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punkshort · 15 days ago

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Swept Away: Season Two

Chapter One: Long Time, No Sea

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter Summary: You and Joel return to Fiji, and Tommy gives you the grand tour of the new hotel.

Chapter Warnings: language, fluff, wedding talk, smut (18+ MDNI), airplane sex, unprotected piv sex, light dom vibes, fingering, food and alcohol consumption, brief mention of OC substance abuse, possessiveness

WC: 6.7K

Series Masterlist

Eight Months Later

You breathed in a deep sigh as you scrolled through your emails in the back of the town car. It was pitch black outside as Richie drove you through the silent streets of Los Angeles to the airport, where Joel's private jet awaited your arrival.

"Don't be checkin' work now," Joel scolded from beside you. When your eyes shifted to him, you scoffed when you saw him doing the exact thing he told you not to do. He glanced up when he heard the noise and smirked.

"I got a company to run. You can relax a few hours til people are awake."

You rolled your eyes, chalking your attitude up to three hours of sleep and very little coffee, then stuffed your phone in your bag.

"It wasn't work, anyway."

"What was it?" he asked, sounding distracted.

"Wedding stuff," you shrugged, letting your gaze drift out the tinted window.

Joel put his phone in his lap and turned to you. "Nadia's buggin' you at this hour?"

Nadia was the highly recommended, very expensive wedding planner Joel had hired. She was wonderful: she had been in the business over ten years and had incredible taste. The problem you kept running into was the fact she was so goddamn detailed. She wanted your opinion on every possible thing, even down to the napkin rings, giving you at least ten different options, most of which looked exactly the same to you.

"I don't think she ever sleeps," you joked.

"What's she askin' 'bout now?"

"Fonts for the menus."

Joel shot you an incredulous look and you giggled. "It's a lot of work planning a wedding for over three hundred people."

"And you're doin' a great job," Joel assured you. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to help you more. I'm gonna be better-"

"No, no, it's fine," you said, cutting him off. But Joel shook his head and pocketed his phone before holding out his hand and wiggling his fingers.

"I'll pick the font. Lemme see."

"You want to pick the font for our dinner menu?" you squeaked. He grinned and nodded, hand still outstretched.

"Can't be that hard. Feels like somethin' I could handle."

You hummed and pulled your phone back out so you could bring up Nadia's email with the attached samples, then handed it over. You bit your lip when Joel squinted and tucked his chin into his chest before relenting and pulling out his glasses.

"You didn't need those to read your emails?"

"I need 'em 'cause all these damn fonts look exactly the same, baby," he murmured while his eyes scanned your screen for a few minutes. Finally, he huffed and shrugged his shoulders before picking one and holding it up. "How's that?"

"Edwardian Script," you read from your phone, then nodded. "Sure. I'll send it back to her."

"Unless you like somethin' else," he began.

"Nope, I love it," you told him as you typed out your reply to Nadia. Then you tucked your phone away and looked at him. "Besides, none of it really matters. I just want you."

Joel smiled and lovingly pinched your chin. "You got me. Always did." Then his lips brushed softly over yours and for a moment, all the stress that had been building up from work and wedding planning melted away.

"We're here, sir," Richie said from the front seat. You pulled away and peered through the front windshield at the dark tarmac where only Joel's plane sat, all lit up.

"You ready to open this damn hotel so we can have ourselves a wedding in a couple months?" Joel asked softly, fingers still stroking your jaw. You grinned and nodded before planting one more kiss on his lips.

"I'd marry you right here at the airport," you said, making him smile wide, "but Fiji does sound a little better, I guess."

Richie parked the town car and immediately jumped out to open your door. You took his hand and thanked him, shouldering your bag while Joel scooted out behind you and shook Richie's hand.

"Keep a good eye on the place."

"Will do, sir."

You threw your arms around Richie's neck and thanked him again with the promise to bring him and his wife something back from the island, then eagerly took Joel's hand so he could lead you to the plane.

A feeling of déjà vu came over you when you greeted the familiar looking pilot and crew. A lot had changed since the last time you found yourself boarding Joel's private jet to head off to paradise. You entered the cabin and dropped your bag on the couch with a tired sigh, hoping that this trip would be a lot less stressful than the last.

It was very early and you were beyond exhausted, so once the plane took off and you got the all clear to unbuckle your seatbelts, you made a beeline for the bedroom to curl up and rest. With a loud yawn, Joel followed, which was how you found yourself intertwined hours later.

When you cracked open one eye, you could tell from the beam of light desperately trying to break through around the circular covered windows that it was later in the morning. The sun had already risen high enough in the sky for it to be bright enough to wake you. It wasn't something you were used to; sleeping in. Even on the weekends, your body was so used to waking up that by seven at the latest, you were tossing and turning. But if you thought you were bad, Joel was worse. He was normally up before the sun. By the time you made your way downstairs, he was typically just leaving the home gym or eating breakfast. So to have him wrapped around you from behind still snoring softly in your ear while the sun shone brightly in the sky, your instinct told you to savor it.

You closed your eyes and leaned back into his hold, burrowing into his chest and soaking up his warmth. With the chaos of the wedding planning and the hotel on the brink of opening in just two weeks, life had been hectic. It was nice to have some time for just the two of you.

It was so peaceful, you nearly found yourself drifting back to sleep, but then you felt Joel's beard tickle your neck. Half a second later, he inhaled deeply and his arms flexed around your middle, tugging you slightly closer. A satisfied groan rumbled in his chest when he woke up enough to remember where you were, and then his lips grazed the side of your neck.

You giggled when his beard dragged across that sensitive spot behind your ear and you felt him smile against your skin.

"Mornin'."

You shuddered at his thick, sleep addled voice. "Good morning," you said sleepily. Your body felt boneless, muscles perfectly relaxed. "How much more time do you think we have?"

With a heavy sigh, Joel rolled back to tap a button on the nightstand behind him. Like magic, a small television quietly emerged from the depths of a dresser situated across the room. Then the screen lit up, showing a tiny airplane arcing over the ocean. On the side of the screen, stats were listed, including how much time was left on your flight.

"Got eight more hours," he said before pressing a soft kiss against your throat. You smiled and closed your eyes when his arms wrapped around you once again, pleased he wasn't in his usual rush to get up and check his phone. But then his hips bumped into you, giving away his arousal, and it dawned on you why he wasn't in a hurry that particular day.

"Do you have any ideas on how we can pass the time?" you asked breathlessly. His fingers began to toy with the hem of your sweatshirt, making you squirm under the covers. Without answering, his hand disappeared up your front. He slid slowly across your belly until he was cupping one breast in his palm, causing you to sharply suck in air through your nose when his thumb brushed over your nipple.

"No bra?"

"I had just rolled out of bed, remember?" you whispered. Joel made a pleased noise behind you before switching to your other breast.

"Can't wait to see you in those bikinis again," he said softly against your ear.

"You see me in bikinis all the time at home," you gasped, eyelids fluttering as he continued to tease you underneath your sweatshirt.

"Ain't the same. You're different at the beach. More relaxed." His lips grazed your shoulder and you whined. You hadn't even realized you were rolling your hips into his as he flicked and rolled your nipples until his other hand flattened out across your stomach to stop you. "You want it bad, huh?" he teased.

You pressed your lips firmly together and nodded. A sigh of relief broke free when he slipped his fingers past your waistband, dipping experimentally through your slit.

"Shit," he hissed, "you do want it bad."

"Joel," you moaned, hand reaching behind to curl around the back of his head. He slipped two fingers inside you, earning a gasp from you both, then slowly began to stretch you open. Every time he withdrew his fingers, he slid them up to your clit, circling it wetly once or twice before diving back inside. As the pressure between your legs grew, each leisurely swirl and thrust pushing you higher and higher, you began to search for his mouth over your shoulder. His lips collided with yours, tongues tangling messily in between your shared moans within the stillness of the cabin.

"Oh, that's it," Joel crooned against your mouth. Your hips were bucking into his hand, chasing your high with little moans that kept getting louder the faster his hand moved. "Give me one, then I'm gonna fuck you so good, you ain't ever gonna wanna leave this bed."

Your orgasm slammed into you, causing your back to arch away from his chest. There was something about the possessive tone in his voice, the authoritative command, assuring you he knew you better than you knew you. He knew what you liked and he knew what you needed. His steady hands were always in control, in every possible way. You loved taking care of him, but you'd be damned if you didn't love it when he took care of you, too.

When he felt your muscles relax and heard a contented sigh leave your lips, he was on you in the blink of an eye. With one quick roll, he had you face down. He reared back and tugged your pants down your legs, tossing them onto the floor before sliding your sweatshirt over your head while you just laid there, still soft and pliant from your climax.

His hands wrapped around your hips, pulling them up while your chest remained pressed against the bed. All at once, he slid his cock inside of you with a heavy groan. You had expected him to fuck you just like that: face resting on the sheets, ass up in the air for his taking, but to your surprise the flat of his hand pushed your lower back down to the bed.

A question formed on your lips but never reached the light of day because he began to move, destroying any chance at finding your voice. His legs bracketed yours, which had been pushed together and stretched straight underneath him, leaving just enough room for his cock to slide in and out of your cunt.

A strangled moan pushed itself past your lips, getting lost in the soft bedding. Joel flopped down, pressing his chest against your back, forearms planted on either side of your head. The angle was so intense and it was nearly impossible to move from the way his body formed a shell around you. All you could do was lie there and take it. Your fingers curled around the plush comforter while his hips rocked against you at a torturously slow pace, forcing you to feel every inch as he murmured filth into your ear.

"How's that, huh? Feel good? This what my girl needed? So full'a me, bet you feel it in your throat." His teeth sunk into your shoulder, pinching your skin at the same time as a particularly hard thrust. It finally made you cry out loud enough that it had him chuckling in your ear, "Flight crew's gonna hear."

It was the last thing on earth you cared about. The only thing that mattered, the only thing that existed was Joel and what he was doing to pull unfathomable amounts of pleasure from your body.

"S-so go-od," you stammered, eyes rolling to the back of your head while Joel continued to fuck you deeper than he ever had before. You must have looked like an absolute mess. Hair tangled from sleep, now spread out across your pillow in every which way. Eyes all glassy, jaw hung open while you struggled to breathe beneath him, but it wasn't his weight that was stealing all the air from your lungs. It was the slow drag of his cock, forcing you to just lie there and feel.

"I like you like this," Joel rasped in your ear. He began to move a little faster then, hips shifting and angling in such a way that it had your vision blurring and your pulse skyrocketing. "Can tell nothin' else is goin' on in that pretty head other than how good it feels when I'm fuckin' you. Am I right?"

You nodded while lifting your ass just the slightest bit. All you could smell was his skin, all you could feel was his warmth, all you could hear was his deep voice telling you how beautiful you were, how hard you worked and how nice it must feel to just relax and let him take care of you.

His palm slid across the top of your hand so your fingers could lace together, but when he felt the sharp sting of your engagement ring between his fingers, he smirked and started to fuck you a little harder. He fucking loved seeing that ring on your left hand again, but loved it even more that you wore the second ring on your right finger. Call him possessive, crazy... whatever, he didn't care. It could not be any fucking clearer who you belonged to now.

Just then, the airplane hit a small patch of turbulence. The shifting in the cabin caused him to drive his cock deeper inside you, making you gasp and cry out his name.

"Shh, baby," he chuckled, but he kept moving. Your other hand reached back, grabbing a handful of his messy curls, tugging him down into the crook of your neck. His mouth immediately got to work, sucking and biting at the skin there until he left little bruises.

It was overwhelming, to say the least. He was everywhere. His body completely covered yours, trapped between him and the bed, cock buried so deep you weren't sure you would be able to walk out of the room when he was done. And just when you thought you couldn't take any more, his lips left your neck to find your mouth, plunging his tongue past your teeth with a groan you felt vibrate against your back.

Your entire body began to shudder when you felt it. That pool of pleasure that had been slowly filling back up was about to overflow. You tried to warn him, but words were hard to come by. Fortunately, his mouth was still seared over yours when it happened.

You might have said his name, or maybe you were just cursing, but either way you knew you were definitely screaming because by the time your orgasm finished crashing over you, your throat felt raw and you were panting for air against his mouth like you had just run a marathon.

"Good girl," he whispered before lifting his head back up. You were grateful for it, the chance to breathe fresh air even while he rammed into you mercilessly for about thirty more seconds, until his body went rigid and he gasped your name, spilling himself deep inside you.

Joel pulled out and sat up, causing your eyes to widen from the sudden loss, and he flipped you back over. His hand caressed your face gently, swiping away tears you didn't even realize were there, as he examined you closely.

"You alright? Was it too much?"

His chest was heaving and his cock was still hard between his legs. He hadn't even given himself a chance to enjoy his release and soften inside you before checking on you.

"I'm good," you rasped, throat still hoarse. Your shaky hand came up to cup his. "Promise. I'm good. Just - holy shit," you whispered, letting your eyes slide closed so you could melt back into the mattress. Joel laughed once he was satisfied you were telling the truth and collapsed next to you.

"You hungry?" he asked casually while unplugging his phone. He bent one leg as he studied the screen, completely naked and unbothered while you were still waiting for your limbs to stop shaking.

"Where on earth do you find the energy?" you asked. His eyes found yours and he shrugged.

"I slept in."

You scoffed and shook your head in disbelief before turning to sit up and gather your clothes. "I'm gonna go wash up," you told him. He made a little noise of acknowledgement as you staggered into the bathroom. When you caught sight of your reflection, you twisted your face in disgust and began to quickly get to work, hoping to make it look a little less like you just had the life fucked out of you before entering the main cabin.

Since you were only a few hours away from landing, you decided to slip on the white linen dress you had picked out. With two fucking rings on your hands, you decided to keep accessories to a minimum and instead just slipped a pair of sunglasses into your purse for later before timidly opening the bedroom door in search of Joel.

As you expected, he was sitting at the table typing away on his laptop. You frowned when you saw he had changed his clothes to a casual short sleeved button down and relaxed khakis.

"Didn't you want to take a shower first?" you asked, sitting across from him. He smirked and shook his head, eyes still glued to the computer screen.

"Nope."

His gaze lifted quickly and he shot you a wink. You laughed and dug around in your duffel bag for a book to read, deciding work could wait.

"What's the plan when we get there?" you asked, leaving your worn paperback on the table in front of you, then reached for a cold bottle of water from the cup holder by the window.

"Tommy's meetin' us at the airport," Joel said, abandoning the keyboard and leaning back into his chair. "He's gonna take us to the hotel. Ain't ready for guests just yet but we're gonna stay in the presidential villa. Wanna take her for a test drive, see if anythin's missin'."

"So, we get the whole hotel to ourselves?" you asked, wiggling your eyebrows. Before Joel could respond, a flight attendant emerged from the galley with two plates of covered food. You both made room on the table and she placed them down in front of you.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" she asked.

"No, we're all set," you said, looking up to give her a friendly smile. Joel agreed and she quickly made her way back into the kitchen, and it was only then you realized she had been unable to look either of you in the eye.

"You don't think they heard us, do you?" you whispered. Joel had already begun eating, but around a mouthful of chicken he gave you a look and slowly nodded.

"You weren't exactly quiet, baby," he reminded you.

Your eyes widened and your face instantly grew hot. Pressing your palms against your cheeks, you shook your head and groaned.

"Oh my god, tell me you're joking."

Joel just laughed and took another bite of food. "None of their goddamn business, who cares?"

"I care!"

"Then next time I'll just have to put somethin' in that pretty mouth of yours to keep you quiet."

Your ears burned and you gently swatted at him from across the table, making him laugh. It was sweet, really, to think about the last time the two of you were on his plane heading to Fiji and how different Joel was now. Before, he was gruff and very serious, entirely focused on business and not at all interested in having any fun once you arrived on the island. To see him now with a smile on his face and wearing casual clothes in place of a stiff suit made your chest swell with happiness.

"Have you heard anything from Sarah?"

"Not yet, but I warned her I'd fuckin' know if she had any parties while we're gone," he said, then checked his phone for any possible missed calls or texts from his daughter.

"Joel, she's seventeen and she's got a whole mansion to herself for the next two weeks. She's going to have friends over."

"Friends is one thing, but I ain't havin' any boys sniffin' 'round her in my own house while I'm gone," he said sternly. You hid your smile behind your fork, secretly adoring the way Joel had become so paternal in the past year. "'Sides, she ain't alone. I got staff there 'round the clock keepin' an eye on her and the place."

Joel and Sarah's mother didn't have a very pleasant history. After he discovered she had gotten pregnant, she tried to bait him into marriage just so she could have access to all of his money. Joel broke things off with her and closed himself off emotionally for over a decade. He ended up having a difficult time maintaining a relationship with Sarah, as well, but after some encouragement on your part, they reunited. Progress was slow at first, but you didn't expect anything less. Then Joel found out Sarah's mother struggled on and off with substance abuse, something that kept him awake more nights than you could count. After a particularly long night of Joel tossing and turning, you suggested asking Sarah to move in with the two of you, and while it took some time to get used to a third person in the house, you noticed Joel immediately started sleeping better. Sarah still visited her mother often, occasionally even staying overnight for a weekend here or there, but Joel's mind was at peace knowing she was safe.

"Alright," you said, folding your hands on the table after your plates were cleared. "So Tommy's taking us to the hotel - then what?"

"Was gonna have him show me 'round, check on all the progress, see what need's doin' 'fore next week."

"Next week? The hotel doesn't open for two weeks," you reminded him. He shook his head and glanced at his phone when a notification popped up.

"Soft open is next week, so we only get the place to ourselves for a few days," he said, then cocked an eyebrow before adding, "think you'll be able to behave yourself?"

"Me?" you sputtered with your hand pressed to your chest in mock offense. "I'm an angel, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Joel chuckled and turned his attention back to his laptop while you stared out the window, lost in thought.

"So are my parents staying at The Parador?"

Your parents, who had never left the mainland United States, agreed to a vacation only after they found out all expenses would be paid when you made your plans to return for the grand opening. He had told you at the time he thought your mother would want to be involved in the wedding planning, but you had a sneaking suspicion it was his way of trying to score some points with them.

When you told them the news about your engagement, they were shocked, to say the least. It wasn't the reaction you were hoping for but to be fair, you had hardly given them any time to come around after you had begged your mother to give Joel a chance. Since your big news, they hadn't come out to visit once and any time you brought up wedding plans over the phone, your parents got very quiet before ultimately changing the subject to something else.

Joel shook his head. "Booked 'em a nice villa at The Sapphire. Didn't want them to put up with the growin' pains from a new staff. Wanted 'em to be comfortable."

You studied him from over the top of his computer, heart breaking a little bit at the tone in his voice. He didn't like to let it show, but you could tell it bothered him. Part of you wondered if he booked them a trip so he would get a chance to get to know them better and change their minds.

"That was thoughtful," you said softly. Joel just grunted and continued to work, so you stretched your leg out under the table, nudging his knee with your foot to get his attention. When his eyes flickered back up to you, you tilted your head to the side and said, "It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, you know. I'm the one spending the rest of my life with you - not them."

The corner of his mouth twitched and you smiled when he said, "I know. Just want them to know how much I love you, is all."

You knew Joel could come off a little brash at first. Hell, your first impression of him wasn't the best. In fact, it took some time before you could see past that hardened, cutthroat businessman exterior to who he really was underneath.

