.

“I hope somebody got scans of that novella before he shot it,” you groan as you sit up.

Tim sighs, taking your face in his hands as he wipes blood from your temple.

“Is his writing really that good?” Jackson asks as he stands.

“It’s a little preachy,” you reply with a smile.

Your phone rings, and you swipe the screen to answer, then immediately hang up.

“That was your boss,” Tim points out.

“He can yell at me when he gets here.”

“Alexander Riley has been charged in the deaths of twelve Los Angeles residents,” JJ says at the press conference the morning after your encounter with Alex. “His victims include Janice Davis, Gregory Hunter, Bryce Keller, Hank Sheller, Peter Bristol, Liza Renner, Mel Houghton, Destiny Crest, Angelica Thomson, Alissa Alvarez, and Jack and Cassidy Wilson. Nearly three dozen cold cases are now being reopened, and the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit supports the LAPD’s claim that Riley could have committed these crimes as well. I’ll welcome any questions at this time.”

You scrunch your nose from the side, resisting the urge to remove the bandage on your forehead. Tim stands beside you, watching you.

Tim notices that the bandage is loose but doesn’t move before Hotch warns, “Don’t do anything in the public view that you don’t want to get out and give Riley a chance at walking.”

When the conference ends, Derek sighs and walks past Hotch to return to the hotel and pack. As he approaches you, he smiles and says, “And you didn’t want to come because I can’t help, and LA is too sunny.”

You try to punch Derek for his poor impression of you but miss as he breaks into a jog. Shaking your head, you turn to Tim and prepare a joke about how you don’t sound like that. Tim’s serious expression stops you, though.

“You didn’t think you could help?” he asks. “You were going to be an amazing cop, and I regret playing a part in taking that opportunity from you.”

You shrug and respond, “I like the FBI, and I got to tackle a murderer, so it all worked out.”

“Yeah,” Lucy interrupts, walking to your side. “But now you have to go back to Virginia.”

“Thank you,” Wade says, stopping at your side. “Come back soon, okay?”

You smile as he hands you a paper. As you read it, you sigh, then shove it into your pocket. The email came in this morning telling all active FBI agents about the new tactical unit, one which will work closely with the BAU. They’re actively recruiting, but if you tell Tim, you’re asking him to choose between you and the job again, and you can’t do that to him. Asking Tim to leave LA would be cruel, you think, so you force a smile onto your face.

“Thank you for everything,” you tell him. “Especially the part where you saved my life and the apology. I’ll try not to stay gone so long this time.”

Tim nods, and you smile at Lucy before following your team. He watches you walk away, ignores Lucy’s encouragement for him to chase you, and waits until you leave to whisper what he wants to say. But Tim lost his chance again. Worse, he lost you again.

Two Weeks Later

“Which one of you wants to die first?” the armed suspect asks, swinging his curved meat hook between you and Spencer.

“Probably you, right?” you whisper. “You know, my blood’ll be on it if he kills me first.”

“The mean value of Staphylococcus aureus in raw meat is 3.84 in a butcher shop,” Spencer replies. “I don’t know where that thing has been. At least your blood has been relatively well contained. And any amount of water on that thing increases the number of bacterial specimens transferred from the meat surface.”

The metal door of the meat locker blows open suddenly, and when the butcher before you turns to see what caused the noise, two men in tactical uniforms subdue him and confiscate the meat hook. Spencer rushes out of the facility, and you watch as the new FBI team takes your suspect into custody.

“I could have done that,” you complain.

“Sure you could, boot,” one of the men says, his voice muffled by the helmet.

You look toward him with your eyebrows raised. He takes his helmet off, and your jaw drops. Tim Bradford.

Smiling, you step toward him with questions racing in your mind, but he extends a gloved hand, holding it against your waist to stop you as he whispers, “Morgan has cameras everywhere.”

As you walk into the BAU bullpen together, Hotch looks up from a paper. He looks at you, then Tim, then back to you, and smiles. With wide eyes, you hide behind Tim’s shoulder, unsure what a Hotch smile could mean in this particular circumstance.

“We’re wheels up to Los Angeles in forty-five,” Hotch says.

“Why?” you ask, stepping out from behind Tim.

“There’s a domestic terrorist leaving Shakespeare at foreign-owned businesses hours before they’re bombed or become mass murder scenes.”

You nod, but before you can speak, Derek calls, “Bring Bradford! We could use the Army experience.”

Hotch narrows his eyes at Tim, then shrugs and agrees.

“Good, good,” you mumble, wrapping your hands around Tim’s arms. “I’ll show him the ropes then and we’ll be back in thirty.”