Although... when Joel met your parents, you saw with your own eyes how hard he was trying. He was warm and inviting the entire time your parents were in his home. Their standoffish behavior didn't make much sense, but you chalked it up to the abundant displays of wealth combined with losing their only daughter to an entirely different lifestyle as their reason, and knew deep down that one day they would understand why you fell in love with him.

"Thought your folks were joinin' us, sweetheart," Tommy said from the driver's seat of a beat up work truck.

"Not for a few more days," you replied, tightly pressing your lips together to keep yourself from squealing when Tommy took a sharp, bumpy turn. Joel was in the backseat next to you, hanging onto the door for dear life. If there wasn't a rip in the leather digging into the back of your thigh, you would have laughed at the expression on his face. The old Dodge truck was a far cry from the luxurious town cars or any one of the hideously expensive vehicles currently in Joel's garage back in L.A.

"Aw, that's nice. Got any plans?"

"Uh-" you squeezed your eyes shut when Tommy hit a pothole, then took a deep breath. "Yeah. I was going to take them into town to eat one night, and show them around The Parador so they could see exactly what it is I'm spending all my time on," you laughed. Joel shot you a quick smile before furrowing his brow when Tommy ran a stop sign. "Maybe see if they'd want to do jet skis or check out the fire dancers. I was gonna leave it up to them, but I know they want to do their own thing, too."

"And they'll be plannin' the wedding, right?" Tommy confirmed, quirking an eyebrow at you over his sunglasses in the review mirror.

"Oh, yeah, duh," you laughed, "that, too."

Tommy grinned and dropped an arm out his window, letting his fingers dance on the warm breeze as he drove up the service road behind the hotel.

"Front's just been paved, don't wanna drive on it just yet," he explained when Joel began coughing from all the dirt kicking up.

Finally, he threw the truck into park, the radio and air conditioning cutting at the same time so you could now hear the distant shouts of workmen and power tools coming from inside the hotel.

"Alright, brother... you ready to finally see what all your money's gotten you?"

Joel kicked open his door and slid out, then turned to extend a hand for you.

When you exited the truck, the first thing that struck you was the sheer size of the resort. The parcel of land Joel bought from Glenn was almost ten acres of literal paradise. Through the massive glass windows that were installed practically everywhere so the guests could enjoy the view, no matter where they were. Amongst all the natural foliage, you knew somewhere was a lagoon that had a lounging area built around it for guests, along with four climate controlled pools and six different restaurants, all of which offered outdoor seating. In addition to all that was a private beach, a tennis court, a handful of manmade waterfalls, and a golf course.

And all of that was just the outside.

"Better be good. Those purchase orders were lookin' mighty pricey the past couple months," he grumbled. You squeezed his hand and smiled up at him as you followed Tommy up to the back entrance of the hotel, your excitement contagious and causing Joel to crack a smile of his own.

"Forgot how damn hot it is here," Joel said, wiping sweat from the back of his neck. Tommy twisted around to hold open the door and stepped to the side, allowing the two of you to enter first.

"You're in luck. AC was turned on last week."

The hotel was two weeks away from the grand opening and one week away from the soft opening, so when you entered the lobby, it was far from the construction site you had remembered from previous video calls. Joel had come out by himself a few times, but you hadn't seen the hotel unless it was through a screen. You realized quickly the videos and pictures didn't do the place justice.

"Two story lobby," Tommy said, pointing up like you could somehow miss the massive, sparkling chandeliers hanging above your heads. "Front desk is tucked into the side next to the doors so the guests experience the beauty of the place right off the bat, 'stead of starin' at a desk with computers, just like you said," he continued as he lead you further into the space. Joel nodded and slowly looked around, examining every sconce and white marble tile for any defects while your fingers trailed over the textured bronze wallpaper lining the entire entrance.

Tommy continued to talk, pointing things out and searching for Joel's approval: the deep teal couches and chairs that scattered around the room. The tropical looking café set across from the front desk that carried more blends of coffee than Starbucks. The spotless white flooring and countertops. He even showed you the bathrooms, making sure everything was perfect and up to Joel's standards.

When Tommy finally saw his brother crack a pleased smile with a firm clap on the shoulder, his face lit up with relief.

"Y'did good," Joel told him before releasing his grip and spinning back around. His next order of business was to introduce himself to the hotel staff, who were all adorned in pressed black pants with a matching black shirt that had a flare of deep teal on their breast pocket which matched the lobby furniture. You smiled to yourself as you followed Joel's lead, shaking their hands before stopping in the kitchen to meet more employees. All of the hard work he had put into this hotel, his dream, was actually paying off.

Afterwards, Tommy led you up to the presidential villa, which was in it's own private wing. While you rode the elevator, he explained how each room had a balcony, two flat screen televisions, pillowtop mattresses, blackout drapes, a safe, and a small kitchen area.

"And that's just what all rooms got standard," Tommy said once he stepped off the elevator and fished out the keycard they handed him at the front desk. "'Course, there's different levels, y'know that."

You and Joel exchanged looks behind Tommy's back while he unlocked the door to your room. Obviously, you knew all of that - especially Joel. He was the one who had final say over every detail. But hearing how excited and proud Tommy felt kept either of you from saying a word.

What surprised you first when you entered the villa was, even though you had taken an elevator up a few floors, you still found yourself looking out at the beach through the spotless glass windows. Tommy said something about a hilly terrain being the reason and how much of a pain it was to build around it, but you hardly heard a word because your eyes were drawn to the huge painting hung behind the soft, white couch. It was an exact replica of the painting Joel had bought you the last time you were on the island. Ellie's familiar brush strokes of soft pinks, blues and whites filled the canvas. You laughed in disbelief before you rushed over to examine it closer, then glanced happily over your shoulder at Joel, who stood back with his hands shoved in his pockets and a pleased look on his face.

"Was hard to keep it a secret but I wanted to surprise you."

You jut out your lower lip and held out your hand for him to join you, your expression softening when you heard the shy tone in his voice. Tommy was across the room, opening up the big glass doors to let in the sea breeze when you took Joel's hand and stood on your tiptoes, giving him a kiss that had his cheeks turning pink.

"I love you," you whispered when you fell back onto the flats of your feet. Tommy began fiddling with the remote for the stereo, talking to himself while Joel gazed down at you adoringly.

"I love you, too."

A year and a half earlier

It had been almost a month without you, but it felt like more. Every breath hurt, he could barely sleep, and forget about focusing on work. It was supposed to be the highlight of his career - obtaining the unobtainable parcel of land in Fiji. Yet he couldn't enjoy it, because his every waking thought was consumed with you.

It was even worse being so far away, back on the island where everything started and ended. Yet he still made sure to pick out the next day's floral arrangement to be sent to your door. It was the only way he could remind you that he was thinking of you, even though you had begged him to stop, he wouldn't, because it was the only way to make sure you didn't forget about him.

Once he picked the arrangement, he emailed it to Liam and with a sigh, dropped his phone onto the table next to his lounge chair.

The sun was beginning to set; casting gorgeous hues of bright orange, pink, and yellow across the sparkling water.

You would have loved it.

He figured it was now or never, so he shucked off his shirt and made his way to the shoreline.

Just like he remembered, the water was warm and crystal clear. He submerged himself up to his shoulders and allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment. No matter how hard he tried to relax and enjoy himself, his inner turmoil kept his muscles tense and his mind busy. Why did he have to be such an asshole? Why couldn't he had just spared you both the pain and gotten over his bullshit? You hadn't asked him for much. You just wanted to be let in, you wanted him to trust you with his deepest shame and regrets. But his fear of being judged and losing you was too much.

Ironically, he lost you anyway, so what was the point?

The waves lapped gently over his shoulders and the sound of people packing up their things on the beach drifted across the breeze. He wondered what you were doing at that very moment. Given the twenty hour time difference, it would be around bedtime for you, but the day before. He liked to imagine you getting ready for bed, putting all those different creams on your face and neck before brushing your teeth. He hadn't ever seen the inside of your apartment, so all he could do was remember how you looked getting ready for bed when you stayed with him on the island. You used to hurry into bed and dive under the covers to curl up against him. He smiled to himself at the memory, missing how unexpectedly comforting your presence was to him at night.

Maybe you missed it, too. Maybe you missed it right at the exact same moment.

When he reopened his eyes, the sun had sunk considerably lower and the beach was mostly empty, so he got to work. He walked slowly through the water, using his feet to search for the precious pink seashells to replace the ones he accidentally broke. Every few feet, he felt a cluster of smooth shells with the tips of his toes. It took almost ten minutes, but he finally was able to collect a decent amount. He waded back to shore, arms full amidst the twilight. Once he got back to his towel, he noticed a good portion of the shells were broken or cracked. He tossed those into the sand, only keeping the ones that looked absolutely perfect.

When he was satisfied, he wrapped them carefully in a spare towel and collected his things before heading back to his room.

He wasn't stupid. He knew seashells wouldn't fix everything. But he was hoping the gesture was enough to show you how much he cared.

Maybe it was a start.

Present Day

Joel trailed after you as you drifted from room to room, then grinned when you squealed at the master suite, which was right off the sitting room. He hadn't told you yet, but the presidential villa was going to rebrand into the honeymoon villa. He had created it with you in mind and based on the way you were jumping with excitement when you saw how a private garden and a courtyard filled in on either side of the glass walls surrounding the spa bathtub, he did a good job.

"Joel, this room is insane," you grinned. He stood next to the tub while you skipped down the galley-like closet until you reached the opposite side, turning around in the entryway of the bedroom and bathroom.

"You like it?"

"I love it!"

Joel smirked and nodded before strolling past the tub, into the bedroom. You followed on the other side, staring in awe at the floor to ceiling glass French doors that opened out to the infinity pool.

"I can't believe we get to spend two weeks here," you breathed. Joel walked up behind you, bending so he could hook his chin over your shoulder and wrap his arms around your waist.

"We can come here any time you want."

You giggled when his stubble brushed over your skin, tickling you.

"How about we come back here in a couple months?" you asked, leaning into his hold and letting him sway you back and forth. "Maybe get married or something?"

Joel chuckled into your skin, giving your shoulder a kiss.

"There's nothin' I want more."

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genderkoolaid · 2 months ago

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Eight members of the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department (LASD), including multiple sergeants, have reportedly been fired amid allegations of a coverup centering on the 2023 police beating of a transgender man. The Los Angeles Times reported last week that former deputy Joseph Benza III and seven others in the department have all been relieved of duty, according to six anonymous sources within the sheriff’s office. The firings came less than two weeks after Benza reached a plea deal with federal prosecutors, in which he admitted to following and assaulting then-23-year-old Emmett Brock for raising his middle finger at Benza while driving past him. As part of last month’s plea agreement, Benza admitted to all factual allegations made by prosecutors, including details of an alleged coverup within the sheriff’s department that began as Benza was still pursuing Brock. As he followed Brock’s car, the agreement states, Benza called another deputy and told them he was going to stop Brock because he had “just flipped him off,” even though raising one’s middle finger is legally protected speech under the U.S. constitution. After tailing Brock to a gas station, Benza threw Brock to the ground and began beating him so severely that Brock suffered “serious bodily injury,” including a concussion, heavy bruising, and cuts to his body. Brock was initially jailed on $100,000 bond and charged with mayhem and resisting arrest, but was declared factually innocent by a judge last year. When compiling his report, according to the agreement, Benza spoke with a sergeant and another deputy about what information to include. The sergeant “counseled [Benza] to omit” that he began tailing Brock after being flipped off; two other sergeants are also said in the agreement to have “counseled [Benza] to omit that fact from the Incident Report.” Indeed, Benza’s report did not mention that information or his subsequent use of force, instead “misleadingly” claiming that he stopped Brock because of an air freshener on his rear-view mirror. Later, the sergeant who first told Benza to omit information from his report also told him to “toss the phone,” which Benza understood to be an instruction to delete cell phone data prior to an investigation; Benza and other deputies are said in the agreement to have “discussed lying to federal authorities” to cover up the truth. The other conspirators in the alleged LASD coverup were not named in Benza’s plea agreement. An LASD spokesperson confirmed that Benza had been fired in a statement to CNN last week, but did not officially confirm any of the other dismissed former members’ identities or how many had been fired. (It’s possible that the unnamed deputies and sergeants could still be rehired at other law enforcement agencies, as is common even in cases of misconduct.) Benza currently faces a maximum sentence of 10 years in prison, though his attorney Tom Yu told the Times that he will ask the court to place Benza on probation. Last September, LASD relieved “several” deputies from duty “in connection with a federal investigation” from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, as the Times also reported. It’s not clear whether those firings were related to the Brock case, or to another federal investigation; earlier that month, another LASD deputy, Trevor James Kirk, was also charged with deprivation of rights under color of law for allegedly assaulting and pepper-spraying a Black woman who was accused of shoplifting. “I just feel very lucky to have gotten justice for this when there’s a lot of survivors of that [who] don't, so I’m just greatly appreciative of that,” Brock told NBC News last month following news of Benza’s plea deal. “It’s my lifelong wish that people in law enforcement live up to their public statements that they disapprove of this kind of felonious behavior and they will hold their employees accountable, [because] I can give you 100 cases in which they said that and nobody went to jail.”

You love to see it

#m.

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fluentmoviequoter · 4 months ago

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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 and the killer is behind bars, 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 Agent 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!”

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford fic #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #the rookie x reader #the rookie abc #criminal minds #derek morgan #bau team #spencer reid #jj jareau #aaron hotchner #penelope garcia #fem!reader #hanna writes✯#crossover fic

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thesvnandthemooon · 5 days ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: i said i wouldn’t do requests atm but this was requested by a very dear reader on wattpad and i just couldn’t say no 🙂‍↕️

summary: based on the song by bruno mars; masc rich lawyer!reader, bartender!natasha. nat has blonde hair here (no idea how important that detail really is tbh)

warnings: smut…(a bunch of it, actually — strap usage, fingering, oral (n receiving)), alcohol/being drunk; i think that’s it?

word count: 8.2k

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— LOS ANGELES, USA —

Exiting your car that night, you don't expect that, not too long later, you'll have her in your passenger seat. Like your own personal Cinderella, she'll be with you once the clock strikes midnight.

However, your evening doesn't start as fairytale-like as it'll end.

It's been a shitty day. A brutal case you'd been working on for months. As almost always, it entailed dealing with insufferable clients and their enormous egos, biased judges and ruthless opponents, 80-hour weeks and tons of stress — only to lose the case.

It was humiliating, leaving the court room. You'd trailed to your car like a wet dog and sat there, forehead on your steering wheel, for a solid five minutes. Only when you realized that the press was starting to surround your car, you'd pressed the start button and torn down the street.

Let's pretend you didn't hit a trash can on your way out. Maybe that'll make your day look less like a shitshow.

Being the child of two of Hollywood's most successful lawyers, everyone's eyes are on you. News articles, social media backlash, professional rivals that revel in your failure. You can't afford even a single misstep. Yes, in your case, even a lost case is a misstep. It's just more proof, they'll say. That you're only here because mommy and daddy funneled millions into your trust fund before you even turned 18.

You rarely frequent bars, since there never seems to be enough time for that. It's why you usually keep a bottle of whiskey in your office (telling yourself that's completely normal) — but tonight, you don't want to get drunk sitting in silence. Too many thoughts, too many worries. Instead, you pull up in front of LA's most famous bar.

Hollywood elites, business moguls, and the ultra-wealthy. Expensive champagne flows like water, its coloration matching the golden hues of the bars interior. You step inside and, for once, only feel mildly out of place.

You walk across marble floors and approach the bar. Sitting down, you undo the top button of your shirt and watch the woman in front of you turn around.

A bartender, but possibly the most gorgeous one you've ever seen. Blonde hair and a red dress, makeup so flawless you'd never be able to tell she's been working for over six hours now. If you weren't still pissed off about that stupid case, you'd be able to appreciate the sight a lot more, though.

You lean in and almost order a whiskey. But you have that in your office, so you change your mind.

"Just a martini", you mumble, already reaching for your purse. "Stirred."

She studies you with interest, not saying a word. The memory flits through her head — you, in this bar, two years ago. Middle length hair, slicked back, and a suit. Passed out in the corner. You have no idea this happened, as you were completely out of it, but she remembers.

"No 'hello'? 'Good evening'? What's the magic word again?"

You look up and stare at her, your Black Card between your fingers. "Sorry?"

She shrugs and reaches for the mixing glass. Ice clinks, the gin swirling like liquid silver under the bar's lights as she stirs.

"Maybe my expectations are too high", she says and pours the vermouth. "I should be used to people like you."

You raise your eyebrows, your jaw slackening slightly. "People like me?"

"Exactly. Let me tell you something, hotshot", she says, leaning over the bar. "Have you seen who enters this place? Rich people. Snobby people. The upper one percent. You sat your cute little ass down and muttered your order like you're being forced to sit here."

"Well", you say, struggling to find an excuse for your lack of manners, "I had a shitty day, okay? All I want is a few drinks."

"Not too many", she says, finally straining the liquid into the glass. She plucks an olive from its jar and rolls it between her fingers, her eyes on yours, before dropping it into the drink. "You don't hold your liquors too well, do you?"

"What?"

"Not important."

You accept the martini and take a tentative sip. You study her like she studied you, but with an air of irritation. Your day's been miserable enough already. No need for her to pile on.

"Listen", you say, "I'm not really in the mood to talk. I know you bartenders like to play shrink-"

"I prefer the word therapist, but go on."

"But", you say sharply, shooting her a halfhearted glare, "I had a bad day. A really, really bad day. You probably can't even imagine. So just let it go, alright?"

"Understood", she says. Her green eyes, however, twinkle with the kind of mirth that tells you she definitely will not let it go.

Can someone drive you up the wall but also be annoyingly attractive? Apparently. You're experiencing it in that very moment.

The silence lasts exactly two minutes. It's enough time for the bartender to prepare a Bloody Mary and hand it to a different customer, then she turns toward you again. You groan and let your head fall onto the counter of the bar.

"Ouch", you mutter.

"You're like a child", she states. "A petulant little child who didn't get their way. What happened, hotshot?"

"Leave me alone", you mumble, your breath fogging up the smooth surface of the countertop.

"It can't be that bad." She leans in, arms crossed on the counter, and lowers her head so her face is right in front of yours. You dare look at her and immediately regret it. The green in her eyes is sage with specks of seafoam, mint and apple, unfairly captivating.

Then, her breath hits your lips. Sweet and warm, with an undercurrent of mint.

Before you can imagine her bent over the counter in a very different situation, you quickly close your eyes and press your face against the countertop.

"Let me guess", she says, seemingly oblivious to your internal struggle, "you lost a deal? No, not that. Maybe your shoes don't match your suit? No? Fine. Oh, I got it. Someone had the audacity to say no to you today."

"Truly, fuck you."

"That's a bold thing to say to the woman making your drinks, darling."

You groan and sit up, strands of messy hair blocking your vision. She smirks and brushes them aside.

"This", you say, narrowing your eyes, "is why I don't go to bars."

"Oh, please." She tilts her head. "Me? Harmless."

"Harmless, but annoying. Like a damn housefly."

"How sweet", she says drily. "You know your way around women, huh?"

You give her a deadpan look. She has no clue (or maybe she does — whatever), but you haven't been involved with anyone in over a year now. That is, if you don't count hookups and one night stands and such.

Flirting is also not your strongest suit, but it is hers. You just haven't realized it yet.

"I'm a busy woman", you say. "The only women I see are clients and coworkers."

"Clients, as in...?"

"No." You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. "I'm a lawyer, not a hooker."

"A lawyer?" She smiles and tilts her head. "Wow. That's exciting."

Sarcasm, obviously. You roll your eyes and lean back a little. Good thing the barstool has a backrest, otherwise you'd be on the floor by now.

"Come on. All you do is pour booze into glasses and poke olives with toothpicks."

"Don't forget pouring water into ice cube trays."

She chuckles when you roll your eyes again. Leaning over the counter, she brushes her fingertips against the collar of your shirt.

Your cheeks heat up. She notices the rosy flush in your face and tilts her head, giving a soft hum.

"So, a lawyer", she says. "A lawyer who had a shitty day."

"Precisely."

"A lawyer who definitely isn't a hooker, either. So asking about the price per hour would be pointless."

You pause before exhaling sharply, dragging a hand down your face — exhausted, annoyed, still half-thinking about your case. But then her words settle, her meaning really sinking in, and despite everything, your lips twitch.

You open your mouth, then close it again. Finally, you lift your glass and down your martini. She laughs quietly.

"I'm Natasha", she says. "And it's a pleasure to meet you, hotshot."

"Y/N", you say, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. "Sorry. I'm tired and ready for bed."

"Me too", she says. She slides the empty glass from your fingers and puts it aside. "I assume you meant something else, though."

You let out a laugh and lean back, hands covering your face. You lower them and smile faintly, eyes running up and down her body. The bar covers everything up to her waist, but that doesn't matter. She's beautiful, and so is the dress she's wearing, and the irritation you felt earlier has shifted into something entirely different.

You're not sure whether there's some kind of rule about this — are bartenders allowed to flirt with customers? —, but, truthfully, you don't care. How long has it been since you felt this kind of attraction toward someone? How long has it been since someone flirted with you and you actually felt the urge to flirt back?

It hasn't been years, but it's been more than a while.

You sit there in silence, eyes still locked on Natasha. She leans over the counter and adjusts the collar of your shirt again. Skin peeks through the unbuttoned buttons at the top, her gaze lingering on it for a brief moment.

"Your shift", you say, watching her pull away. "When's it end?"

She glances at her watch. Midnight. "About two hours. Why? Planning to wait up for me?"

"Maybe" You hum, fingers drumming against the countertop. "You could leave early", you then suggest, tentatively, as if expecting her to say no.

But Natasha glances at the other bartender. Her hands move to untie the apron she's wearing, which she tucks under the bar, then she tells her coworker to cover for her. You can see her hesitate, scanning the space, before she walks around the counter to get to your side.

Before you realize what's happening, you're leading her out of the bar. The air is warm outside, but not suffocating anymore. You feel the light breeze — crisper, fresher, thanks to Beverly Hills being closer to the ocean — and breathe in. No overwhelming variety of perfumes and colognes. All you smell is the faint scent of whatever perfume Natasha is wearing.

You lead her to your car. She pauses when she sees the cracked headlight.

"Hit a trash can", you say before she can ask.

"I see." She glances at you, smiling. "I truly hope you won't get me into a car crash tonight, hotshot."

You crack a smile and sigh, running your fingers through your hair. She laughs and squeezes your arm, then moves to sit in the passenger seat.

You spend your first night together.

When you wake up to the sight of her, hair mussed and naked body wrapped up in thin bedsheets, you know there will be more moments like this.

. . .

— NEW YORK, USA —

Two months and a few meetups (dates? hookups?) later, you fly her out to Manhattan.

It was your idea. You'd gotten sick of having to travel to LA all the time, only to leave again days later. Your main residence is in New York, after all, not California. It's where your condo is, your law firm, where you spend a majority of your time.

Natasha agreed without having to reconsider. You didn't even have to mention it'd be one of your private jets, or that your chauffeur Richard would drive her to your place. She had no clue she'd be sipping champagne and testing caviar during the entire flight, and she said yes anyway.

She knows you have money. She knows you'll spoil her. She doesn't expect it, either. It does happen, though, and she does enjoy it a lot.

There's something special about being able to kick off her heels and stretch out on plush leather seats, letting the staff pamper her. With face masks from South Korea and fresh fruit straight from Thailand, the five hours she spends aloft suddenly seem almost too short.

Richard drives Natasha to the condominium you live in. Billionaires' Row is full of luxury buildings, but yours manages to stand out anyway. High ceilings, floor to ceiling windows, a grand porte-cochère. She spots Rolls Royces and Bentleys being parked by valets in pressed suits and subtly raises her eyebrows. It's starting to get out of hand.

In front of the elevator, she's handed a keycard. Richard instructs her how to use it, then she's on her own.

It takes her all the way upstairs into your penthouse, the elevator bypassing every other floor. Then it stops, the doors swish open, and she's in your condo. In your living room, to be more specific.

A fireplace, a stocked bar (top-shelf liquors, because why not), a glass coffee table. The sectional couch in front of her looks like it costs more than a standard car, too. She glances at the dark marble floor beneath her feet — probably from Italy — and takes a few steps into the condo. As soon as she's stepped out of the elevator, the door closes automatically.

Natasha knew you were rich, but goddamn, this is a lot to take in.

She takes another few steps into the living room and listens for any kind of noise. Unsurprisingly, she can't hear anything. The walls are most likely soundproof, so she won't be able to hear you unless she's in the same room.

Walking closer to the fireplace, she finds a note on it. A normal piece of paper, thankfully, not some expensive textured shit. She reads what you wrote and smiles faintly.

Natasha,

I'm in my office to work on a new case. Sorry I wasn't there to personally pick you up. Will make up for it later, I promise.

Lunch is in the fridge. Make yourself at home. I insist.

— Hotshot :)

Once she realizes she's smiling, she quickly shakes her head and puts the note aside.

Make herself at home? No need to tell her twice.

High heels in one hand, she pads through the long hallway and into the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, a huge espresso machine she'll definitely play around with at some time, sleek kitchen furniture. A peek into the fridge tells her you — or your private chef, more likely — made paella. She closes it again and walks into the adjacent dining room.

Some plants that look like small palm trees, a long table for at least 16 people, a New Zealand wool rug.

Boring.

Back to the hallway she goes, the heated floors warm under her bare feet. Up the stairs, then back down, hand sliding over the glass railings. Two bathrooms, both with rain showers, a small wine cellar-like room, a huge balcony with a view of Central Park. Somehow, she ends up on the rooftop (and definitely makes sure to remember the pool there) before finally making her way back inside.

Your bedroom is next, complete with an en-suite bathroom and walk-in closet. She's seen the other bathrooms already and was, quite frankly, not impressed enough to look at this one as well. Instead, she decides to check out what kind of clothes you wear.

Natasha spins around in the massive space and scans everything. A minibar, a huge mirror, a seating area. It smells like fresh linen and that very same perfume you were wearing when you first took her home not too long ago.

Two months, she recalls. It's only been two months, and you're already whisking her away whenever you want.

She drags her hand along one of the black walnut shelves, inspecting handmade leather shoes and rows of accessories. Ties, watches, rings. She stops and eyes the tailored suits. Her hand moves to the back of her dress, fumbling with the zipper and pulling it down, then she lets the thin piece of fabric fall to the polished floor.

She steps out of the dress that's pooled around her feet and reaches for a crisp button-down. She puts it on and inspects herself in front of the mirror, then grabs some niche Parisian perfume from your fragrance collection. A spritz behind her ear, one on her wrist...

"Having fun?"

Natasha whips around and stares at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, trying to hide your smile. Despite being at home, where you should be comfortable enough to let loose for a little, you're in a suit. Your hair, however, is messy. A strand partially blocks your vision.

It took you ten minutes to find her. You didn't expect to walk in on her half-naked, barefoot, only wearing one of your shirts. Are you complaining, though? Absolutely not.

"You told me to make myself at home."

"So you did."

"Exactly."

"That's good." You push off the doorframe and stroll into the room. "Not gonna say hi?"

She meets you halfway, her arms coming up to wrap around your neck. Lips brush against yours, a fleeting contact, and your hands rub her waist. "Hi", she mumbles.

"Hey", you whisper, kissing her. First quickly, then a little more deeply. Your hands run up her sides, letting her shirt ride up, and you feel smooth warm skin under your palms. You pull away only to trail kisses along her jaw. "Missed you. How long have you been here?"

Natasha closes her eyes, her fingers raking through your short hair. "About an hour. Lonely?"

"It's a big apartment."

"Penthouse."

"Whatever", you mutter, catching her mouth again. Your thumbs hook into the waistband of her underwear and play with the lace. "Did you have lunch? The paella — I had it made for you."

"I wasn't hungry", she says, speaking in between kisses. "They served all kinds of stuff on my flight. First time trying mangosteen."

"Mhm, my favorite." You squeeze her waist before letting go of her. Walking further into the room, you pick up her dress from the floor and toss it over your shoulder. Her scent hits you, faint and sweet and familiar already. "Listen, I got another meeting in about an hour. Shouldn't take too long, though. You good here or should I ask Richie to give you the tour? He'll take you anywhere as long as it's not somewhere up in the clouds. Poor dude's got a fear of heights."

Natasha lingers where you left her, arms crossed over her chest. She watches you adjust things she never would've noticed are different: pushing the perfume bottle backwards the tiniest bit so it's perfectly aligned with the others, running your hand over the stack of button-ups to remove a crease she wouldn't be able to spot with a magnifying glass, nudging one of the shoes she touched.

"No", she says absently. "I'd rather stay here and wait."

"Whatever you want." You turn around and walk back to her. You wrap your arm around her waist and lead her out of the walk-in closet, faces inches apart, a smile on your lips. "I'd show you around, but I feel like that's pointless."

Natasha rolls her eyes and laughs, tugging at your shirt. You feel her lips against yours, the touch brief but charged with electricity. "You told me to make myself at home, so I did. Can't blame me for that."

"Not blaming you. Just happy you felt comfy enough to rummage through my clothes."

"I didn't 'rummage' through them."

"Oh no?" You grab the hem of the button-up she's sporting and smirk. "What's that, then?"

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she cups your face and pulls you into a deep kiss.

It's the first time in over three years that you cancel a meeting.

. . .

The rug you're on is soft and fluffy, the fireplace next to you way too hot for a September morning.

Sleep-warm skin and cashmere blankets, a half-empty bottle of wine left next to the coffee table. Natasha wakes, blinking lazily, and stretches her arms. You turn just enough to be able to kiss her forehead.

"Morning", you mumble.

"Morning", she replies, hands moving to your chest. Fingertips dance over bare skin, then she starts buttoning up your shirt. "We slept in."

"Yeah", you say, still tired, and lay back down. "Fuck. I have so much work to do."

"No, you have me to do."

"Obviously. Top priority."

Her hands splay out on your chest and smooth out the fabric of your shirt. She leans in, plush lips on your jaw, kisses that are warm and a little too arousing. It's 9 in the morning, and you need to get your ass off the floor and into the office.

However, there is a pretty, naked lady next to you, and that is much more enticing than a desk chair and a meeting with a bunch of old people. And her mouth is all over your skin, her hands starting to roam your body, and fuck it, maybe you can cancel again. Just one more time.

"Dammit", you curse, nails raking down her back. "You're costing me a shit-ton of money, baby."

"You have enough money as it is", she mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. Your arms wind around her. "There's only one woman in your arms, though. Your choice."

You hum, nose buried in her messy hair. Her kisses against your neck start to become wetter, more urgent, her hands squeezing and squishing every part of you she can reach. You moan and she knows she's convinced you.

You hastily take off your shirt and push all the blankets aside, then hold her close before rolling over. You're on top now, where you want to be, and start trailing hickeys along her throat. Her fingers run through your unruly hair and mess it up further.

Palms squeeze and run over smooth skin. Your hand kneads her thigh before moving between her legs. Wet heat against, then around, your fingers. You thrust in and out slowly, rhythmically, and listen to the way her breathing gets heavier.

Face buried in the crook of her neck, you leave lazy kisses on her skin. Slender fingers tug at your hair, insistently, telling you to go faster.

The fire next to you crackles, but it's nowhere near as hot as the space between you. Heavy breathing and muffled moans, fingers curling and nudging deeper. Your thumb circles her clit and you hear a little whine. Natasha comes around your fingers, clenching and unclenching, and you bite back your own moans.

"Shit", she mumbles, slumping into the rug again.

"Yeah." You lift your fingers to your mouth and quickly lick them clean. "I still got work."

"Breakfast first?"

A knock on the doorframe makes you both whirl around. Your eyes land on your private chef slash maid, who's got her eyes covered with her hand. You can see the timid look on her face, anyway.

"Sorry", she says. "I waited until you were...done. I made breakfast and didn't want to disturb you, Ms. Y/L/N. Also, Mr. Pasini is waiting for you."

"Linda", you say, grabbing a blanket and covering both you and Natasha with it. You're so aghast you don't even know what to say. "That's, uhm- that's good. Give us a minute? Please?"

She nods, stepping away and bumping into a potted plant.

"Of course. My apologies, Ma'am. I'll be in the kitchen."

The second she's gone, Natasha starts laughing. You narrow your eyes at her, but the smile on her face is too infectious to not crack one as well. You sigh and melt into her. A kiss is placed on her cheek.

"Alright, laugh it up."

She smirks and jabs a finger into your side. "Come on, that was hilarious. Does she usually stalk you like some creep?"

"No", you say firmly, sitting up and putting on your shirt. Your fingers tremble slightly as you button it up. "She doesn't. And she didn't 'stalk us', she just heard we were finished and came to inform me about breakfast."

"Sounds believable enough, hotshot. You're sure she doesn't have a secret crush on you?"

"She's 58 and married, dummy." You get up and look for your underwear. "I promise, she's just a sweet lady who helps my blood sugar spike. Try her madeleines, they're godly."

Natasha hums and gets up, still butt naked. She grabs her lace panties and the shirt she stole from you the night before and puts both on. You, one leg in your slacks and the other hovering in the air, watch her with wide eyes as she makes a beeline for the kitchen.

"Wait-"

"Breakfast", she says, unbothered, and adjusts her hair a little. "Hurry your pretty little ass up or all the madeleines will be gone."

The exaggerated French accent she used to pronounce the pastry makes you roll your eyes. You hurry to get into your pants before following after her, zipping up and fastening the button.

"You're naked!"

"Anything that could be considered inappropriate is covered."

"I can see your butt."

She glances at you over her shoulder, strolling into the kitchen. Linda glances at her, but doesn't seem too surprised by the sight. Instead, she plates breakfast for you. Avocado on sourdough toast, freshly squeezed juice, Eggs Benedict, buttery madeleines, some cappuccino.

As soon as she's done, she tells you to enjoy your meal. You catch the small smile on her face as she leaves the room to go on about her duties.

"You were right", Natasha says, sitting on a chair with her foot propped up on the seat. "These are godly."

"Told you", you say absently, scrolling through your work-related emails. "The best. Dip them in the cappuccino."

She hums, eating in silence and watching you respond to emails and texts. Her leg stretches out under the table to bump against yours. Then, she rests it in your lap. You squeeze her calf, eyes locked on your phone.

"Hey", you mumble, sliding your hand further down her leg and tapping her ankle, "how would you feel about a slight change of plans?"

"Hm?" Natasha tilts her head, a half-finished glass of orange juice in her hand.

You turn around and show her the email. She leans forward, eyebrows furrowed, and reads it.

"I said we'd spend the next two weeks here, but I gotta go to Tokyo. Work-stuff. Want to tag along?"

"Tokyo?" She looks up. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. Like I said, work-stuff."

She smiles faintly, then shrugs. "Sure. Why not."

"Great."

"All of this is normal, right?"

"What?"

"Forget it, hotshot." She gets up and kisses your temple. "See you in a minute. I have to try that rain shower before we leave."

The urge to get up and follow her like a lovesick puppy is strong. But then your phone buzzes, announcing another email, and you sigh as you realize you'll have to wait a bit longer.

. . .

— TOKYO, JAPAN —

You order the sushi in near-perfect Japanese.

Natasha leans into your side. Clad in the off-shoulder black dress with the deep neckline that you got her right after your arrival, she's been turning heads all night long. Her fingers toy with the shimmering necklace you put on her, oblivious to the 18k white gold's worth, and her eyes roam the restaurant's interior.

"Fancy", she whispers once the server has dashed off. "I wanted to come here for a while."

"This restaurant? I've been here a couple times."

"No, dummy. Japan. Tokyo." She smiles and looks at you. You flush under her gaze and nudge her cheek with your nose. Her hand cups your cheek, thumb against your lips, and you press a kiss to it. "You need to get out of your bubble more, you know."

"What bubble?"

"This bubble. Not every experience has a Michelin star, or costs a couple thousand bucks. There's more to life than just fancy dinners, hotshot."

You hum, studying here. There's a truth to her words that stings. You're privileged, and you know it, but your lifestyle and career make everything about you and everything you do so different. The way you live traps you in a bubble you either can't or won't escape, which limits the things you experience.

Natasha is the best example for that. You may have been lucky enough to run into her, sure, but only because of a coincidence. Again, you don't go to bars. You don't go out with friends, or even colleagues. You spend your Friday nights sitting at your desk with a dozen files opened on your laptop. Maybe you'll drink some whiskey or fall asleep ten minutes into a movie, too, but that's about it.

"You'd rather I take you to McDonald's tomorrow?", you ask, trying to deflect. She tilts her head. "Okay, okay. Not a fan of the clown. Got it."

"You know what I mean", she says, hooking a finger into the collar of your shirt. "Saving up for another car, or jet, won't make you happy."

"I know", you say earnestly. "It's why I got you. To spend that money on you instead. Now — sake or umeshu?"

"Oh, no. Wait. Did you just-"

"I'll spoil you rotten", you say, quickly pecking her lips, "and get happy in return. You make me happy. Now tell me what drink you want."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue. It's not like she doesn't like the whole princess treatment you've been giving her ever since your first night together, after all. She enjoys it maybe even too much.

You enjoy it, too. Before her, all you knew was work and lonely beds. Pleasure mostly came from meaningless one night stands, never lasting longer than a couple hours, or — a classic — your own hand.

It's different now. You get to satisfy someone else, someone who's interested in you, who makes you smile, who's pretty. You can spoil her all you want. Dresses, champagne, jewelry, spontaneous trips to the most gorgeous places on earth. In return, she makes you happy. There's not even much she has to do to achieve that. You appreciate it a whole lot, anyway.

Her breath fans your ear, lips tickling your skin. You exhale sharply, silently, and close your eyes.

"Sake, please", she mumbles, voice sultry and soft. Her hand runs down your front, deliberately brushing against the buttons of your shirt, before coming to rest on your thigh. "And you. Sake and you."

. . .

Being in another country usually means vacation.

Not for you, though. You've been stuck behind your desk for over an hour now. Keyboards clack, the a/c hums, bedsheets rustle. In front of you are floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying Tokyo's skyline. Thousands of lights in every color imaginable adorn tall buildings, creating a sea of neon. Billboards and pulsing nights, and streets that never seem to sleep.

You're not sleeping, either. And neither is Natasha. While you're tapping a pen against your knee before responding to an email, she keeps rolling over in bed and trying to fight boredom.