“Please do.”

You quickly forget the ropes as you drag Tim into Penelope’s empty office. He smiles and prepares to ask what this has to do with terrorism, but you slide your hands onto his jaw and kiss Tim. Finally. Tim's hands meet your waist, and he pulls you closer as he kisses you, both of you melting into one another and getting lost in the moment you’ve waited so long for. When you pull back, Tim keeps you close, smiling like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time, though he’s known your heart and potential for nearly a decade.

A quiet gasp draws your attention, and you both look to the door as Penelope says, “I’m telling Chocolate Thunder!”

[emo-batboy]

Things Battinson Totally Did During His First Year of University

Using Unhinged or Odd Things I Also Did as a College Freshman :D

Note: for this list, let’s believe Bruce was living in an (admittedly expensive and swanky) dorm because it is required for first-years, especially those entering at a young age, and Alfred told him he needed to make friends. Also yes I did every single thing on this list. I never claimed to be a role model

Bruce, to his TA: I’m so sorry I’m late to class. I gave blood a few hours ago and almost fainted on the way here, but it won’t happen again.

Signs up for a class called “Age of Dinosaurs” despite it not being required whatsoever and proceeds to work his entire schedule around it

Bruce: Your mental health is super important. If you think you should see the on-campus therapist, go see them. Friend: Fine. I’ll sign up for therapy if you sign up for therapy too. Bruce: Hold on-

Finds a loophole in his housing contract that allows him to get a pet frog, calls him kermit :)

Gets a second frog because Kermit was lonely, names it Constantine after Muppets Most Wanted, then realizes that they’re gay for each other. Wonders if the rainbow-colored rocks he got them triggered anything

Swings dramatically between calling Alfred every single day and ghosting him for weeks, cries when he realizes what he did

“Accidentally” joins the student body council, doesn’t know what he’s doing, gets re-elected anyway

Molds a dragon out of Laffy Taffy instead of doing his work

Bruce: *joins Honors, gets all A’s, takes the max amount of classes, has several minors, overachieves* Also Bruce: I’m a failure.

Breaks into a building after hours to study because NO ONE KNOWS HOW TO SHUT THE FUCK UP AT THE LIBRARY

Bruce: I will not get seasonal depression this year. Bruce: *gets real and seasonal depression that year*

Meticulously schedules his day with a color-coded planner because if he sits down for too long, the thoughts will consume him

Gives a presentation to his rhetoric class on how much he likes Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse (it is 20 minutes long)

Successfully allocates funding from the student body council to pay for free feminine products in the dorms OUT OF SPITE because someone said it couldn't be done. fuck you, Andrew

Bruce: It is not an all-nighter if I go to sleep before my first class. Friend: It is 7:30am, the sun is in the sky, and your first class is at 12:30. Bruce: But I am getting sleep.

Refuses to go anywhere without his backpack because what if he needs three notebooks at once

Loses over 20 pounds because ✨stress✨ and scares the shit out of Alfred when he comes home for Thanksgiving

Argues with his TA over the one (1) question he got wrong on his Dinosaur exam

Bruce, calling Alfred: Hello father figure. How do I do taxes? Do I have to do them myself? Also, I think I’m having a panic attack.

Joins in on a charity arts-and-crafts project that gives kids books with matching activities made by volunteers, proceeds to commandeer the project because “it’s not color-blind friendly” and rewrites the instructions for everyone

Makes a murder wall

Goes to one (1) sports game and proceeds to leave in the first ten minutes because it’s way too loud wtf is wrong with people

Professor, addressing the lecture hall: I dare you to write an essay about these two sentences. Bruce: *writes an essay about six words, gets a 100, never even read the book*

Crawls into the ceiling for some alone time

Ghosts someone after a date because he’s too scared to tell them he didn’t know it was a date in the first place and now he feels bad

Classmate: How tf does he walk across campus that fast? I go in the same direction he does on my bike, and he’s always ahead of me. Bruce: *is gay sprinting to Dinosaur class*

Refuses to let others use his Favorite Pen TM

Constantly gets mistaken for a Grad Student because he is “so wise and mature” (bestie, that’s the autism)

Alfred: *casually mentions he got into a car accident through text* Bruce: *replies with a meme while hyperventilating because he doesn’t know what to do with that information??!*

Wears a suit to one of his finals

Regularly eats non-organic food for the first time in his life, proceeds to learn about several allergies Alfred forgot to mention he has

Writes “What is a Hot Pocket?” in calligraphy and proceeds to laugh his ass off alone in his dorm because he is so exhausted he’s reached the point of delusion