You briefly glance at her. Only in a silk robe that hugs her curves and leaves little to the imagination, it's getting increasingly harder to not just call it a day and join her.

You turn to your laptop again and bite back a sigh. Another email popped up, this time by one of your employees, so you click the reply symbol and start typing. Right as you hit send, you feel a familiar pair of hands on your shoulders. You close your eyes when her palms slide down to your chest.

"Hey", she murmurs, warmth breath fanning your ear. Her lips press against your nape, then the side of your neck. "Still working?"

"It won't end. I just keep getting new emails."

She hums, continuing to trail hot kisses along your neck. Her fingers fumble with the buttons on your shirt, slowly undoing them. "You need to relax a little, you know. Forget about work and come to bed with me."

"Emails", you protest. Natasha smiles against your neck. Her hands move down to yours on the keyboard, gently peeling them off. "I need to finish this. It's important. Seriously."

No response. Heat shoots into your lower belly when she sucks on your pulse point. She runs her hands up your arms and to your biceps, squeezing the muscles there, then she slides the shirt off your shoulders. Fingers dance across your skin, trace your chest and your stomach, before teasing the waistband of your pants.

"I want you to fuck me", she rasps into your ear. "Show me I'm important, too."

Of course she's important. More important than the emails, more important than anything else. Can you say it, though?

No. The only thing that leaves your mouth is a quiet whine. You hear the laptop in front of you being shut. Natasha pulls at the back of your chair and swivels it around, your eyes opening automatically.

The sight is godly. She's standing between your legs, her robe thin and enveloping her body like a second layer of skin. You catch a glimpse of the bra she's wearing, black lace showing through the open top of the robe, and your fingers twitch with the desire to touch her.

You cave. Fingers find the end of the silk sash around her waist to give it a deliberate tug. The robe comes open and reveals creamy skin and black lingerie.

"When did you..."

"You left your credit card when you went downstairs to pick up those files", she says, fingers trailing along your jaw. Her hand cups your jaw. "Thought it'd be a nice surprise."

"Credit card fraud", you say, both amused and turned on. "Theft, too. Dammit."

"You like it, though."

Oh, you do. You can't even be mad. There's more than enough money on your bank account, and truthfully, purchases like this one benefit you both.

You put your hands on her waist and get up. Her body is flush with yours, her breath fanning your lips. You kiss her, tasting strawberries and sake, and trace the seam of her lips with your tongue. Her mouth opens, letting you deepen the kiss, and you swallow her moans.

Bodies up against the window, the heat between you fogging up the glass. Natasha's robe falls to the floor, and you start trailing kisses over her shoulder and chest. You pull away for a split second to drink her in. With the backdrop of the city's lights — bright and flickering and reflecting off her skin — you're once again proven that she's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

The clasp of her bra comes undone easily. You push the straps off her shoulders, let the tiny piece of clothing slide off, then your mouth is attached to her body again. Hands squeeze and grope her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples, before running down her sides.

You hear a soft thud when her head falls back against the window. Breathy moans and mhh-sounds, nimble fingers raking through your hair. You lick a stripe over her breast and suck her nipple between your lips. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, you find her cunt. Her pussy is soaked, your fingers sliding in with ease.

"Fuck", she moans, tugging at your hair. "Baby, slow down."

You look up, not able to speak through the mouthful of boob. She looks down at you, panting, and brushes some hair away from your forehead.

You don't want to slow down. Not now, not when she's looking at you like this, still wearing the panties she bought with your money, standing in the suite you payed for. She makes you happy. She chases the loneliness away. You want to give her everything, the entire world, and that includes a night filled with orgasms.

Holding eye contact, you thrust your fingers into her. Her hips buck to chase the feeling. Moans fill the space around you, whiny and needy, and her hips rut against your hand with more fervor.

Your mouth releases her breast. You litter it with kisses and hickeys, still fucking her with your fingers. You slowly sink to your knees to bury your face against her stomach, leaving kisses there as well, and continuing pumping your fingers in and out of her. Slickness covers your hands, dripping down your wrists, and Natasha meets every thrust.

"I'll buy you everything", you moan. "Anything. Whatever you want."

"Bribing me?" She tries to laugh, but it comes out strained. She grinds against your hand, forcing you in deeper. You nudge that spongy little part and hear another moan. "I'm not your trophy, you know."

"No." You kiss along her lower stomach, your free hand gripping her thigh. Your movements become quicker, harder, feeling her walls clench around you in desperation. "Never said you were."

Natasha wants to respond, but in that moment, she can't. She lifts one leg and hooks it over your shoulder, letting herself take you wholly. Goosebumps and kiss-bitten lips, hickeys and flushed skin. Your fingers curl, your lips wrap around her clit, and her body tenses up.

You feel her orgasm as if it were your own. Intense, all-consuming, wiping every thought from her brain. She keeps riding your hand until it all becomes overstimulating, then you pull out.

Looking up, the sight of her disheveled state brings a smirk to your face. She pinches your bottom lip.

"Ow. What's that for?", you ask, her fingers lingering on your mouth.

"You're getting cocky."

"Am not."

"You definitely are. Get up, hotshot."

You grumble and kiss her fingertips, but do as told. Natasha leans in to kiss you, her hands fumbling with the zipper on your slacks. She walks you backwards, pushes you onto the bed, straddles you. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, tangled from Natasha's earlier tossing and turning.

There's not much time to think about any of that, though.

. . .

— RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL —

A private pool that seems to spill out into the ocean below. A plate of fruit sits on the edge, the papaya and mangoes long forgotten about, with two empty coconut shells next to it.

Aside from the lapping of the water and the rustling of the trees, only your soft moans fill the air. Her hands on your shoulders and yours on her hips, you guide her up and down the strap rhythmically. She looks down, watching the girthy piece of silicone through the water. How its full length disappears inside of her, again and again, blurred by the water you're in.

Another moan. You lean in and press your lips to her collarbone, tasting sunscreen and something sweet. Her fingers mess up your hair and slide back down to your shoulders, fingernails raking over your skin and leaving marks.

"I'm close", she whimpers, hips rotating on the strap. You guide her every movement, pushing the toy in as deep as you can. You watch stupidly how her body moves on it.

"Sound like it, too", you rasp. After almost a year of this, you know every telltale sign. "Open wider, baby."

Her thighs part just the tiniest bit more, but it's enough for her clit to rub against the base of the harness. Her head drops forward, forehead resting against yours, and she cries out quietly.

"Fuck, I-"

"Almost there." You rub her sides and watch her ride harder, pushing herself over the edge. Once the climax has lost most of its intensity, she collapses against you. "Holy."

"I feel like we should stop. For our neighbors' sake."

You laugh and kiss her bare shoulder. You're both completely naked, thanks to the pool being directly attached to your suite. No one can see you, but you're sure many people can hear you.

"Need a break already?", you tease.

"No, hotshot", she replies, nuzzling your neck with her face. "I just want to enjoy this for a moment. No distractions."

This. You and her, intertwined, doing nothing in particular. It shouldn't surprise you, but it does, anyway.

Neither of you know where this is going. You don't know whether this is just going to end someday, or whether you actually have a shot at making it. But, truthfully, you don't know what 'making it' would entail, either.

Natasha also doesn't know. She still doesn't know whether you feel the same as her. Whether you're in as deep as she is. Maybe she is exactly what she fears most to be — a trophy. Someone you don't feel anything real for.

You don't talk about it. Starting a conversation like that is risky, because the worst case scenario is everything falling apart.

In the beginning, it was fun. It was passionate and indulgent, a sexy fantasy. It was all about sex and money and pouring champagne like it's water.

Then, feelings came into play. You're not sure whether that's ever ended well.

. . .

— PARIS, FRANCE —

"God, you're obsessed."

You look up, still kneeling on the floor with a high heel in your hand. You give her a deadpan look.

"Keep that up and you're sleeping on the balcony tonight. Now give me your foot."

"I'm just saying. You, on your knees for me? Should've rented out the jewelry store instead."

"What?... Oh. Ha. Uhm-"

Natasha laughs and does as told. You shake your head, cheeks pink and warm, and slide the heel onto her foot. You make sure it fits right and then hum in approval.

Aside from the two of you, the changing room is empty. In fact, the entire store is. You rented it out for the next few hours, making it easier for Natasha to look at clothes and try them on without being bothered.

"Not bad", she says, resting her leg over your shoulder. You turn your head and kiss her calf. "Maybe in another color?"

"Which one? Black, maybe? Or lilac? Those would look nice with that dress you-"

"Y/N", she cuts you off, "this one's fine. Really. I like it."

You give her a skeptical look, but she just raises her eyebrows at you. She seems to be telling the truth, so you squeeze her ankle before moving her leg off your shoulder. Straightening up, you reach for another dress.

Natasha grabs it and steps into the fitting room. She returns not too long after, and the sight renders you speechless.

A deep red gown, its fabric hugging every curve just right. The silk cascades down her body and pools at her feet, but the long slit at the side keeps it from looking too modest. Your eyes land on the plunging sinful neckline, then trace the delicate straps framing her shoulders.

She steps in front of the mirror and studies herself. In this lightning, the dress looks like molten wine clinging to her skin. You finally look up and catch her gaze in the mirror. Paired with the faint smirk, the timeless dress becomes something entirely different.

Dangerous. Unfair.

Heat crackles between you. You swallow heavily, eyes locked on the sight, fingers twitching and want throbbing in your body.

"You're staring."

You swallow again. "You're in that."

"I am."

Your hands ball into fists. You shift and try crossing your legs, but when she runs a hand down her side, it's over. You step closer, unable to stop yourself at this point. Your hands find her waist, your lips hover next to her ear. Then, you press a kiss to her earlobe.

Your hands wander further up her body, cupping the swell of her breasts. You toy with her hardened nipples, which are barely concealed by the dress's thin fabric. Natasha moans and leans into you.

"We're in a store."

"We're alone."

"The employees..."

"The employees won't come in unless we call them", you assure her, voice a strained mumble. Your fingers tug at the neckline of her dress until her chest is revealed, then you tuck the fabric under her breast. "Look at you. Fuck."

Her head drops against your shoulder. You kiss her neck, bared to you, and cup her breast. Your free hand runs down her body, finding the slit of her dress and dipping underneath it.

"Move the dress?", you mumble.

One hand on the back of your head, Natasha pulls the skirt of the dress aside until you can see everything clearly. Her thighs, her lingerie, the garter belt. Creamy skin, adorned by the faintest of stretch marks. Your face has been buried between those very thighs dozens of times by now, but you'll never get sick of the feeling.

You run your fingers over her underwear. It's soaked.

"That was quick."

"Really? You'll make fun of me now?"

"No, baby." You kiss her shoulder and pull away, only to step around her and get on your knees again. This time, for an entirely different reason. You hold onto her thighs and look up. Her breathing is slightly uneven. "This okay?"

"Anything else wouldn't be okay", she replies. You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pull it down. It drops to the ground and gives you a full view of her cunt. Hand on the back of your head, she guides you closer.

You bury your face between her legs and immediately feel the slick heat. It coats your cheeks, your tongue, letting you taste the tangy sweetness you've grown familiar with. You grip the backs of her thighs for more support and run your tongue through her folds.

Natasha feels every touch, every movement. She grips your hair to keep herself from falling over, nails digging into your scalp. You eat her out surrounded by mirrors, letting her see every angle of what you're doing to her.

. . .

Hand in hand, you walk down Avenue Montaigne.

The sun is beaming down at you, making the street look even more fairytale-like than it already is. Tall buildings, brick walls, trees lined up on either side of the road. You squeeze her hand.

"What's next?", you ask, looking at her. "Perfume? Maybe a purse?"

Natasha tilts her head. There you go again, asking about things that should be irrelevant. Things that, if she's being honest, never were relevant. All of this extravagance is fun. Being flown around in private jets, traveling the world, getting whatever she wants whenever she wants it — she enjoys it, no doubt.

But is that all she wants?

Of course not. In fact, it’d be a lie if she said it ever was.

From that first night in the bar, she wasn't trying to find someone who'd drown her in money. Otherwise, she would've found someone like that ages ago. The bar she worked in was one of the most prestigious in all of Los Angeles. It would've been easy to pick a random person and make them fall for her.

She didn't want that, though. She stuck to dating literally anyone else to avoid ending up as a trophy, as someone who isn't anything else but something to make her partner look good.

Then, you stumbled in. Not once, but twice. Everything about you was painfully similar to the other people sitting in that same bar that night, but you were also completely unlike them.

Everything about you screamed money. The stupid suit, the Black Card, the way you talked to her. But you weren't snobby. She'd known that from the first time she saw you there — when you got so drunk you passed out. Everyone else cares about their reputation, their public image, but you let yourself get black out drunk.

You returned. You sat down right in front of her. She took one look at your face pressed against the counter, hair a mess, and knew she'd love whatever is hidden underneath that hated suit you were wearing.

Your hair is always a mess. Even now, walking down the street in Paris's most luxurious shopping street, you look like you got caught in a storm. Short, unruly strands, some blocking your vision, others hastily tucked behind your ear.

Natasha stops in the middle of the street. She leans in and kisses you.

Another indulgence or something sincere — she doesn't know. Maybe she doesn't want to know.

"No more shopping", she says. You give her an unsure look. "Please."

"Okay", you mumble. You continue walking.

Her instruction should be simple enough to follow. No more shopping, no more expensive clothes, no more Michelin starred food. But how does someone who's spent their entire life surviving on money, and gifts, and everything material, suddenly change their ways? It's your form of affection.

It's more difficult than it should be.

You keep walking. You don't pay the big designer brands any mind.

That is, until you pass Chaumet.

A French jeweler specializing in refined pieces, romantic pieces. Jewelry with meaning.

Your eye catches the engagement rings. Natasha follows your gaze.

For a moment, neither of you move. Do you really have what it takes?

You look at her. She brushes the hair away from your eyes. Your hand squeezes hers once more.

A bell rings, a door closes.

It's your last big purchase of the day.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #x reader #fanfic #wlw #lesbian #marvel mcu #marvel #moon’s fics

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onlyangel4 · 7 months ago

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Could you do Toto Wolff with wife reader? He's down bad for her and always looking out for her. Like giving her his jacket whenever it rains or when she doesn't have one; tiring her hair when it is getting on her face; holding her hands tightly/ hugging during the celebration and anything else. The team could see that and tease him endlessly. Just something fluff and romantic. Thanks!! :))

wifey. toto wolff.

toto wolff x author wife!reader

in which toto might as well have "i love my wife" tattooed on his forehead

warnings- cursing. the fluffiest fluff known to man.

author's note: this was so much fun to write! please do keep on sending requests, the more detailed the better!

being a busy woman meant that you were not the kind of woman to attend every race and toto understood this well. you were an author with a cult following that were always waiting for your next book to be out. your name had been at the top of the new york best sellers list more times than anyone could keep track of and you were always being praised for your work. this meant book tours, charity events and constantly brainstorming book ideas with your publisher.

this is why it had been so easy to surprise toto by attending the silverstone grand prix. you had told him that you were going to be in los angeles attending a big meeting with an american based publisher. however when you left your home in the english countryside you went to a hotel and not an airport.

usually you would never lie to toto but in your mind this was a good lie and you knew that toto was going to be happy about it so you weren't worried about any negative reaction, you were just glad that you were going to get to see your husband in the middle of an incredibly busy racing season.

the press went mad when they caught sight of you climbing out of a car parked at the paddock gates of silverstone. this was the first race that you had attended this season and every photographer was dying to get a glimpse of the woman that had toto wolff's heart in the palm of her hand.

you gave a graceful smile and a wave to the press but quickly made it through the paddock gates, excited to surprise your husband with your presence. your eyes scanned the people hanging out around the paddock looking for your man and soon enough your eyes landed on a large form clothed in a white shirt and slacks, you could recognize that back anywhere.

the drive to survive crew were currently stood in front of toto filming the team principle as he went about his day. one of the producers noticed you in the back ground and you winked at him giving him a thumbs up, telling him that he should film what happened next. you walked behind toto getting on your tiptoes so your hands could reach his eyes, "guess who?", you giggled.

"schatz!", he smiled brightly as he turned to look at you, his arms instantly going to their rightful place around your waist, "this is a long way from los angeles my love"

"guess my plane got lost", you laughed softly pressing a quick gentle kiss to your husband's lips, hyper aware that the cameras were still there, your husband was a private man you weren't sure whether he would be comfortable properly kissing you in front of a film crew.

"i deserve a proper kiss darling", he hummed before pulling you in for a long loving kiss one hand gently cupping your cheek as the other rubbed circles on the small of your back. once you pulled away toto made sure to keep his arm around your waist, just wanting to have physical contact with you.

toto turned to face the cameras addressing the camera directly, "this is my wife y/n. she has a very busy work life so she doesn't tend to attend races", he explained, "so it is safe to say that this is the best surprise ever", you were just stood by his side looking at your husband with pure adoration behind your eyes as he continued to speak a little to the camera before the crew went to go and talk to the mclaren garage.

toto took your hand and pulled you into the mercedes garage a bright smile on his face. toto leant down to press a kiss to your forehead "i love you so fucking much doll", he whispered into your ear.

"i love you too toto"

you spent fp1 and fp2 sat in the garage with carmen, someone you met when george first signed with mercedes, someone that you considered a good friend. "i swear, i have never seen toto this happy, he was in a bit of a mood this morning but as soon as he saw you he brightened up", carmen explained and it warmed your heart to hear that. you and your husband did not make many public appearances together, both liking to keep your professional lives professional and personal lives personal but whenever people saw the two of you in the same room they were forever commenting on how toto was a different man around you, how he was softer and more forgiving if you were about.

the first two practice sessions of the weekend had not gone as well as toto had hoped but he didn't seem to focus on the bad result as much as usual. instead toto decided to take you on a walk along the paddock giving you a tour of one of his favourite race tracks in the entire world.

you attentively listened as toto spoke to you about the different garages and the stragies he thought each team was going to use that weekend. he even introduces you to various people along the paddock, always introducing you as his wife as if it was not obvious by the way your fingers were interlocked. as you walked typical english weather began to hit the paddock, starting with a light drizzle of rain that within five minutes turned into full pelting rain drops.

at this point toto was half was through his little tour of the paddock and he did not want to stop so instead he dipped into a near by hospitality suite and stole grabbed an umbrella. he quickly returned to your side opening the umbrella and holding it over your head keeping you completely sheltered from the rain but he was still in the rain. "you can get in here too toto", you stated.

"but then you will not be fully covered, i can't have that dear", he spoke matter of factly and you knew better than to argue with your husband so you continued to walk with him. by the time you were back at the mercedes garage your husband was sopping wet and you were bone dry but toto was happy as ever, how couldn't he be? he had you by his side.

the next day you had decided to stay at your hotel for fp3 as your husband had kept you rather busy the night prior and you decided you wanted a little bit of a rest before the qualifying session. you had just gotten out of the shower when your phone buzzed with a phone call from your husband, one that you answered as soon as it popped up on your screen.

"schatz, the car is fast. we were first and second fastest"

"oh toto that is great love"

"i might be a little overzealous but i have a good feeling about this weekend. but that might just be because my good luck charm is in the paddock"

you laughed down the phone, "well dear i will be there in an hour to watch qualifying"

"okay honey, i love you"

"i love you too"

meanwhile both lewis and george had overheard toto's phone conversation with you and were giggling like school boys, "man he is so whipped", george spoke making lewis laugh.

"it is cute, they have been like this forever. when i joined merc they had been married a year and they were just as soppy now as they were then"

the drivers were just amazed as to how a man so intimidating could become a massive softie whenever it came to you.

your make up had taken a little longer than you had anticipated but there was no way you were going to miss the qualifying session so you had rushed getting ready and getting to the mercedes garage. in doing so you had managed to forget to tie your hair up. the wind in the paddock always made your hair go wild so whenever you attended a race you brought an ermegency hair band with you.

toto noticed that your hair was down as soon as you walked into the garage. you had been talking to carmen when toto had come up behind you and carded his fingers through your hair, carefully collecting it up into a neat ponytail while you continued you conversation. once satisfied with how your hair looked he kissed your shoulder, "i know that is how you like it my love", you thanked him already used to how doting your husband could be.

the qualifying session had been one of the best that you had seen. and the smile on your husband's face warmed your heart, there was just something so nice about watching toto wholeheartedly enjoy his job. you had been by his side through it all. you had been married to him for one year when he became the team principle of mercedes, so you had seen the highs and lows of the job. you had been the one to comfort toto when the news of lewis signing to ferrari hit. you were always there to help him pick up the pieces so it was nice to get to see the good parts of his job and how happy it made your husband.

"love come here", toto had spoken once the session was over and you did as you had been asked making your way over to where toto was sat at a desk with his laptop in front of him. he pulled you to sit in his lap. he then showed you all of the lap times thinking out loud about the possible strategies they could use in the race to maintain lap times like that. you didn't properly understand the things that he was saying but you didn't care you could listen to his voice forever and you knew that talking things out loud was how he worked best and you were more than willing to be the person that he spoke to.

the actual race had been the most thrilling one that you had ever been to. it had been complete emotional whiplash watching three british drivers fight tooth and nail for a home win. you had gotten worried when george dnf'd as the chances of a mercedes win had halved but you did not let your face show it. you just kept your eyes glued to the screens in the garage, occasionally glancing at your husband in race mode just to check in and make sure that he was not over thinking. when lewis took the lead you began to chew on your lip, just hoping that this was it. that lewis was going to win a race. and when his car crossed that finish line you burst out into a cheer, the brightest smile on your lips.

you were celbrating with a few of the engineers that you knew really well when toto ran over to you he hugged you tightly pulling your feet off the ground for a moment before placing you back down just so he could kiss you, "i have to go to the podium but i had to see you first my love", he spoke before his assistant dragged him away and towards the podium.

leaving you stood there watching him. the proudest wife in the entire world.

#f1 x reader #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 smut #toto wolff fluff #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff #mercedes f1 #formula one #formula 1 #mercedes amg f1 #mercedes amg petronas

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bloodibambiidoll · 3 months ago

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The Butcher’s Angel ⟡ Cooper Abbott x Reader ⟡

✬ You go to see your bestfriend after a failed hook up and her dad, who you’re just slightly obsessed with, is the only one home ✬

This one goes out to my shawties @cxrrodedcoffin & @babygorewhore ily sister wives🤍

Warnings: Bestfriend’s dad!Cooper, made up daughter, talk of murder(he’s a serial killer, duh), obsessive behaviors, blood, glove kink, spit, blow job, hair pulling, daddy kink, choking, biting, marking, size kink, reader has tattoos and scars, unprotracted sex, pet names (angel, kitty, etc.) 18+MDNI!

Your fist bangs your best friend’s door for the fourth time and you’re starting to think she isn’t home. Which is odd, considering that her car is in the driveway and as far as you know she didn’t have plans tonight. And you tell each other everything. Which is why you came straight here when the guy you’ve been hooking up with stood you up again. As far as you can tell her dad’s car isn’t here either and you really don’t feel like going home to your empty apartment sad and alone. So you decide to just open the keypad on the garage side door and let yourself in. If she isn’t here asleep she’s probably out with her dumb ass boyfriend and will be back later on. You’ll just wait for her. No big deal. Or so you thought.

Mr. Abbot’s car is in the garage and the door to inside is open and you can hear rustling around in the kitchen. Your heart rate suddenly picks up because if she’s not here and he is, that means you’re alone with him. And you might have the tiniest obsession with your best friend’s dad. He’s just so kind. And handsome. He is so tall and firm, you just know you’d feel small in his thick arms. His smile is warm and inviting and there’s always been a place at his table for you for as long as you and Lina have been friends. And you know he’d fuck you like a real man should. Dominate you entirely and make you his. Especially considering that he was the butcher. You know he has some pent up energy to get out. And you’d love for him to use your body to do just that. You don’t care how sick that makes you.

You didn’t mean to find out. You were snooping around in his room one day when Lina was in the shower, just innocent curiosity. But what you stumbled upon was anything but innocent when you opened a hidden drawer in his wardrobe and found a duffel bag filled with tools and sedatives. It wouldn’t have been that out of the ordinary if it wasn’t for the hidden camera monitor. When you turned it on there was a man in a basement begging for his life. You panicked and quickly put everything back exactly how you found it. Afterwards you sat with the information for days. But in the end you decided not to go to the police. Instead your crush on him grew into obsession. You followed the butcher’s every move through the news. You knew his work schedule from the calendar on the fridge. He didn’t have any social media but that didn’t stop you from staring at the few photos on your best friend’s profile, analyzing every detail of his body.

You’d lay in bed at night and fantasize about him coming home after and kill and fucking you covered in his victims blood. You’ve spent hours dreaming about the way his thick cock would feel stretching you out and how fucking sexy his body would look over yours while he pounded you into the mattress. It was starting to become a problem, he was taking over your every waking thought and even your dreams too. You aren’t sure if you want your best friend to be home anymore. Part of you wishes she won’t be. And it’ll be him, waiting to make all your dreams come true.

You take hesitant steps forward, your platform Mary Jane's squeaking against the cement of the garage floor. When you break the threshold you don’t see anyone at first, it’s only when you step in far enough to get a view of the dining room that you see him. Cooper. He’s sitting at the head of the table with his hands that are covered in black leather gloves folded in his lap, looking toward you with a welcoming smile. One not unlike the ones he gives you any other time you come over. But his eyes hold a hint of something else, there’s a tension there, a slight twitch in the corner that you probably wouldn’t notice if you hadn’t spent hours analyzing the features of his face.

“Oh! Mr. Abbot!” You squeak out as your steps come to a halt, your hand raising in an awkward wave. “I didn’t think you’d be home I was looking for -“

“You think you’re sneaky, but you’re not…” Cooper’s tone is warm but there’s a hint of condescendence there. Like you’re a silly little girl that knows nothing while he knows everything and more. “See, at first I thought maybe my daughter was snooping through my things. And that, that, would’ve been an entirely different disaster. But once I realized it was you. Well, I spent some time wondering what to do with you and looking at you now, I think I finally have an answer to my question…”

“I - I’m not sure what you mean?” Your spine tingles and your entire body shakes in anticipation of his answer.

“Oh, don’t play dumb, sweetheart.” Cooper chuckles darkly, his large hands flexing in the leather gloves causing them to squeak lightly and his boot clad foot starts to bounce slightly on the wood floor. Each move he makes only causes your heart rate to increase. With fear or desire you aren’t sure. Probably both. “I know you got into my bag. You thought I wouldn’t notice? You didn’t think I’d notice the way you look at me like you not only fear for your life but also want me to fuck you like a little bitch in heat? Just like you are right now.”

“Mr. Abbot, I don’t know what you’re -“

“Hush. Stop trying to lie to me. Come here.” His tone remains level and welcoming despite the commanding words on his lips and you can’t help but clench your thighs together when he snaps his gloved hand before pointing a large finger to the ground in front of him. Your legs carry you toward him almost subconsciously as you scurry across the room to stand in front of the man that’s filled all your sickest fantasies for months. You stop a foot shy from him and look down at him nervously with your hands folded in front of you. “You’re so beautiful and so naive. You wanna know how I found you out?”

“Sir, listen, I really didn’t mean to invade your privacy. I was just looking for Lina but if she’s not here right now that’s totally okay! I can just go!” Your words are rushed and you talk exaggeratedly with your hands, it makes Cooper chuckle as he shakes his head lightly.

“I told you to stop lying to me.” He smiles up at you but this one is different from before, there’s a twitch in the corner of his eye and in the tilt of his lips. Almost like one wrong word would make him snap. “Don’t act like you aren’t excited that it’s just us here. I know you are. Do you want to know how I know? Say yes.”

“Yes, sir.” His tone doesn’t hold room for argument so you just nod as you wring your hands together in front of you and sway on the balls of your feet.

“I know because you thought I wouldn’t notice you snooping around in my room and taking my things but you were wrong. I know because I have exactly 8 plain black t-shirts and ever since the day things in my special bag were rummaged around I’ve only had 7. I know because you know my deep dark secret, and have for months now. But you’ve still come over here regularly, you’re alone with me and instead of fleeing you came at my command like a kitten to milk.”

You aren’t sure what to say because he’s right. You did steal one of his shirts and go through his bag. You’ve done things with that shirt that you’d never willingly admit out loud and you’ve spent countless nights mulling over the content of that bag. Cooper takes your silence as a chance to reach out and cover your hands with one of his large gloved ones. And it’s only then do you realize that the black adorning his hands is covered in crimson liquid. Blood. A small gasp leaves your lips but you don’t move from his hold as you look down at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

“But my question was, why didn’t you tell anyone? Hmm? I wasn’t positive until right now. But you don’t mind, do you? You’re drawn to this… darkness. If you weren’t you would’ve gone to the cops. If you weren’t, you’d be running right now.” He tongue darts out to wet his lips as his eyes roam your figure as if he’s contemplating what to do with you. “I thought I’d have to kill you, you know? I was trying to think of the best way to make it look like an accident, to make sure it wouldn’t come back on me. But I think you’ll be far more fun for me alive.”

“Sir…” You’re shaking where you stand, your entire body feels like it’s on fire. But not with fear. Shock and desire fill your very being and crawl into every crevice of your soul.

“God. Do you realize what it does to me when you call me that, little girl? It makes my cock twitch in ways it shouldn’t. Everything about you makes me want you in disgusting ways.” Cooper’s fingers tighten around yours and it causes his hand to brush against your dress slightly, streaking the white material with red. His eyes widen as he lets out a hard breath through his nose. “Take it off. It’s ruined. Take it off.”

“What?” Your jaw drops as you look down at him, did he really just ask you to take your dress off?

“Take. The. Dress. Off.” Cooper growls, the leather covering his hand coming up to grasp onto the material of your dress and pull you the rest of the way close to him. The look in his eyes is crazed as he stares at the red streaking the soft material. “Take it off and throw it in the fire. It’s ruined. The only thing I want to see ruined is you.”

His tone oozes authority and leaves no room for argument. It has your pussy clenching around nothing as your fingers lace through the hem of your dress and pull it over your head before you even fully realize you’ve obliged him. You’re left in nothing but a tiny pink thong, your little white socks, and your Mary Jane’s. The dress flattered your tits perfectly so you decided against a bra. Cooper groans low in his throat at the sight of your body on display for him. You’re even more beautiful than he could have ever imagined. And he’s imagined you, that’s for sure. He’s spent hours fantasizing about what you’d look like all spread out beneath him or with your pouty, glossed lips wrapped around his shaft. He tried to fight it at first, he’s old enough to be your father but in the end that glint in your eye was what flashed through his vision while he tugged the cum from his cock.

“Go throw it in the fire and then come back and kneel before me, angel.” Angel. This isn’t the first time he’s called you that. But this time his voice is dripping with lust and it makes your head spin. You follow his instructions, you walk to the small lit fireplace on the other side of the dinning room and throw your dress into the flames. You get lost watching it get eaten by the fire for a few moments before the sound of Cooper snapping his fingers brings you back to reality and sends you scurrying across the room to him. You hold eye contact with him as you lower yourself onto your knees in front of him where you fold your hands in your lap and good up at him expectantly.

“Look at you. So obedient.” Cooper smiles down at you fondly as he takes you in. The little tattoos littering your body. Your gorgeous tits. The scars on your body that make you perfectly imperfect. He wants to tear you apart even more. But there’s something else that he’s never really felt there before too. The need to put you back together after. He hand grips your jaw causing the blood covering the leather to smear across your chin and you should be disgusted but it makes your core quiver. “So beautiful. Open that pretty mouth for me, angel.”

You obey, just like he knew you would. He’s had you wrapped around his finger for months and you’ve been none the wiser. You weren’t the only one keeping tabs, he’s been watching you too. Waiting for his chance to pounce and now he finally has you right where he wants you. On your knees, with your tongue hanging out of your mouth, looking up at him eagerly waiting to take anything he will give you. His gloved hand grips your chin before he leans down and spits on your tongue. You swallow without even asking and it makes his already rock hard cock twitch when a little hum leaves your lips. Cooper uses his free hand to unbuckle his belt so he can pull his cock out. Your eyes shine like you just found a treasure you’ve been searching years for as you take in the length and thickness of it, a bead of precum dripping down the tip. Cooper’s hand cups the back of your head, smearing red crimson in your hair as he pulls your head down toward his throbbing dick. It’s perfect, if you’re being honest. No guys your age have even come close to this and you know he’s going to ruin you for any other man.

“Yeah, baby, that’s a man’s dick. Why don’t you be a good girl and suck it for me?” You flick your tongue out and lick him from the base to the tip before lightly taking his head in your mouth and swirling your tongue around it. You tease the tip a little more before taking as much of him down your throat as you can and swallowing around him. “Oh, fuck, yes, that’s so good. Good little kitty.”

You pull back to spit on his dick before taking him down your throat again, massaging the underside with your tongue. You bring your hand to pump the small amount of him you can’t fit down your throat in time with the bobs of your head and Cooper thinks he might go insane.

He hasn’t felt like he was going to cum from a blow job this fast since he was in his early twenties. Your free hand comes up to palm his balls that are slick from your drool dripping down his cock and it causes him to practically growl. The hand on the back of your head shoves you all the way down on his cock. He fucks your face at a brutal pace, reveling in the way your drool, gag, and moan around him. He fucks your face until he feels himself nearing his end. Cooper grips your hair into a ponytail so he can pull you off his cock and take you in. Your make-up is running down your cheeks and the blood he smeared on your face mixes with the drool dripping down your chin to between your beautiful tits. Your hair is mused from him tugging on it and you’re looking up at him like you’d do any single thing he’d ask. He’s never seen anything more perfect.

“What a perfect mess I’ve made.” Cooper smiles down at you sweetly rubbing his bloodied hand across your cheek a final time before leaning back to pull the gloves off. They squeak as he takes them off his big hands that you’ve spent hours fantasizing about and your eyes may as well have hearts in the center. His hand reaches out to caress your blood free cheek and he glides it down your jaw, your neck and down your shoulder before continuing down to the valley of your breasts. He traces the curves of them before taking them in his hands and squeezing, pulling the prettiest little moan from you. “You’re so fucking soft. Stand up for me, princess.”

You push yourself up off your knees so you can stand in front of him, your head barely reaching the top of his due to the sheer size of him. Cooper reaches out and roughly grabs your hips, pulling you between his muscular thighs. He leans forward to place rough messy kisses on your tits, one of his hands finding purchase on your ass and the other traveling between your legs. His fingers caress the lacy material of your dripping thong and he groans against your chest. Cooper presses his fingers against your clit through the material and rubs firm circles while taking a nipple into his mouth and it has you throwing your head back with a loud moan.

“Oh, baby, you’re so fucking wet for me.” Cooper pushes your thong to the side so he can run his fingers through your slick pussy lips, gathering your wetness. He pulls his hand up, examining the way your juices shine and string together on his fingers in the low light. He takes them into his mouth and you watch his eyes roll back at your taste. “And oh, so fucking sweet. I bet you’re tight too. Let’s find out.”

Cooper’s fingers run through your folds again before he uses two of them to circle your entrance and thrusts them knuckle deep inside of you. He curls them just right while pressing the heel of his palm against your pulsing clit and it makes you feel like you’re going to cum embarrassingly fast. He pumps his fingers in and out of you quick and deep, hitting all the perfect angles. All while switching between firmly grabbing each of your asscheeks and sucking eagerly on your tits. He lands a harsh smack on your ass right as his fingers caress your g-spot and it has white hot pleasure washing over your body.

“Oh my god, oh fuck, I’m cumming!” You whine as your hips subconsciously thrust against his hand while you ride out your high. Cooper fucks you through it, not pulling away until your body starts to go limp. The sight of him bringing his fingers to his lips again and licking them clean like he’s savoring every morsel of your taste makes you dizzy.

“Mmm, next time I’ll have to taste that sweet pussy from the source. But, right now I need to feel you squeezing my cock. Come sit on it.” He leans back in the chair so he can unbutton his shirt and you literally feel a bit of drool drip out of your mouth at the sight of his perfect body. Cooper folds his shirt neatly and sets it on the table and then he pats his thighs as he looks up at you expectantly. You don’t waste any time straddling him on the wooden kitchen table chair with your hips raised slightly. He takes his cock in his hand and runs it through your wet folds before tapping the slick head against your swollen clit. He lines up with your entrance and you surprise the hell out of him by slamming your hips down flush against his, taking him all in one thrust. The stretch burns, but god, the feeling of him filling you up outweighs it tenfold.

“Oh fuck, you’re so big.” You whine and throw your arms around his neck, pressing your bare chest against his broad one. It pushes him deeper inside of you and you both moan at the feeling.

“And you’re so fucking tight.” Cooper growls in your ear before looping one arm around your waist and the other behind your back so he can grip onto your shoulder. He plants his boot clad feet flat on the ground and starts to fuck up into you roughly. You lean down and place messy open mouth kisses on his throat, you latch your lips onto him and start to suck and he grabs onto your hair and yanks your head off of him in response. “No marks. Don’t forget we aren’t supposed to be doing this.” Those words should disgust you, send you running for the door. But the reminder that this is so fucking wrong only makes your walls clench around him.

“Sorry, daddy, you just taste so good.” You whine and look into his normally chocolate eyes that are now nearly all black. His nostrils flare and he yanks your head further, exposing the column of your throat. He latches onto your neck and bites so hard you wouldn’t be surprised if it left a bruise. If that didn't, the way he was sucking on your skin right now was absolutely going to. His brutal thrusts never let up as bites down again before pulling away and planting a gentle kiss on the mark already forming there.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t claim you. You can blame it on one of your little boyfriends, I don’t have that luxury, sweetheart.” Cooper grips onto you tightly as he stands from the chair and manhandles you onto the table on your back. One of his big calloused hands grips onto your throat tightly, pinning you against the wood beneath you. “And I don’t think you know what you just did with that little nickname. You’re never escaping me now.” He chuckles darkly before slamming his hips against yours so hard the table squeaks and threatens to scoot across the sleek wooden floor. The hand on your throat doesn’t let up as he fucks you with reckless abandon. “Say it again.”

“Daddy! You feel so good! I don’t want to escape you! I’m yours! Please keep me!” You aren’t sure if you’re begging for him to fuck you again after this or if you’re pleading for him to not take your life but you think it might be a little bit of both.

“You’re a dirty little girl, aren’t you?” Cooper’s free hand grips onto your jaw, forcing eye contact. “Obsessing over an old man. A killer. What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

“Anything you want daddy, my life belongs to you now.” And you mean it, even if he decides to kill you after this you’d be able to accept that because of how good he’s fucking you right now.