Locks himself out of his dorm right before class, frantically asks the floor group chat if someone can help, proceeds to tell the nice gay man on the floor who saved him “I love you” because his social skills have hit rock bottom

Makes a little music album display next to his desk for his favorite band (Nirvana) His friends call it a shrine, and they are technically correct

Has a blacklist of people he refuses to interact with because Reasons

Counselor: What do you want to do when you graduate? Bruce: *gestures vaguely*

Refuses to take the bus because there are people in there and he doesn’t like those

Loses one of his frogs, how tf did he do that, they’re fully aquatic, oh fuck, this is probably why they got rid of that loophole a year later because unbeknownst to Bruce, he accidentally started a frog revolution in the dorms, btw he SWEARS he did not mean to do that

Has two trash cans in his room: one for the Good Garbage, and one for the Bad Garbage. Only Bruce knows which is which

Bruce: *writes a creative piece about a ship’s final thoughts as it sinks, bringing its passengers down with it* TA: Absolutely lovely, Bruce, but are you okay?

Goes on Night Walks, keeps himself safe by maintaining a level 12 resting bitch face at all times

Earns the nickname “8th floor cryptid” after pacing the halls at 3am when it’s too cold for Night Walks (honestly tho how tf didn’t he get the nickname earlier?)

Bruce: Do you think a depressed person could do this? Bruce: *has a manic episode*

Okay that's all love you BYE

[lavendermin]

Stop, about the Mimi being protective of pregnant reader....I imagine it carried out even when the baby was born...like when rhe baby is in bed giggling and Mimi circles around them then growl when jy wants to see his baby..I also think mimi would take the baby w her and JY and reader was STRESSED when their baby is gone only to find their baby fell asleep in the warmth of Mimi🥹

You’re so right 100%

Jing Yuan is often busy so your company mostly consists of Mimi for most of the time and the few regular faces you’ll see at the estate. And now that you’re pregnant, Jing Yuan takes extra precaution appointing several of his most entrusted contacts to keep you safe when he isn’t by your side.

cw | pregnancy, suggestive

Who would have known that Mimi, the majestic white lion, who was at first mostly indifferent to you is now suddenly glued to your side like a needy lap cat. And you could only pinpoint this shift in behavior with the progression of your pregnancy.

You started noticing the small shifts two months into your pregnancy. Mimi would follow you from room to room when Jing Yuan wasn’t around. Its icy blue eyes would bore into those who came to speak with you, a little guarded. But Mimi was intelligent—Jing Yuan had expressed this himself to you on many occasions since knowing him. It would not harm anyone that wasn’t a true threat.

When someone asks to feel your belly, Mimi will make a low rumbling sound as a threat. Still, early on it’s no problem and it’s a little situation you easily dispel with comforting assurances and scratches behind Mimi’s ear.

It only becomes a bigger issue when you’re about five months into the pregnancy. Jing Yuan has just come back from a rather long expedition for official business—forty-six days to be exact. And his heart is light with the notion that he finally gets to hold his lovely wife, so wonderful and pregnant, for the first time in weeks.

“My love, it’s good to see you back safe and sound,” you greet, hobbling over from where you were resting on the couch with Mimi obediently at your feet. You look positively radiant like this, your tummy rounded with his child and your body soft and glowing.

Strange, Jing Yuan thinks as he removes some of his armor and regalia. It isn’t lost on him how Mimi follows closely by your side, almost supporting you as you walk to make sure your balance is ensured.

“Ive counted the days until I could see you again,” he grins, hand settling on your hip.

As he leans in to properly greet you with a kiss, Jing Yuan is nudged away. Rather forcibly, he might add. Mimi huffs as it wedges itself between yourself and the general.

“Snow Lion,” he commands with a look.

Mimi looks away with an annoyed flick of its tail, unmoving and nudging your hand to pet its mane. Usually Mimi is well-behaving and certainly well-trained. You can’t help but laugh and bend down to place a smooch to the top of the lion’s mane.

“Husband, I do believe little Mimi is a tad upset you left me alone for so long.”

“This hasn’t been a problem before, so it should not pose an issue now,” he ponders, a little bewildered.

After a few affections and sweet words from you all is well and Jing Yuan is able to properly dote on you like the starved man he is. Well…not without Mimi in the same vicinity as you both catch up over dinner and a stroll through the gardens.

That same night poses another issue. With your soft body under his rough hands, Jing Yuan is eager to please you tonight to make up for lost time while he was away. He’s barely gotten you worked up with desperate kisses and heated touches when he hears it.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

At first, he pays it no mind. Eager to see you fall apart and taste you on his tongue again. It’s you who halts his advances as you break a kiss with a chuckle upon hearing the scratching again and a few low rumbles.

“Love, I think Mimi wants to come into the room,” you mutter against his lips. Jing Yuan sighs, burying his face in your shoulder.

Though he’s painfully hard and just wants to ravage his pregnant wife, he relents and throws on a robe to open the chamber door. The white lion wastes no time walking over and onto the bed, curling up next to you.

“My bed and wife taken over by my own lion,” he sighs, crossing his arms as he watches the lion purr contently against you.

It becomes a regular habit that you unfortunately spoil Mimi with. Your baby is quite fond of Mimi’s purring after all and likewise Mimi is fond of feeling the baby’s kicks.

Jing Yuan is still luckily spared the ability to love you how he wants when time allows but not without your coaxing Mimi that everything is ok and to stand guard at the door instead. At the very least, you have one more form of protection. He has to convince himself of this at least when he sees you fast asleep against Mimi when he returns late some nights. He’s nonetheless fascinated that such an intelligent creature has found instinct in protecting someone who is expecting. Perhaps luck truly favors the bold.

In the months that follow, your baby is born without issue and Mimi is still just as overprotective if not more of the newborn. Surely it understands that your daughter is a frail cub that cannot be left to the elements. And perhaps it’s due to Mimi’s constant purring against you during your pregnancy, but whenever your daughter begins to whine or cry Mimi will diligently lay near her and purr gently to soothe the baby.

And it works. Every time.

You’re almost a little shocked.

And of course, when Jing Yuan goes to check up on your daughter Mimi will growl defensively. It will never act on it, no. He isn’t a threat.

It’s more of a warning. Ensure this cub’s safety or else.

“Snow Lion, she needs to be fed. These worries are not good for your heart,” he scolds without much bite to his words as he rocks the infant gently, formula bottle in hand.

(I do like to think that since Jing Yuan canonically now refers to Mimi as Snow Lion upon discovering it’s a lion, you will prefer to use Mimi because you think it’s cuter. The lion definitely shows more biased response to you using Mimi because of your coos and affections.)

It’s all well and good until the day your daughter goes missing (for like a solid five minutes in the estate). She’s missing from her crib in the few minutes it took for you to grab a new change of clothes for her as you got ready to give her a bath. You immediately call for Jing Yuan since she’s nowhere to be found in the nursery or your room. She’s disappeared along with the blanket she was in.

And somehow Jing Yuan gets the immediate suspicion the lion is somehow involved when he notices Mimi’s absence from your side. He remains calm.

“What time is it, my dear wife.”

“Wh- it’s a quarter past noon. What–”

Jing Yuan takes your hand with a reassuring smile and leads you across the estate to one of the main sun rooms overlooking the garden. It’s where the afternoon sun filters just right through the large glass windows and thin curtains—Mimi’s favorite sunbathing spot.

And no doubt, the lion is there, curled up against the sun’s rays as they filter warmly into the room. Your daughter is bundled up and gently laid upon a little nest pile of blankets within the warmth of the afternoon sun. She sleeps soundly, small hand clutched tightly around a lock of Mimi’s mane.

You both sigh in relief. It certainly isn’t a conventional babysitter, but Mimi is nothing if not intelligent and loyal.

[samthestrangerthingsfan]

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: friends-to-lovers, mutual pining, lots of parallels, reader is a lil down on herself but don't worry, eddie is down bad for her.

Warnings: swearing, mentions of weed and smoking, smut!! 18+, minors DNI.

AN: do i write 90% of my fics based on what pops into my head when i hear a certain song? yeah. also this is only half edited bc life. enjoy bbs <3

“Okay, okay,” You laughed. “One more hit then I’m tapped out, Eds.”

Eddie grinned, speaking through a half-held breath. “Oh no, Sweetheart. New stuff hittin’ a little too hard?”

You inhaled deeply, passing back to him what was left of the joint. It went straight to your head, and you flopped back, laying comfortably on Eddie’s bed.

Eddie inhaled, following suit, making your body bounce as he hit the mattress.

“Shit,” he mumbled. “Feel like I’m fuckin’ flying.” He grips your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Don’t let me float away, okay?”

You smile at him, taking in how fucking beautiful he looks under the dim lights in his bedroom.

“Never. You’re stuck with me, Eds.”

He looks down at you, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He took you in like he'd done 100 times before. Eyes trailing from your nose, to your eyes, landing at your mouth.

So fucking beautiful.

“Good," he breathes, pulling you in closer. "Just the way I like it.”

Eddie let go of you hand, only to wrap his arm around you and pull you into his chest. He placed a kiss to the crown of your head, "This okay?"