“Oh, you’d give your life to me?” Cooper looks at you almost inquisitively for a moment, like he’s really taking in your words. “That’s just… adorable.”

He smirks at you before leaning down to connect your lips in a brutal kiss. His tongue snakes its way into your mouth and dominates your own, exploring every inch. He’s fucking you so hard now that the table is tilting on its legs and the hand on your jaw snakes between your legs to find your clit. Cooper sucks your tongue into his mouth and your manicured nails scratch down his back causing him to moan loudly around it. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, pressing your heels into the fat of his ass to pull him deeper inside you. Your hips raise up to meet his own as you fuck like animals. Cooper’s hand on your throat squeezes so tight it makes you dizzy and when he leans down to bite your lip so hard it draws blood it sends you over the edge. Your pussy convulses around his cock as your nails dig into his back so deep he wouldn’t be surprised if you broke the skin. He wouldn’t mind if you did. At least he could hide those.

“I’m going to fill this little pussy up and claim you with my cum. You’re mine now.” Cooper grips your hips, pulling your body down to meet his unforgiving thrusts as he chases his own high. It doesn’t take long for his cock to twitch inside you as he fills you with ropes of his cum. He grinds his hips against yours until every last drop fills you before looking down at your fucked out form. “You’re an absolute mess, my perfect fucking mess. My good girl.” Cooper hums and his hand comes up to caress your blood and spit covered cheek as he admires you like a priceless painting. “I’m going to keep you. I ought to lock you up so you can’t ever escape me..”

Divider by @anitalenia

#cooper adams #cooper abbott #trap #trap 2024 #cooper adams x reader #cooper abbot x reader #cooper adams x you #cooper adams x y/n #cooper Abbott smut #cooper adams smut #cooper Abbott fanfiction #cooper adams fanfiction #josh harnett #josh hartnett fanfic #josh hartnett smut #Dolly writes

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alexanderkylesworld · 11 days ago

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Ceramic Coating Los Angeles: Ultimate Gloss and Long Lasting Protection

In the bustling city of Los Angeles, where automobiles are a vital part of lifestyle and culture, maintaining a pristine vehicle is essential. Ceramic coating is a revolutionary service that provides long-lasting protection and an ultimate gloss finish for your car's paint. This article will delve into the benefits of ceramic coating, the application process, and why it is a popular choice for car owners in Los Angeles.

Exceptional Benefits of Ceramic Coating

Ceramic coating offers a range of benefits that make it a popular choice for car enthusiasts. This advanced technology bonds to your vehicle's paint at a molecular level, Car Detailing Los Angeles a hydrophobic surface that repels water and contaminants. Here are some key benefits:

Long-Lasting Protection

Ceramic coatings provide a durable layer of protection that lasts for years. Unlike traditional waxes and sealants that need frequent reapplication, ceramic coatings offer long-term protection against environmental contaminants, UV rays, and minor scratches.

Ultimate Gloss Finish

Ceramic coatings enhance the appearance of your vehicle by providing a high-gloss finish. The coating creates a smooth and reflective surface that makes the paint look deeper and more vibrant. This glossy finish gives your car a showroom-like appearance that lasts.

Easy Maintenance

One of the standout benefits of ceramic coating is its ease of maintenance. The hydrophobic properties of the coating make it easier to clean your car, as dirt, grime, and water slide off the surface. This means less time spent washing and more time enjoying your vehicle.

UV Protection

Ceramic coatings provide long-term UV protection, preventing color fading and oxidation. This is especially important in sunny climates like Los Angeles, where prolonged exposure to UV rays can damage your car's paint over time.

Application Process

The application process for ceramic coating involves several steps to ensure a flawless finish. Here’s a brief overview of what you can expect:

Surface Preparation

The first step in the ceramic coating process is thorough surface preparation. This involves washing the vehicle, removing any contaminants, and performing paint correction to eliminate imperfections. Proper surface preparation is crucial for ensuring the coating bonds effectively to the paint.

Application

Once the surface is prepared, the ceramic coating is applied using specialized techniques and tools. The coating is carefully spread across the vehicle's exterior, ensuring even coverage. Multiple layers may be applied for enhanced protection and durability.

Curing

After application, the ceramic coating needs time to cure and bond with the paint. This curing process can take several hours to a few days, depending on the specific product used. Once cured, the coating forms a hard, protective layer that is resistant to environmental damage.

Why Choose Ceramic Coating in Los Angeles?

Choosing ceramic coating for your vehicle in Los Angeles is a smart investment. With its long-lasting protection, ultimate gloss finish, and ease of maintenance, ceramic coating ensures your car remains in top condition. The sunny climate of LA makes UV protection even more critical, and ceramic coatings provide the necessary shield against harmful rays.

Conclusion

Ceramic coating is a top choice for protecting your vehicle's paint with its advanced technology and long-lasting benefits. Whether you’re looking to enhance your car's appearance, simplify maintenance, or protect against environmental damage, ceramic coating offers a comprehensive solution. In Los Angeles, where automobiles are an integral part of lifestyle and culture, ceramic coating ensures your vehicle remains in pristine condition for years to come

#Car Detailing Los Angeles

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translatemunson · 10 months ago

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the tortured firefighters department • evan "buck" buckley

series summary: Each year, 240 million calls are made to the 9-1-1 in the United States. For the Los Angeles County Fire Department, it averages 1,200 calls a day. You could do the math and lay down all the probabilities of crossing the country all the way to the sunny — and full of catastrophes — L.A. for a PhD and ending up in a new 9-1-1 call center. But you could never solve the Buckley problem in front of you.

this is a evan "buck" buckley x fem!reader series

warnings: fem!reader, afab!reader, no specific details about reader appearance are given (lmk if i let something slip), slight divergence from the 9-1-1 tv show timeline (hey, it's a fanfic, i can do whatever i want), mentions of violence, mentions of disasters, mentions of medical conditions, mental issues themes. more specific warnings will be provided at each chapter.

chapters

chapter one — devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes

chapter two — we play dumb but we know exactly what we’re doing

chapter three — these days I'm restless, work days are endless

chapter four — thought of calling you, but you won't pick up

chapter five — when my depression works the graveyard shift

chapter six — it always ends up with a town car speeding

chapter seven — don’t you dare look out the window, darling, everything’s on fire

chapter eight — cat and mouse for a month or two or three

more chapters to be announced

blurbs

blurb — you’ve been calling my bluff on all my usual tricks (takes place between the events of chapter two and three)

blurb (requested) — touch me and you'll never be alone (you need to read chapter six to understand it)

special content:

spotify playlist by the lovely @live-love-be-unique HERE

series note: i have planned out a timeline for the series, which means we are getting a lot of development for them (so reading chapters with a number is required if you wanna understand the series). BUT i'm also open to take suggestions of what you wanna see (maybe it's a scene, maybe you saw this prompt and think it matches the TTFD vibes), so please don't be shy and send me your ideas and suggestions via askbox or dms.

author's note: hi guys! first of all, english is not my first language and, even though i'm a writer in my mother language, i still struggle to put ideas on paper in english. so bear with me and my mistakes, ok? new obsession, new fic, ofc. wanted to explore a reader that is not just a dispatcher, but also have some things inspired by my own hobbies and struggles.

banners credits to @cafekitsune

#effie writes #evan buckley fanfic #evan buckley #evan buckley x reader #evan buckley x you #9 1 1 abc #9 1 1 fanfiction #evan buck buckely #buck fanfiction #evan buckley imagine

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cheesecakeluver · 4 months ago

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AT FIRST GLANCE

hamzahthefantastic x reader

ᶻ𐰁 ࣪ °⋆ when you arrive in Toronto, after three years from home, you meet with your close friend Mandy, who has a visitor that you know, at first glance, is bound to be yours.

———————-

As the taxi slows, i find that my stomach turns and churns in excitement. The idea that now, after three years, ill see Mandy again, after being apart for so, so long, enthralls me. We constantly facetimed and messaged after i had to move, for work purposes. Los Angeles was a great city, but once you really got settled and started to understand life there.. it made you miserable. Thankfully, my work as a journalist had moved me back to Toronto, and i could finally see my friends and family.

I retrieve my heavy suitcases from the boot of the car, thanking the driver and sending him away with a twenty dollar bill. I don't think i'll ever get over the price differences between Canada and the USA. I stand outside Mandy's place, which she shared with her boyfriend, Martin. Of course, i'd heard all about him, because as soon as i moved away, they met. She updated me on every date, every exciting occasion, and every detail of their lives together, including his youtube channel, whom he shared with a friend unknown to me, though Mandy constantly called him clingy and annoying, which left me laughing.

I knock on the door, one, twice, and then thrice. I see a figure moving towards the door, and i get excited, recording the whole moment with an old camera. I'd recently started youtube myself, and had had a good amount of luck, my first two videos not exactly blowing up, but doing pretty well for my first time. I see the figure head towards the door, and i shove the camera in front of me, my smile wide, grinning even.

The figure opens the door, and i'm stunned. It was in fact, not Mandy i was met with, who stood at 5,4. No, this was a nearly six foot tall, dark curly haired man, who looked like he'd just gotten out of bed.

"Uh.. who are you?" he mumbled, wiping his dark curls out of his face, pushing his rectangular glasses up on the bridge of his nose, his chocolate brown eyes widening as he stared deadpan at me.

i pull the camera down to my side, revealing my face as my smile drops. i stutter a little, taking a step back. Had i went to the wrong address?

"Does Mandy live here?" i asked nervously, my concern become increasingly evident on my face. I was never good at hiding my emotions.

"Oh, yeah. She said something about someone coming over today. Just didn't mention who." The man said, his eyebrows unfurling as the confusion fled his face, allowing me to view him more. He was attractive, and even i couldn't deny that, as i stared into his dark eyes. The worry wiped off my face as he opened the door wider, allowing me to step into the home, where Mandy was snuggled into Martin's side, a blanket over them on the couch, as i heard the nostalgic theme of 'Gilmore Girls' playing on the tv.

I smile, leaving my bags by the door as i hear Mandy ask whose at the door, until her eyes land across me. She screams, ditching Martins arms and she runs to me, hugging me and jumping with glee spread across her face. I hold her in my arms, happily.

"I've been waiting for you to arrive!" she says, pulling away from the embrace, still smiling so hard i believe it must hurt. "That's Hamzah, by the way, the one who answered the door. He's the one who does the podcast, and youtube with Martin" She explains, babbling on about what the boys did. I listened eagerly, intrigued, as she told me about this podcast, which i'd never known of before. She asks me how i am, knowing how hard Los Angeles hit me, leaving me emotionally drained.

"I'm excited to be back in Toronto, really. I've been wanting to come back ever since i left. Los Angeles was.. alright at first, but god, once you really get settled, and begin actually connecting.." i sigh, drifting off. The people that inhabited Los Angeles, were just not the people i was made for, and oh how glad i was to be back in Toronto. Back home. I look around, impressed at the new house they'd just moved in to, which now looked like a home due to the decorum, as i see dinner bowls lying around.

Martin cleans them up, putting them in the sink and introducing himself. "Sorry, we just ate.. probably should've cleaned that up earlier." he jokes, wrapping an arm around Mandy.

The whole time, the boy i know now as Hamzah had just been by the door, his keys in hand. i came to the conclusion he must have just been heading out when i arrived.

He jingles the keys in his hand, grabbing my attention. He looks a little nervous, his eyes darting around. "I'm gonna head out, it was good meeting you.." he says, finally looking at me, smiling, his hands in his pockets. He lingers on, and i catch the hint he wanted my name.

"Oh, y/n" i smiled, a little flustered as his eyes remained steady on me, a glint in them. I found myself drawn to him, even though this was our first meeting.

Mandy turns to me, Martins arm still wrapped around her. "We were just going out, for ice cream, if you wanted to join us?" she smiles at me, Martins arm rubbing hers and he stared at her, entranced.

I think about it, but ultimately decide against it, as i had ate the shitty food served on the airplane, and felt as though my stomach deserved a break after. That, and i wasn't in the mood to become a third wheel, especially as jet lagged as i was.

"I need to sort through the boxes as well, get my apartment into living conditons, but thank you guys, i appreciate it." i say, thanking the couple in front of me.

"Call me tomorrow though, we'll meet up then?" i ask, and Mandy nods, smiling. "Of course! Im so, so happy your home. Atleast now i've got someone to hang out with when these two are filming. Ooh, and maybe even double dates, and-"

Hamzah coughs loudly, interrupting her, and their eyes land on each other, and something, almost like realisation, hits Mandy.

I look between the pair, an awkward silence filling the room, as the four of us just looked at our feet.

I knew Hamzah had been there a couple of times when i had been facetiming Mandy, as i heard him and Martin in the background, but i never thought anything of it.

I pull my phone out, prepared to call another taxi, and head out of here, as i gather my bags and suitcase by the door.

"Anybody know how much a taxi from here to Parkson street costs?" i ask, breaking the silence

Martin speaks up immediately, as if snapping out of a trance.

"Hamzah, don't you live near Parkson street?" he asks the boy, who averts his gaze from mine, eyes focused now on Martin, as a pink blush cascades over his caramel skin, slightly covered by the messy curls strewn on top of his head.

"Yeah, i live on Parkson street" He replies, and i see Martin wink at him, before he speaks again.

"Oh, okay yeah, do you need a ride?" Hamzah says, eyes on mine as i see his hands fiddle inside of his pockets, causing me to smile.

"Yeah.. thank you. Really, your helping me out a a lot here." i blush slightly as he helps me with a couple of my bags, and our hands brush together, my face heating up, as does his.

"Really, you don't have to-" i say, prepared to take the bag, as he shakes his head in defiance, which leaves me to sigh, smiling as i do.

"I could see you struggling when you first arrived, let me help you" He says, picking the bags i struggled with up easily, impressing me as his biceps bulged whilst doing the action, causing me to stare.

Martin interrupts us, as he begins saying his farewells to Hamzah. I make my way over to Mandy, one last time, knowing ill meet her tomorrow.

"Call me tonight, and tell me everything" she says, with that knowing look in her eye, causing me to softly chuckle as i embrace her again.

We part ways with Mandy and Martin, saying goodbye to the pair as they began to get ready to get dessert. I smile at the couple as i leave with Hamzah, wishing i had the type of relationship they had, watching them laugh and cuddle and kiss. In my dreams i guess.

As Hamzah walks me to his car, we begin small talk. He asks about my life back in Los Angeles, and i tell him about my journalism and my small channel, as he told me of his podcast. He seemed passionate about it, using his hands as he spoke, and all i could do was become entranced by him. I had met this boy less than twenty minutes ago, yet already he had caught me attention, and by the looks of it, i had caught his.

"I originally started the podcast by myself, and did around.. i think thirty or so episodes before Martin joined. Honestly, its much better when your not just speaking by yourself, to a camera." He explained, hooking me in with every word he uttered.

"I guess i can kind of understand. When i film, so far, its always been by myself. My job as well, it gets lonely, because journalism isn't a very.. i don't know.. social type of job. Sure, I sit and write about all the things i love, but sometimes i just wish i had someone to talk to about my interests, instead of people just reading my words via a news outlet, or magazine."

i let out my thoughts, feeling slightly vulnerable when doing so. Hamzah watches me talk, allowing me to explain what's on my mind, and for the first time in a long time, i feel seen.

"Listen, i know we just met, but honestly, i feel like i know you already. I'm here if you ever need someone to talk to, even if its just about the stupid stuff." He says, a little shyly, rubbing the back of his neck as he speaks. I find myself walking close beside him, and we continue talking back and forth, all the way to his car.

Once we reach his car, he opens the door for me, and just when i'm strapped in, does he make his way to the drivers side, causing a feeling of warmth to erupt in my stomach.

Getting in, he sets his phone on my lap, smiling. "Since your a guest, i'll trust you to pick something good" he says, as i notice spotify opened infront of me.

It nearly made me melt, as i saw his recent listens. "Men i trust, Freddie Dredd, The maria's.. you have good taste" i smile, seeing some artist that we have in common.

I see him smile warmly, staring at the phone as i type my favourite song in, hoping, no, praying he would like it.

"Bags by Clairo.. you have good taste" He replies, copying me, as the song begins to filter through the car, and i hum lightly to it.

entranced by the music, and the feeling of content flowing through me, i rest my head against the window, taking in autumnal Toronto in all its beauty, realising just how much i had missed this place.

I feel Hamzah's eyes on me, and i turn to him, a grin erupting from me without my consent, as his curls fall into his eyes, and his hands mark the wheel.

We continue the rest of the ride in silence, the only thing heard is Clairo's majestic voice through the speakers, and both of us are okay with that. Upon arriving at Parkson street, i feel a little disappointed, missing Hamzah's banter and voice already, even though we hadn't parted from each other yet. I needed to get a grip on myself.

We get out, still walking close to each other, our arms brushing against one anothers, and begin walking back to our apartments, noticing we both strode in the same direction.

"Hamzah, what apartment number is yours? Not to be a creep or anything.." i joke, seeing his eyes light up.

"I'm 112.. what about you?"

I feel myself smile, pink flushing my cheeks, and not just due to the autumn chill in the air. We stop outside of his apartment, and he sees where my gaze lies, his cheeks flushing as well.

"I'm apartment 113” i say, grinning, our proximity exciting me like nothing before. maybe, just maybe this meant i did have a chance. endless excuses we’re running through my mind, thinking of ways i could interact with him on the daily.

He smiles, walking me to my door and setting the suitcases and bags in my doorstep, his cheeks tinted pink, and his eyes on me the entire time, looking me up and down with ease.

He smiles at me, one last time. "I'll see you around, y/n" he says, walking the two paces to his apartment, next door. My heart fluttered, and the minute i go inside of my new apartment, i jumped on the bare mattress, not caring about the unboxed suitcases and bags, picking up my phone and dialing my best friend.

"Mandy, i think i’m starting to like him."

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

#hamzah fluff #hamzahthefantastic #slushy noobz #hamzah x y/n #hamzahthefantastic x reader #hamzah x reader #hamzah imagines #martin and hamzah #hamzah fic #hamzahsmut #hamzah angst #tumblr fyp

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cluedoenthusiast · 17 days ago

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Big Autism Post

(I'm not calling him autistic. These are just some autistic traits that I've noticed that he has that neurotypicals can also have)

This is a list of ND traits, each with a few examples of instances or whatever:

Like to lead conversations and provide extensive information on the specific topics you are interested in.

Find it easier to talk ‘at’ people, rather than engaging in a two-way conversation.

“Oh… I forgot to bring my cheat sheet. I’ve got a folder with notes, which I planned on bringing with me. But it also feels a little know-it-all and self-conscious to start giving a lecture from my own notes here. My best line… I wouldn’t know! I simply don’t know all the lyrics by heart yet. [long pause] I think ‘Big Ideas’ as a whole is a very accomplished song.” [X]

Have your own unique phrases and descriptive words.

“A bone-coloured gentleman” - him describing a spider [X] [+post I made a while back about him and words]

Find building and maintaining close friendships and relationships difficult in a range of environments.

hmm 🤨

May use facial expressions and make gestures when speaking with people that others find unusual.