It's all I want. You think.

"Or do we have to get up and go watch that cheesy chick-flick I promised we'd watch.

You sighed, fiddling with the hem of your denim skirt. "I'd stay here all night if you let me."

That's all I want. He thinks.

Eddie leans back a bit, looking down at you. He's not sure if it's the weed making his so emotional, but he swears he could cry just looking into your eyes. "What am I gonna do if one of these dates you keep going on works out? What if someone takes you from me?"

He tries to sound relaxed, but the truth is, the thought keeps him up at night. There’s gonna be a guy that steals you away from him one of these days. Someone who can give you everything he can’t, someone brave enough to open their mouth and tell you just how much they love you.

and it'll crush him.

The laugh that escapes you is a cynical one, "Eddie, I've been on three dates with three different men, and I've gone home alone each time."

"So?" He asks.

"So," You scoff. "It means no one is interested in doing anything with me."

It’s true—to you at least. The guys you’d gone out with were either not looking to be tied down, or ran once they met you. The last guy thought you’d be easy because ‘the freak’s best friend has to be a freak herself right?’

The dates were a distraction for you. As your heart pined over the one guy you could have it all with, it was breaking too. Eddie hadn’t made a move on you—ever, and you weren’t brave enough too.

So the two of you sat in limbo, completely unaware that the other person was right there with you.

Eddie sits back, releasing you from his arms. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" You ask, sitting back as well.

"That. Act like you're the problem, and not these shitty fucking dudes you keep going out with.” Eddie tried to control his tone, but his temper got the better of him. He cursed at himself for it.

Jesus H. Christ, Munson, get it together.

You push back from him fully now, "Eddie, the common denominator is me. I-I'm fucking broken or something."

“Stop that.” He seethed.

It’s a command—a tone you've heard him use with Steve, or Dustin, but not you.

Never with you.

Eddie stood as you sat up, hanging your legs off the edge of the bed.

"What--"

He turned back and got to his knees right in front of you.

“Stop talking about yourself like that. It’s fucking ridiculous.”

He was close to you, and with him on his knees, his gaze was just at your eye level. “You’re not broken. There's nothing wrong with you, you’re—you’re fucking perfect.”

“Eddie…”

“No, no, just…just shush for a second.” Eddie moved his hand to your cheek, his thumb sweeping across it gently. “You think all this shit about yourself and it’s just not fucking true. I wish, for a second, you could see yourself how I see you. I fucking adore you.”

You feel the warmth of his breath on your nose. His large hand on your cheek warms you, and you lean into the touch, closing your eyes.

Everything is Eddie in this moment. He’s invading every sense you had.

It’s overwhelming.

You can feel your eyes brim with tears. “You don’t have to say that, Eds. I’m okay. I’m just…I’m lonely, that’s all.”

Eddie’s breath caught in his throat. He watched you, he saw the tears hidden beneath your lashes. How could you not see it? See how you were…everything to him?

His mind stopped for a moment, deciding whether or not to take the leap, to risk it all and not run for once.

Fuck it.

“I’m right here, Princess. I’ve been right here.” He leans his forehead on yours.

You exhale his name, “Eddie,”

“What,” he’s quick to ask. “What is it, Sweetheart?”

Your on fire with how close he is to you. But he doesn’t mean it, not in the way you hoped he would…does he?

Your eyes open, seeing his beautiful brown ones searching your face for some kind of clue as to what you’re feeling. You clasp your hand on top of his. “Please,” you beg. “Please don’t say things you don’t mean just to make me feel better. My heart can’t take it.”

He laughs softly, bringing his other hand up. He’s cradling your face gently, “Oh, Honey. You have no idea just how much I mean it.”

Eddie is overwhelmed with you. You’re everywhere, and he can’t fucking think straight. Probably a good thing right about now, because he’s about to do something he never thought he’d be lucky enough to do.

“Can,” he clears his throat. “Can I kiss you, Baby?”

With zero hesitation, you nod, earning a chuckle from Eddie.

“Gotta use your words, sweet thing.”

“Yes,” it comes out as a plea. “Kiss me...please.”

Warm warm warm.

It’s all you feel when he leans in. Then his soft lips are on yours, all the while he’s holding you as if you’d be the one to float away.

Eddie kisses you like he’s done it a thousand times. Like he knows your lips and the pattern that drives them crazy. He’s trying to tell you everything he’s been too afraid to say since the moment he met you.

There’s no one but you.

You’re everything.

I love you, please, let me love you.

Regrettably, you pull away. Breathless from the kiss, but also how surreal this moment is.

“I-I,” you sigh, touching your forehead to his. “I’ve wanted to do that for forever.” It comes out as whisper. As if you’d scare him away if you said it too loud.

Eddie smiles, a relieved laugh passing his lips. “Yeah?”

You nod, “Yeah.”

It’s quiet for a beat, Eddie is looking at you so softly and with such care.

“You’re so beautiful.” He says with all of the conviction in the world. “My pretty girl.”

“Am I?” You ask. “Am I yours?”

He nods, "If you want to be." He moves his hands, resting one on each thigh. He rubs them absentmindedly, likes he's trying to flatten the goosebumps that had prickled across your skin. “...and I’m yours. You've got me, Honey.”

Eddie's grin was still a shy one. You brush your hand across his face, pushing back any stray hairs. "Eds?"

He grips your wrist gently, placing small, tender kisses along the inside of it. The gesture is so simple, but it sends a heat through you like you've never experienced before.

"What is it, pretty girl? Whatever you want, whatever you need...it's yours."

You intertwine your fingers with his smoothly, "You, Eddie. Need you. Wanna make you feel good, Eds."

Now it was his turn to get goosebumps.

"Fuck, Angel. You can't just say that to me." He breathes.

Your bedroom eyes blink twice, "Please?"

A strangled moan vibrates from his chest, "Who am I to deny the fair maiden what she asks for?" Eddie stands, holding out a hand for you.

You're pulled to your feet by him, and he's looking at you through a brand new set of eyes. "One problem with that though, Princess. You come first."

You gasp as his hands take purchase of your ass, pulling you into him. "If anything, and I mean anything is too much, or too weird, you tell me, okay?"

You're nodding again, and he tuts at you. "Uh-uh. Words, baby."

Your arms fall around his neck and you press your body against his. "Yes, sir."

"Ho-ly-shit." He moans. "Yeah, I'm gonna kiss you now. Cool? Cool."

He's hungrier this time, kissing with teeth and tongue as his roaming hands explore your body.

"Eddie, Eddie..." You breath through swollen lips. "Too many clothes."

"You a mind reader or something?" He jokes, ripping the t-shirt from his body. His body was a work of art in more ways than one, and seeing it now, like this, made you crave it all the more.

You watch as Eddie falls to his knees, "Can I?" He asks, pulling at your skirt.

"God, yes."

He unbuttons the fastener, pulling the distressed denim down until it's pooling at your ankles. Eddie then came face to face with your black-lace covered heat.

"I-I'm dead right? I've died and now I'm at the pearly gates."

Your hands cover your face, "Eddie! Stop!"

He stands quickly, "No, baby, no. God, please don't hide from me." He pulls your hands away gently.

Your shirt is next to go, and so is the matching bra. Eddie pulls his pants down, leaving his boxers on.

"Lay down for me, Princess. Wanna take care of you.”

The timber of his voice makes you tremble. Once your comfortable on the bed, Eddie climbs on too.

“Now, I know this is all new, and we’re figuring things out as we go, but…” Eddie pauses, laying on his stomach between your legs.

He starts kissing his way up your legs. “I’ve been dreaming of eating this pussy for a long, kiss, long, kiss, long time.”

You’re so turned on you can barely speak, but you manage to get out a quiet. “Well what are you waiting for?”

Your thong is thrown into parts unknown, and Eddie starts to feast like a man starved.

“Eddie, fuck—“ his tongue explores your heat. His hands hold onto your hips as you grind down onto his mouth.

“Uh-uh, don’t hold back. Wanna hear you, Princess.” He dives back in, lips sucking on your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. He slips in one, the two fingers. Pumping and curling them slowly until he finds the spot that makes you see stars.

The fire in your belly is growing and you feel your legs start to shake. “Holy fuck, Eds—Eds I’m gonna cum!” Your hands take purchase in his hair, giving it a sharp tug as you feel the heat engulf you.

Eddie eats your pussy, drinking you in as you cum.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” You release your grip on his hair as you come down from your high.

Eddie crawls up your body, kissing you. You taste yourself all over his tongue. “Don’t be sorry, Baby. Let’s me know you’re enjoying yourself,” he kisses you once more. “Plus, I kinda like it.”

You’re both breathing heavy.

Now it’s his turn.

Your hands touch his shoulder, pushing him gently. “What’re you doing, pretty girl?” He asks softly.

When Eddie’s leaned back against the headboard, you pull his boxers off. Pink, uncut cock springing from it's confines.

God damn...he's fucking huge.

"Gonna ride you, Eds. Let you feel what you did to me." You climbed on top of him, "Can I do that? Can I make you feel good?"