This whole interview is just him stimming but specifically watch 1:46 in the video when jamie mentions it

The Zane Lowe The Car Interview where he’s doing the same hand stim over and over again

He makes a pained expression sometimes when he’s just talking about normal things but there’s too many examples to get

Autistic individuals are often perceived as controlling. + Have a strong desire to set and follow rules, whether in the classroom, work or social situations.

“…but I'm quite a control freak." He grins. "There's a bit of that." [X]

Would you describe yourself as a control freak in the studio? “Yeah, probably… (Laughs) well, definitely. I think somebody needs to take the reins and I’m happy to do that. I’m sure it’s quite annoying for other people at times, but I think they’re glad that someone is… not exactly in charge but has a vision.” [X]

Alex Turner is not satisfied with the light of the room chosen to serve as the basis for our interview. It is a small and cozy hipster hotel in the neighborhood of Los Feliz, in Los Angeles, of those who are above a cafe with tables occupied by young people on the computer and without queues at the cash registers that do not accept cash payment. The leader of Arctic Monkeys, the largest rock band to leave the United Kingdom in the last 20 years, moves the switches until he finds the perfect balance of luminosity. "Is that okay with you?" he asks, but doesn't seem to care much about the answer. Turner likes to have full control over his environment. "Where do you want to sit? Here will be the best place, right?" he asks, with coffee in his hand, already standing in front of a small beige table below the lamp that insisted on not releasing the proper light. Shy to the point of never completing an entire sentence, as if the mouth did not accompany his fast brain, Turner is fully aware of his obsession with control and attention to detail, something that has become greater in recent years ahead of the band. [X]

Have intense conversational focus on subjects that interest you, combined with a minimal interest to engage in conversation on other topics.

This interview (2:08 - end) where he kept talking about wrestling (+finger flicking) while the interviewer kept trying to steer the conversation back to the question.

This TBHC moment where he got excited about something Zane said.

May speak in a monotone, with an accent, in a very proper and formal way or not at all.

I’m very excited. I want to just… y’know, jump up and down on the bed :|

Zane Lowe bullying his “nice one”

Making repetitive body movements, such as hand clapping, hand flapping or rocking, making noises, or frequently clearing the throat, also known as stimming.

Hair + Head/Neck hold

Rocking

His shoulder tappy thing + the shoulder hug thing he does when he’s nervous like when he met Julian Casablancas

Eyes

Jaw

Fingers + finger biting + finger biting (gay)

Arm rub

Legs

The Car

Prefer hanging around on your own, rather than joining in with others.

“I like to feel foreign, alone. That said, I probably live far too much inside my head, it would be good for me to have more relationships with real people.” [X]

There are fan stories about them seeing him eating alone at like 2am or something but those don’t count everyone does that

Anxiety in social settings

“[very long pause] I just don’t wanna get it wrong in front of everybody” (when asked about his favourite dessert)

Him apologising for calling Batman’s butler Albert instead of Alfred (I lost it ): ) (update: [X] thanks slippy)

His ipod suddenly playing T-Rex

“It’s gonna be alright…”

…The next day, Turner sends me an apologetic email. “I sat myself too far away from my internal cue cards and few sentences made it to the finish line,” he admits. [X]

I would fire a question at them and Miles would respond at length while Alex would emit, perhaps, a tiny smile and draw back a little further in his chair. If you address a question directly to Alex he clams up. If you ignore him then, bit by bit, he comes back because Alex clearly thinks Miles is amazing. [X]

"I was racking me brain for this," he admits in his undimmed Northern accent, holding up a little piece of paper covered in hand-scratched recollections. (Mistaking the hotel lunch menu for his notes at one point, he even cracks a self-deprecating joke; Tuscan kale, he knows, is not the answer we came for.) [X]

Ability to “hyper-focus” on work or a specific interest

“I’d just gotten obsessed with cardboard.” (not a great example but it’s funny)

Experiencing emotions more intensely than others

- “He just feels a bit…. I don’t know… Fragile”

Often accused of being rude or blunt.

no need for example

May have perfectionism in certain areas.

Find that others don’t understand how you are feeling and say that “it is hard to know what you are thinking”.

I can’t find a good example for these two, but it’s been mentioned before.

Masking, where specific behaviours are consciously or unconsciously concealed to fit into social norms or to avoid negative responses from others.

"You know how Shakira's hips don't lie? Well mine are incredibly good liars. A mask if you like." (I looked everywhere for the video I had it saved a few years ago but I can’t find it)

Echolalia and vocal stims

“Stupid slow dirty PC” & “The year is 1965” [X]

“Ipswich”

“In the big room”

“Spectrum section spectrum” (was not a stutter, he just liked those words together)[X]

Stealing peoples accents and mannerisms

Andy: “…he soaks accents up a lot, ‘cause when he started hanging around with Miles quite a lot, he started to get a bit of a Scouse twinge to his accent.” [X]

His Americanish accent in that SIAS interview (I can’t find it, but he says the word “pretty” in an American accent)

Dino hands: This unique posture, colloquially known as "autistic T-Rex arms," is commonly observed among autistic individuals.

Dino hand compilation

While not every neurodivergent person reports high justice sensitivity, and many people with high justice sensitivity are not autistic or ADHD, this can be an autistic or ADHD trait.

The Green Book: Everyday Guide to Saving The Planet [you can also spot “The Abortion” and “Natural cures and gentle medicines”]

Recycling (4:00)

Telling the interviewer that it’s wrong to say “The Gays” [X] (5:06)

“I once stole a ‘Dip Dap’. I walked out of the shop immersed in thought and when I came to the next crossing, while I was enjoying my lolly, I suddenly realised that I hadn’t paid for it. So I walked back to the shop and kindly paid for it.” [X]

May struggle with eye-contact (either too little or too much)

“Alex Turner on the other hand is an inveterate fiddler with keys or phone while he talks. Otherwise he has the slightly unnverving habit of staring at you unblinkingly with his dark brown eyes, like a curious young horse.” [X]

Some autistic individuals struggle with being on time

“Matt: He's always late. He's like clockwork in his lateness. Yesterday in Southhampton, the bus was picking us up at half 12 at the hotel to go to the venue, and [tour manager] Timm phoned him, goes, 'Al, where are you? The bus is here.' Everybody knew what time they had to be down there. He said, 'I'm watching Danger Mouse'. He was still in bed.” [X]

Obsessive interests

Whatever show he's currently watching (The Sopranos, The Wire, Breaking Bad, True Detective etc…): “[Staring] Sorry, I’m just thinking about True Detective” [X] (17:53)

Space

Films (maybe this interview the most) + this clip “Man, Alex was really into this whole sci-fi thing, Man…” [X]

etc…

Zoning out/taking a long time to think

“Well, everything has changed. [2 minutes of silence while you can almost hear a movie playing in his head] …” [X]

Cluedo Enthusiast interview!

Distracted Compilation

Zoning out compilation

People describing him:

‘With Alex, I knew this was someone unconventional, a little bit different, with a brightness and a cleverness that would serve him well. He had a very original sense of humour, as you'd expect, but he was always quite reserved. I remember giving a class a bollocking once, and he was sitting there like Gromit from Wallace and Gromit – mute, but with these incredibly expressive raised eyebrows, as if he was saying sarcastically: "Ooooh – we've really cocked it up now."’

Alex was never particularly vocal, but you could sense when some pieces of poetry moved him. [X]

I think one of the Gallaghers called him a weird guy but he likes him or smt it was a tweet (update: “Strange little chap but I like him” [X])

“…In fact I began to think that Alex (Turner) might be in touch with them (aliens) in some way, the way he works on his lyrics. If there was a line to hone or edit he’d step outside without paper or a pen, stare at the horizon for a few seconds, then walk right back in and deliver some majestic new couplet. Seeing him conjure these lines from nothing I wonder if he’s not at least part extraterrestrial himself.” - Josh Homme

Other:

Doesn’t like hearing himself

“And yet, in person, Turner, a man acclaimed as the voice of his generation, is surprisingly tongue-tied. “Where am I going with this? Uh… I… Yeah… No… I’m sorry, I’ve completely lost it,” he says at one point. “I just hear myself talking sometimes and I’m like bleurgh!” [X]

Taking off Headphones Compilation

Characters/embodiment autism

How he changes looks, haircuts, voices, accents etc depending on where he is in his life at a specific moment.

This Compilation

Twitchy Compilation + him twitching when his phone rings here

Taratata

how hes weird in fan photos idk (not that he’s always weird but yknow)

The one instagram post where the fan asked him to smile and said it didn’t work out (I can’t find it they were skiing and she was a waitress) all i have is this:

I think in the last gif they said he was shy (and smelled like cigarettes)

well he’s terrible at faking a smile in general:

stupid smile compilation

Something about change? He’s been wearing the same clothes until they’re worn out and he always uses that brown bag. I dunno he seems like he loves change but I don’t know him and it’s none of my business (I’m aware of how ironic it is that I’m saying this at the end of this post)

For more stuff on this topic just visit my featured tag thingy.

This post is sponsored by this ask

#i wanted to add alexa calling him neat and also the one where shes like hed rather stay home and read the dictionary but those feel #too stereotypical #this is just for fun don’t take it too seriously i guess #charlies autism collections #autism #alex turner #arctic monkeys #tlsp #the last shadow puppets #big autism post

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despacito-uwu16 · 7 months ago

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The Rising Action

Kenji Sato x Journalist! Reader

Enemies To Lovers | Foced Proximity | Pining

<- prev next ->

“Hit me like a poisonous dart. You were trouble right from the start. Should’ve ran I guess that’s my fault”. - I do by G-IDLE

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺

“Ken Sato has received a 3rd strike. One wonders, how hard is it to hit a small ball, I bet a one-eyed zombie could hit a ball better than he can”. You say into your recorder.

“Wow, you are harsh”. Ami says as you end your recording.

“It’s called being honest. I report what I see”. You reminded her. “I mean have you seen the way he played today”?

“Yes Y/N, we’ve been watching the same game. But it got me thinking. When I interviewed Ken, he refused to talk about his family. He refuses to show vulnerability. It’s like he’s wearing some sort of mask. Something is going on with him, and when I know something, I don’t let go”. Said Ami.

“Wow, you are very determined”.

“At least get to know him before you start roasting him”. Ami suggested.

“Note taken”. You lied.

After graduating college, you were hired as an intern at the Los Angeles Magazine. You would stay at the office after midnight to revise and edit articles for other reporters. Eventually, your boss gave you your first assignment. Coincidentally, at a baseball game. You took in every detail of every player, noting all of the small mistakes and flaws of the games. Everyone looked like they didn’t know how to play, much to your disappointment. But it made juicy material for you.

That night, you were writing like you were running out of time. The article you wrote was on some of the players and their failures. The morning after, you got called in to the editor’s office. At first you thought you were about to get fired, but your surprise, he complimented on your writing style, asking you to cover another baseball game. Eventually, you got promoted to journalist within 6 months of working there, naming you the youngest journalist in the field. A year and a half later, you were offered a job at the International Review Journal. They pay twice as much as the last salary and you get to travel for your job. It didn’t take too long for you to accept it, and the next thing you knew, you were on your way to make your mark in the world.

Everywhere you went, your words impacted people and the way they perceive their favorite athletes. All of the readers love you, while the athletes feared and hated you. You didn’t care for the love and hate. What matters is you were unstoppable.

Now here you are in Tokyo, Japan watching the Ken Sato struggle. You felt bad that the Giants were on a loosing streak, but you didn’t feel bad for Ken. It was his ego that brought him here after all. You leaned back in your chair with your recorder in your hand, while watching Ken having a temper tantrum in front of his coach.

As you walked out of the stadium, you were fishing out your car keys when you realized something was missing in your bag.

“Where’s my recorder”?

Panic starts to settle in as you looked through your tote bag.

“Looking for this”?

You turn around to see Ken Sato, waving your recording device in front of you.

“Well, if it isn’t the walking loosing streak. I would say great game, but let’s face it, i’ve seen better”. You sneered.

“Y/N L/N, the pain in my ass, Let me guess, obsessing with me as usual”? He asks

“I’m not obsessed with you, and even if I were, I would rather launch myself out of Tokyo on a ten foot pole than fan girl over a baseball fuck up”. You rolled your eyes.

“You have really creative comments Y/N. I think my favorite one has to be when you called me the hare who couldn’t beat the tortoise. But slower and more stupider”. He laughs.

“I also noticed that I’m the only person mentioned in your commentary. Am I just a cover for the fact that you know nothing about baseball”?

“Of course I know everything about baseball. I just like taking notes on the most notable failures in baseball history”. You scoffed

He lets out a laugh that still annoys you to this day. “It’s nice to know I have a fan”.

“Once again, the only person obsessed with you is you”. You retorted.

“Says the person who followed me all the way here from California”. He tossed your recorder to you. “I’ve read some of your stuff online. Judging by your writing style, you should consider a career in fanfiction writing instead of sports journalism”.

“Fuck off Ken”. You said.

While he turned around to walk away, you gave him the middle finger, and he stuck up his in return.

You rolled your eyes as you got into your car.

“What an asshole. And for the record, I was here first”. You aggressively push your car key into the ignition.

You were back in your apartment, editing your article on your gray velvet couch. You took a sip of your pineapple smoothie as you reread the last paragraph you’ve just written.

“Ken Sato, “the best living player”, is now the best living curse. From being on cloud 9 to falling into the pits of underworld, he might as well drag the giants along with him. Tread carefully Sato, consider yourself a dead man walking. If looks could kill, we wouldn’t be Coach Shimura”.

Is this considered slander? Possibly. But to you, it’s called journalism. And the best part of the job is the chaos it causes post-publish.

After rereading and editing, you hit publish. You sat back and watched as the likes and views came in.

Later that night, you were celebrating the success of your latest article, alone. You downed the last of your dirty shirley, feeling content with yourself and the hard work you’ve put in. You were about to ask for the bill, when the bartender placed a martini in front of you.

“I didn’t order this”. You look up at the bartender confused.

“It came from the gentleman in the black blazer”. He points to the man sitting at the end of the bar.

You look over with curiosity to see the man sitting at the end of the bar. Only to be disappointed when you realized the guy was Ken. He got up and walks up to you.

You glare at Ken as he approached you. “What do you want”?

“Can’t a man treat a cute girl to a drink”? He takes a seat next you.

You’ve been down this road before. After you publish an article, the athletes either bombards you with threatening emails or bribe you with money or expensive gifts. Either way, it didn’t faze you.

“If this is about the article, I’m not taking it down or tweaking it to your liking”.

“I usually don’t give a shit about what you personally think of me. However, my career is on the line because of you”. He said, his onyx eyes giving you the death stare.

“Awww, it’s not my fault the world thinks you suck. Go cry about it”. You roll your eyes.

“I’m not begging for you to delete the article. Instead, I’m offering you an opportunity”. Kenji proposes.

You turn your body towards him. “Go on”.

“You come live with me for the next two months, get the Kenji exclusive. You get to ask any question, and you get to follow me around. It’ll make great coverage for the sports magazine”. He leans back in his chair.

“Okay and why would I want to live with you”? You scoff.

Kenji smirks. “You can decline the once in a lifetime opportunity to do this interview, or I can tell everyone about our little escapade during college”.

You glared at him. “Excuse me”?

“Imagine if people found out that Ken Sato, a baseball legend and Y/N L/N, his biggest hater had a one night stand during our junior year. That would seriously affect your following and your career, wouldn’t it”? Kenji condescends, leaving you completely disgusted.

“You’re not the only one who can play dirty Y/N”. He smirks.

Of all the annoying things Kenji does, one thing you did not expect from him is to straight out blackmail you. Another is the fact that he’s right. If people found out you slept with an athlete, you can kiss your promotion goodbye. For once, you were backed into a corner, and there was nothing you could do or say to save yourself. Swallowing your pride, you decided to take the defeat.

“Fine. I’ll come shadow you”. You surrendered reluctantly.

Kenji smiles from ear to ear.

“But if you pull some shady shit on me, I’m ending it”. You threatened.

“Won’t be a problem”. Kenji pulls out a pen and writes something down on a napkin.

“Here’s the address to my house. Arrive at my place on Sunday at 9 am sharp”. He hands you the napkin and hands some cash to the bar tender.

“I look forward to this interview Y/N”. He winks at you as he leaves the bar. You sunk in your seat appalled.

“What the fuck did I just agree to”?

Likes, Comments and Reblogs are always appreciated :)

Tag list:

@imconfusedbutok @deadbydad-writes

@introvertthief @rdjsprincess

@boomboom-tanjiro2019 @moyadorogaya

@holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @lovingyeet

@ofichan @nina-from-317

@lunaryasha @kocho-catt

@scarasw1f3 @mochminnie

@ritzes28 @aise-30

@ghostatrixx @aphroditis-world

@levi-09 @marshhbs

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fluentmoviequoter · 9 months ago

Text

Truth Serum

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: While searching for an abducted child, you and Tim are abducted and injected with truth serum.

Warnings: fluff, angst, child abduction, drugging, Tim and reader make out while working

Word Count: 2.6k+ words

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“Bradford,” Wade calls over the radio. “We got an anonymous tip about the AMBER alert. The caller said a car matching the alert description was parked outside the Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena.”

“We’re responding,” Tim replies. “Why the arena?” he asks you.

“It wouldn’t be very busy this time of day. Stay low there until there’s a crowd tonight and disappear with them,” you hypothesize. “Or something happened, and they had to stop.”

Tim nods as he turns on the shop’s lights. He doesn’t want to alert the abductor that the police are coming, but he needs to get there fast. Once you find the car, you’re a step closer to recovering the kidnapped child. The AMBER alert is several hours old, and the longer it takes, the more your chances of finding the child healthy and alive diminish.

“Take the next left,” you tell Tim. “If we can get in the back way, they shouldn’t see us coming.”

Tim takes your advice without argument, which surprises you. Calls with kids are some of the hardest, but when you know one’s in danger, everything changes. Part of what makes Tim such a good cop is his ability to separate his emotions, but the moment you got the AMBER alert notification, he tightened his grip on the wheel and told dispatch to let you and him patrol for the car.

“There it is,” Tim murmurs as he stops behind a partial wall in the parking lot.

The silver sedan you’ve spent the morning hunting for waits in a parking spot as if it’s just a normal day. You can’t see signs of anyone in the car, and Tim opens his door quietly and steps out. As you open your door, you notice something under the sedan less than 100 yards from you.

“Tim, it’s a trap,” you say quickly.

He turns toward you and gestures for you to get back in the car, but the car explodes, and you’re slung back against the shop before you take another step. You reach toward Tim where he lays behind you, but a booted foot kicks your hand away.

“Time to serve and protect,” the man standing above you says.

He drops a wet rag on your face, and you lose consciousness before you realize it’s not water.

“Hey, c’mon,” Tim whispers.

He jostles your wrist with his fingertips as he demands you talk to him. When you realize that he’s asking for a response, you squeeze your eyes closed and grunt. Tim takes it as enough of a sign that you’re still alive and stops talking.

“Where are we?” you ask, blinking slowly. “Are you tied up?”

“Welcome back,” Tim murmurs grumpily. “You don’t handle chloroform very well.”

“My bad,” you reply sarcastically. “Have they been back?”

“No.”

“How mad are you?”

Tim makes a sound that you take as a sign to stop talking. For someone so eager to hear your voice a moment ago, your questions changed his mind quickly. Behind you, metal scrapes as a door opens. You hear heavy footsteps and assume that it’s the man who knocked you out.