Eddie's nodding, not sure what part of you he wants to look at more.

"Uh-uh," you tease. "Use your words, Handsome."

"Fuck," He breathes. He palms your bare chest, moving the pads of his thumbs over your nipples. "Do whatever you want to me, use me, I'm yours." He leans forward, hot mouth latching to your other breast.

You sit up, allowing Eddie's hard length to slip inside your aching cunt. The sheer stretch and size is enough to snatch the breath from your lungs.

"Eds...Eds, shit. S'big." You moan.

His eyes close as he bottoms out inside of you, "So tight. Fuckin' pussy was made for me, she wants my cock. Won't let it go. She greedy, baby?"

You adjust to his size filling the void inside you. Eddie hold your hips as you begin to ride him, helping you to keep a steady rhythm.

"Look at you, Princess. Cock-drunk already, hm?" He teases.

Eddie is whispering praises as he fucks up into you.

Such a good girl.

Taking me so well.

My pretty girl.

Mine.

Eddie's pace quickens, and you feel the tremble return to your legs.

"Eddie, fuck, I--"

"I know, Honey. I can feel it, feel you squeezin' me. Let go, Angel. Go on, cum for me."

His words are like a spell.

You cum harder than you did on his mouth, and this time, it's his cock that's drenched in your essence.

"Gonna cum, Sweetheart. Where--"

You're entirely lost in everything Eddie. "Inside me, Eds. Fuck, please cum inside me."

"Shit, shit, shit." Eddie's moves become erratic. Sloppy thrusts chasing his release, and when he does, he all but growls in your ear.

He's breathless and spent, but his arms wrap around you. Eddie holds you, softening inside you. He kisses the center of your chest, the trail making its way across your shoulder, up your jaw, and to your lips.

"Hi." He says quietly.

You giggle softly, "Hi."

"So uh, not sure if this is a good time or not..."

You kiss his nose, "Hmm?"

"I-I...I love you. I don't know, just felt like someone should tell you, might as well be me." Eddie's big brown eyes search your face for any sign of regret or discomfort.

Nothing.

You kiss him deeply, "I'm glad you told me, otherwise I'd be sitting over here, in love with you, looking all silly by myself."

Eddie holds you tighter. "You, you love me?"

You giggle, "Edward Munson. I love you."

He pulls you closer, "You love me." It's a statement now.

Eddie lays his head against your bare chest. "I'm gonna get you cleaned up in a second, Sweetheart. Just wanna hold you for a little."

Rubbing small circles on his back, you kissed the top of his head. "I'm not going anywhere, Handsome."

[loppsided]

b. blake as your boyfriend

summary: dating bellamy blake headcanons!

pairing: bellamy blake x fem!reader

wc: 387

warnings: none

a/n: omg!! im sooo sorry for not posting. these last few months have been so hectic for me. im going to write a few fics to hold down for a few days. i will try my hardest to get to requests. reblogs and likes appreciated.

you were one of the 100, being the unofficial official second in command behind clarke

you were a fighter, taught by trikru

at first you thought bellamy was a total ass, screwing things up for everybody because he was scared of jaha coming down to earth

you two argued all the time, challenging each others authorities

you never saw eye to eye but that all changed when he finally starting acting like a good person

you two got closer due to you both helping clarke make decisions for the group

going on hunting parties or scavenge missions together and talking about everything

him opening up to you about his mother, how she taught him about greek mythology and how much he cares about octavia

spending time together in arkadia even when your not doing anything

it took awhile for you to confess to each other since your both so stubborn

you had taken a horse without telling anyone, trying to blow off some steam when warriors from azgeda attacked you

when bellamy saw you walking back into arkadia bleeding and wounded he almost lost his mind

"you could've been killed! how could you be so stupid"

"your not the boss of me, i can handle myself, why do you even care."

"because i love you!"

or something like that, really out of the blue and in the heat of the moment

you two had your first kiss that night

cleaning each others wounds after battles

him always having his eye on you because hes scared to lose you

would literally die to protect you

protective and sometimes overbearing to the point you have to remind him you're a warrior

practicing combat together, always joking around while doing so

100% the jealous type always giving dudes side eyes when they look at you for too long

checking up on each other too see how the others doing mentally since something stressful is always going on

you admiring how adamant he is on making things right and being a good person

making out every time you two are alone

not the biggest on pda but will show affection before he goes on a scavenge

puts you first no matter what, always making sure your safe

very thoughtful boyfriend putting your needs before his because he loves you so much

[collaredsoldat]

Domestic Winter Soldier / Soldat Stuff

warnings: PTSD | Slight self-harm | Mentions past abuse

a/n: Idk I wanted to write this because he deserves some love even when he's the soldier. Various hcs about domestic life with the Winter Soldier. Actual fics in the works. I run four blogs so I try to balance it all. Not edited ignore mistakes.

Soldat is a little awkward with home life at first. He isn't sure what to do, being free from constant control isn't something he can easily adjust to.

He looks to you for commands all the time. Can he sit? Can he go to the bathroom? Can he sleep? Can he eat? Every little thing he does. You have to reassure him that he doesn't need to ask permission for anything, but he still does.

He sometimes gets snappy at you, since he still can't decide whether or not to trust you 100% or not. He can't understand why someone is being so nice to him.

Sometimes he accidentally breaks something and he flinches away from you, or he hides out of fear. You have to coax him out, telling him it's okay and that you're not going to hurt him. He always hesitates.

He struggles to sleep so he comes into your room most nights and stares at you or roughly shakes you to wake you up. "Can't sleep." he speaks lowly, and he grunts and climbs over you into your bed, never waiting for a response. At first he sleeps away from the door, but as time goes on he moves to sleep closest to the door in case any unlucky person breaks into your apartment.

Very much like a cat, he stays back but when he wants attention he sort of just...flops near you and demands it by laying on you somehow, or sitting super close so your bodies are touching.

He watches you cook a lot. He sits down at the counter and watches or he stands over you and watches. Sometimes you have to pull him away from the stove because the oil will burn him and he doesn't bother moving away on his own.

He's much more curious than you'd think. He watches you do a lot of things, almost as if he's never seen anything like it. Something as simple as brushing your hair or doing laundry, he's mesmerized by it.

When he's not watching you do something, you notice that he just stares a lot. He always watches you, at first out of uneasiness, but then...just because. He's always watching you, almost like he's worried you'll disappear.

You help him shower, he doesn't like touching his scars. He tries to rub them away, and he's tries to claw his metal arm off. So you help him clean to prevent him from going into one of those episodes of hurting himself in that way.

He used to get aggressive when you came around him when he was naked, treating you like some big threat, but you realized this was something more than just fear. It took a lot for him to get comfortable enough to allow you to touch him in the shower/bath.

For being so heavily trained as the best assassin, he's quite accident prone. Nothing major, but enough to warrant some kind of care. He feels a little confused whenever he gets hurt by accident, like he never expected the corner of the table to leave a small cut on his flesh arm. He focuses too much on things he knows hurt, that other things go unnoticed.

He learns to cook with you some days, he was tired of just watching. It's a good way to show him you trust him too, letting him handle things like knives or sharp objects without worrying he will hurt you.

You learn he really likes pie. Apple pie especially.

You also learn the alarm on the oven is too loud for him so you use your phone instead.

If you bring him out with you, he's very protective. His head is on a swivel, constantly observing everyone around you. He stays glued to your side, not letting you take many steps away from him.

Gets overstimulated easily.

Sounds that are similar to a blender or electricity freak him out. A bug zapper is also a sound he hates.

Some foods he looks at with newfound curiosity, like he hadn't seen them before. There are things he doesn't even recognize, newer or modernized things, he didn't know what to think. What the hell is an air fryer? How do you fry with air??

Get one and watch how he looks at it with amazement and confusion.

He seeks out spaces where he can be alone a lot, he needs space sometimes and you understand.

During bad episodes he sometimes disappears from your apartment, making you panic a little each time. You find him in alleys or the streets from time to time, he never wanders too far. You are worried sick but your priority is to get him back home.

It's hard for him to show it, but he does appreciate you and everything you've done for him. He gives you hugs from behind a lot, sometimes he whispers a word to you, but mostly he's silent.

He likes puzzles. He likes putting them together. Maybe because he himself feels like there are so many pieces of himself missing and it's satisfying to fill a picture.

One thing that calms him down are fresh cookies. Chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, he can go from high strung to calm and docile.

He hates porridge and/or oatmeal. It's too similar to the things he was forced to eat in HYDRA. Tasteless slop, he can't stand the texture.

He loves when you brush his hair. His scalp is sensitive since he had his hair yanked and pulled so much, but you're always gentle. He loves feeling your fingers run through it and it puts him to sleep within minutes.

You're the only one who can touch his scars. Not that he is close to anyone else, but he doesn't fight you when your hand roams over where metal meets flesh.

Watches over you when you sleep a lot, his eyes glued to the door and his ears alert to every single sound. He stays up until he literally can't keep his eyes open.

He's very attached to you and never wants to leave you, ever.

Dividers by @/strangergraphics