“Glad to see you’re both feeling better. Need those minds as sharp and clear as we can get them,” he says. “I’m George.”

“And I’m the man in yellow,” you reply under your breath.

“Cute,” George murmurs. “You’re just here to help. If you found the car, you know about the kid.”

“The kid you abducted?” Tim asks.

“Details, details… Either you start telling me what you know, or I beat it out of your friend here.”

Tim’s fingers press against your wrist as he flexes beneath his restraints. George laughs, and you turn your neck painfully in an attempt to see him.

“You’ll get a turn,” George promises when he notices your movement. “If neither of you is feeling talkative, perhaps you need some courage.”

George walks around Tim, and you track him as he stops before you. He’s larger than he seemed in the parking lot. As he smiles down at you, you relax. If he thinks you’re intimidated, he has you where he wants you.

“Do you want to tell me anything?” George asks.

“Your right boot is scuffed,” you answer. “Little saddle soap would buff it right out.”

George clenches his jaw as he reaches into his pocket. He withdraws a syringe, and your eyes widen as you push back against the chair you’re tied to. His smile grows as he reaches for your forearm.

“Don’t,” you demand. “Don’t touch me.”

Tim moves behind you, but there’s nothing he can do to help.

“Don’t worry, Officer Bradford,” George calls. “You’ll get a turn too.”

George slides the needle under your skin and looks directly into your eyes as he depresses the syringe. He pulls the used needle out and tosses it into the corner of the room. After he pats your arm, he returns to Tim’s side.

“What was that? What is it?” you demand, pulling against your restraints.

A bead of blood appears on the surface of the skin. Tim is likely being injected too, but you need to know what George is pumping into you.

“Back up,” Tim growls from behind you.

“Gladly,” George answers. “To answer your question, sodium thiopental. Enjoy the next few minutes of control.”

As the door slams behind George, you exclaim, “Truth serum?”

“It doesn’t work,” Tim says.

“Yeah,” you agree. “But this idiot doesn’t know that.”

“And you want to pretend it does?” Tim questions. “For what?”

“He gets fed up and tells us what he knows… I hope.”

Tim hums and his fingers press against your skin. “Let’s try it.”

“Hello again,” George says as he returns.

“Hi,” you blurt out.

“So glad to hear some excitement. We’ll start easy. Why are you here?”

“Because we’re cops and someone said the AMBER alert car was here,” Tim answers.

“Oh, so grumpy does speak,” George muses happily. “In that case...”

George grabs the side of your chair and spins it quickly. You’re beside Tim now; his arm is pressed to yours and you can look at him without straining. The plan is working already.

“Glad you’re okay,” Tim tells you.

“Not the truth we’re looking for,” George interrupts. “Tell me, what do the police think?”

“Lots of things,” you answer. “You-“ you interrupt yourself off with a giggle – “you have to be more specific.”

“Where do they think the kid is?” George clarifies.

“With the bad guy,” Tim says. “The guy who drives the silver sedan… Did you steal it?”

“Do they have a name, a face? Who is the suspect?” George is getting agitated, exactly as you hoped.

“A face...” you repeat. You look toward Tim and say, “You… you have the prettiest face ever. I want to marry you.”

Tim takes the confession in stride, likely assuming that you’re still playing I’m high on sodium thiopental.

“You’re the best partner I’ve ever had,” Tim replies, leaning toward you.

“Listen!” George demands. He places his hand over your jaw to direct your face toward his. “Where is the kid?”

“The kid?” you ask, your voice distorted by his grip on your face.

“Mmhmm. Where did they take him?”

George releases your face, and you stretch your jaw out as you turn toward Tim.

“Kids… Tim, I want to have your babies. You’d have pretty babies. And smart babies.”

Tim nods along, but there’s a faraway look in his eyes that you don’t recognize. He’s either playing up the truth serum bit, or something else is happening. George slaps the side of your face before he storms out of the room. You smile at Tim, despite the deepening hand print covering your jaw.

“Pretty and smart babies?” Tim asks.

“You weren’t giving me anything to work with,” you point out with a shrug.

“I like listening.”

“Well, it is truth serum,” you murmur.

When George returns, he shoves a picture in your face.

“My son, where did they take him?” he demands.

“Son?” you and Tim ask together.

“Oh!” you exclaim when you see the picture. “George, listen, we can help. But you have to let us go.”

“Why would I do that? You people are the reason he’s gone!”

“George,” you repeat softly. “We know that the man who reported his abduction is really his stepfather, and half of the LAPD is looking for your son, but we don’t know where he is yet.”

“He never would’ve disappeared if you hadn’t taken him away from me!”

“Then let me help,” you implore.

George stares at you for a few seconds before he nods. He cuts your restraints and steps back as you stand. You pull Tim’s handcuffs from his belt as you move, just in case.

“Let’s go,” he commands.

You shake your head and point to Tim. “Both of us.”

“No,” George answers. “Help me and I’ll let you come back to get him later. We’re going.”

George grabs your arm and shoves you harshly toward the door. You could fight back, but without Tim to back you up, it would go poorly fast.

“Tim, I’ll be back,” you promise.

“Be careful,” he mouths silently.

You nod and hold his eyes until the door closes. As you follow George through the underground tunnel, you watch him closely.

“Dad!” someone yells deeper in the tunnel.

“George,” you say lowly. “What did you do?”

“He’s my son!” George bellows.

He turns toward you with your gun aimed at your chest. You raise your hands and maintain eye contact with him.

“This doesn’t end well for you,” you tell him. “What was the goal?”

“His stepdad is looking for him,” George explains. “I can’t lose my son again.”

“So… what?”

“You would bring him here, lure that monster here, and I would save my son!”

“George, it doesn’t work like that. You kill his stepdad, you injure me or my partner, and you go to prison. So that little boy in there still loses you. You’re stuck, George.”

“No!” he yells. “No, I have the gun and my son.”

“And when you have to run? You drag him with you?”

“I- we-“

“You didn’t think that far?” you guess. “You don’t get out of this, George. Not like this.”

“Dad!” his son yells again.

“He needs you right now. If you let me go, surrender, and return that little boy to his mother-“

“The court takes him again.”

“But you still get to see him. What’s better, George? Taking him from everything he loves or seeing him when it’s good for him?”

The gun falters in George’s hand, and when he begins to lower it, you surge forward. As your shoulder collides with his chest, you pull your gun from his grip. It fires into the tunnel as you wrestle George to the ground. The moment you push him to the concrete and secure your cuffs on him, George begins crying.

“Save the tears for your court date,” you respond. “Where’s my radio? My phone?”

George shakes his head, and you sigh in exasperation. You pull his shoulders to help him into a seated position against the concrete wall.

“Stay here,” you demand. George nods vehemently, and you ask, “Where’s your son?”

“Third door on the left,” he answers through sniffles.

You walk to the third door and open it carefully. The little boy runs to you and hugs your legs as he rambles about how his father took him from his mom’s house and won’t tell him anything.

“It’s okay, buddy,” you assure him. “Here, can you hold my handcuffs? I need someone to keep them ready until I come back.”

He nods and accepts the handcuffs. As he sits on the thin mattress behind him and toys with the mechanical lock, you return to the main tunnel. George doesn’t speak as you pass him, nor when you take the knife from his side.

You open the door to the room where Tim is waiting and step inside. He looks up quickly and blows out a large breath. His jaw tightens quickly, and you notice blood running down his left hand.

“George is in cuffs outside,” you say. You squat before Tim and begin cutting his restraints. “And his son is fine. Babysitting your cuffs at the moment.”

You set the knife aside and focus on gently freeing Tim's bloodied wrist, oblivious to how he watches you. His skin has been scraped raw from tugging against the rope to get out and get to you. He heard the gunshot and assumed the worst, then you came in like nothing happened.

The moment Tim is free, you stand and offer a hand to him. Tim knocks your hand out of the way as he stands. You begin to ask him if he’s okay, but his hands rise to your shoulders, his thumbs against the pillar of your neck. Before you finish the question, Tim presses himself closer to you and kisses you. You blink in surprise but melt into his affection quickly. As you slide your arms over his shoulder and move with Tim, you wonder how much of his action is adrenaline and if there’s anything in this that he means.

“Officer?” George’s son calls down the tunnel.

You step back and Tim drops his hands to your waist.

“That was…” you begin.

“Truth serum,” Tim finishes. “Let’s go.”

He brushes past you, trailing his right hand over your waist. Outside, he leads George out as you carry his son back into the sunlight. The young boy clings to you, and you comfort him as Tim uses the radio in the shop to alert dispatch and request backup.

“Where’s our stuff?” Tim asks George as he shoves him against the dented back door.

“Threw it in here,” George mumbles against the glass.

“He may be a kidnapper, but he’s no thief,” you murmur.

“You see those dents?” Tim asks lowly, so George’s son doesn’t hear. “Those were made when you tried to kill two cops. All of this for a little boy you’re never going to see again.”

George begins crying again, and Tim rolls his eyes as he looks away. Tim may be good at hiding his emotions on the job, but you know better than anyone that he still feels them and feels them deeply.

The first of many patrol cars pulls into the parking lot, and you nod at Tim before you’re pulled away in the hectic moments that follow your heroic recovery.

You knock on the door once, then pull your hands behind your back. Part of you expects that the door will remain closed, but Kojo barks as Tim opens the door.

“Hi,” you greet, rocking back on your heels. “I- uh- I just wanted to thank you for everything today.”

“Come in,” Tim invites.

You walk past him, remembering what it felt like to have his hands on you and his lips against yours. As you turn back to Tim, he steps into your space.

“Was any of it true?” he asks.

“It’s called truth serum for a reason,” you whisper.

Tim fails to hide his smile as he says, “Then you think I have a pretty face?”

“The prettiest ever,” you agree.

“And you want to have my babies.”

“I’m pretty sure I said I wanted to get married first,” you point out happily.

Tim’s hands raise toward your face, but he stops when he sees the bruise along your jaw. You catch his left arm and kiss his bandage, the injury underneath caused by concern for you.

“I was going to say I love you,” you murmur. “But I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

“It’s truth serum. I wanted to believe it all,” Tim answers.

“Then kiss me again,” you request softly.

Tim does exactly as you ask, takes your face gently between his hands, and kisses you. It’s just as shocking and enlivening as the first time, and you smile against his lips because it was true. It was all true.

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford fluff #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford fic #tim bradford x you #the rookie #the rookie x reader #the rookie abc #fem!reader #hanna writes✯

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lotusbxtch · 11 months ago

Text

SoCal to NorCal - Chapter 1: Malibu

Series Masterlist Series Pairing: husband!Joel Miller x f!Reader x boyfriend!Frankie Morales Series Summary: Joel is your rock, and Frankie is your ocean. So what happens when you bring the three of you together?

- or -

you and Frankie roadtrip up from Southern California to Northern California so he can meet Joel. A polyamory fic. This series exists in the Triple Frontier universe and is a Joel Miller AU/Triple Frontier AU. Series Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI

Chapter 1: Malibu

Chapter Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!Reader x Santiago Garcia

Chapter Summary: You & Frankie visit your friend Santi at his Malibu mansion to kick off your roadtrip north, and you let desires guide the night.

Word Count: 6.9k

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI

Chapter Warnings/Tags: polyamory, threesome, multiple partners, MMF dynamics, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected P in V (wrap it up pls!), DVP, multiple orgasms, multiple creampies, cum kink, spitting, alcohol consumption, mentions of food, gratuitous descriptions of male and female anatomy, heavy use of Spanish pet names/nicknames, Santi being a menace is his own warning, Frankie the PEK, Frankie has a big dick and so does Santi, Reader uses she/her pronouns, Reader is able-bodied, has breasts, and has hair that can be pulled, otherwise no description of Reader's skin color, size, body shape, hair color, eye color, or ethnicity, no use of y/n. Everyone is testing negative for STDs and Reader is on birth control. a/n: This is my very first series fic! I plan to have 3 chapters including this one. This one was meant to be a fun spicy little intro into the fic, but of course Santi being an absolute menace meant that this is absolute smutty filth and I'm sorry (not sorry). MASSIVE thank you to my sweet @for-a-longlongtime, who not only gave me the iconic Santiago line "guava goes better with pussy and mezcal," but beta read for me, bounced ideas around, and encouraged me when I wasn't sure that I could do this. Without her help, this fic wouldn't be in existence! Dividers by the amazing @saradika-graphics, thank you! (Please note that the chapter graphic is NOT meant to be accurate to Reader — vibes only!)

If you enjoy my writing, please leave a comment, feedback or reblog! It would mean the world to me. Thank you!

“I think that should be everything,” you murmur, closing the back of the forest green Jeep. You card a hand through your hair while going over a mental pack list for the third time this afternoon. Behind you, you feel a soft kiss on your shoulder and warm, strong hands envelop your waist.

“You ready to ride then, sweetness?” asks your boyfriend, Frankie. You smile and lean back into his embrace. “Yeah, I’m really looking forward to this trip,” you say, turning to plant a kiss to his aquiline nose, and then another to his plush lips. You both hop into the car; Frankie navigates towards the coast, while small butterflies dance in the pit of your stomach as you think about how the two of you got here.

You and Frankie Morales met six months ago at the Santa Monica airport. In a bid to encourage team bonding, upper management at your job booked a helicopter tour of the Los Angeles skyline. Frankie was the pilot for your chopper. He charmed your group with his charismatic yet humble demeanor and fun factoids about LA, especially you – your coworkers insisted that he kept staring at you when you weren’t looking. But Frankie ultimately beat you to the punch and asked you out for drinks the following night. You accepted, and the rest is history. The attraction was palpable from the get-go, and Frankie’s go-with-the-flow attitude complimented your fiery personality to a T. You adored how detail-oriented he was in all aspects of his life – memorizing your favorite teas, asking about how your projects were going, knowing exactly how to make you see stars in bed with his fingers, his cock, and especially his tongue. You couldn’t deny that Frankie was the perfect addition to your life, and you to his.

Through those first few weeks, you both divulged the more challenging bits of your lives. Frankie told you about his daughter, Isabella, and how his struggle with cocaine almost ruined his life. His relationship with his ex-wife was strained because of it, but they co-parented well - it was their main goal to ensure that Isabella was never put in the middle of their struggles, that she always felt supported and loved by both of her parents. Frankie had lost his pilot’s license after he failed a random drug test, and he took that as a sign to do the work to fix what was broken. He was now two years sober, and back to flying.

You, in turn, revealed to Frankie that he wasn’t the only man in your life. For the last decade, you’ve been with Joel Miller, your husband of seven years. Joel was the steady compass of your soul, the man whose roots intertwined deeply with those of your heart. You’d loved Joel almost your entire life, having grown up in the same neighborhood, although your crush on him was secretive during your childhood. He was your older brother’s best friend from college, a transplant from Texas whose parents moved to the Bay Area when he was a teenager. You ran into him after getting your master’s degree and moving back to the suburbs of San Francisco, and something sparked between the two of you. Since then, you’d been inseparable. When your work requested that you spend a year going between NorCal and SoCal to establish the new Los Angeles area office, you knew it would be a challenge for your relationship. As it turns out, it was only really a challenge for one reason — your sex drive was incredibly high, and sometimes you were apart from Joel for weeks at a time. Phone and video sex worked as well as it could, but it couldn’t beat the real thing. One night, after a particularly frustrating video sex session — all of your toys ran out of juice and you’d left your charger at home, among other things — Joel surprised you by suggesting that you didn’t need to stay monogamous.

“Are you sure, Joel?” you asked incredulously. “You’ve never been one to particularly like sharing.”

Joel huffed a laugh. “Yes, darlin’,” he replied. “Lord knows the new office ended up bein’ more work than either of us thought it’d be. I know how much ‘gettin’ yours’ can be de-stressin’ for ya, and I don’t wanna be the reason you can’t seek it. It’s not like you’d be askin’ someone to move in with us. If it helps you, it makes me happy. And it sure would give my phone battery and hands some relief.” He chuckled as you scoffed in mock indignation. “You don’t have to tell me anythin’ you don’t want to about whoever you get involved with. As long as you’re stayin’ safe and they’re treatin’ you as well as I do, then I’m okay with it.”

You sighed in consideration. “Let me think about it some more,” you said, picking at your rental’s bedspread. “It’s not something I’m going to take lightly.”

And then two weeks later, you met Frankie. Frankie was surprisingly relaxed when you told him about Joel, albeit surprised. He’d hesitated to continue things until you got on the phone with Joel and had him tell Frankie himself. After all, you’d checked with Joel within a few days of meeting Frankie just to make sure Joel was still okay with you being with another man.

You made sure to tell Joel when you’d be seeing Frankie, and Frankie didn’t contact you when you were back home with Joel. It wasn’t that either man wanted to pretend the other didn’t exist; rather, they each wanted to respect the other man’s time with you. Frankie wasn’t seeking marriage or starting a family; he wanted to continue using his time and energy on Isabella and getting his career back on track. And Joel was confident in and comfortable with your marriage in a way that didn’t allow for unseemly jealousy to crop up.

Gradually you told each of them bits about the other one, until one day Joel suggested that the two of them meet. You were game, but wanted to run it by Frankie first.

“He wants to meet me?” Frankie asked, wringing his hands a bit and looking mildly surprised. The two of you had just finished dinner at one of your favorite taco trucks in LA, and you licked the tips of your fingers as you finished your last al pastor taco, the warm, savory spices dancing on your tongue. Frankie took a sip from his Mexican Coke, his plush lips wrapping around the cool aqua glass of the bottle.

You nod your head in affirmation. “Just for a couple of days. We could make a vacation out of it. Joel suggested maybe we road trip up the coast.”

Frankie looked pensive. You don’t blame him, especially when the two men had made a concerted effort to keep their relationships with you separate. “You’re sure you want to do this?” Frankie asked, searching your eyes for any hesitation. You studied those dark chocolate irises, so similar to Joel’s.

“Yes, Francisco,” you confirmed, reaching out across the plastic picnic table to touch his hand. The sounds of the city wrapped around you as the two of you gazed at each other. “Joel has my heart, but so do you. And I want both parts of my heart, my favorites, to be with me at the same time for once.”

“Ok, mi amor, let’s go then,” Frankie said resolutely, bringing up your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your skin.

Your thoughts bring you back to the present, with Frankie’s one-hand grip on the steering wheel and the warm coastal sun beaming through the windshield. The windows are down, allowing the salty sea air to filter through the Jeep. He flips on his turn signal and begins driving through a particularly posh part of Malibu. Giant mansions dwarf the street, pristine lawns and modern, open-glass architecture rolling by as you continue on. You let out a low whistle.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell does Santi do again to afford this?” you ask Frankie, eyes flicking to and from each house you pass by.

“Nothing,” Frankie chuckles. “When we got the money from that final mission that Santi and I went on, he invested the entirety of his share into the stock market. Well, almost everything.” He snorts at the champagne Range Rover in Santi’s driveway as the two of you pull up. Frankie, on the other hand, put the majority of his earnings into a trust fund for Isabella. The rest he used to set himself up comfortably but modestly. “Santi still does some consultant work for private security firms, but he just keeps reinvesting the money and using it to buy property and fund charity work,” Frankie explains.

“Can’t say I blame him, it’s a pretty solid strategy,” you respond, taking in the splendor of Santi’s Malibu abode as Frankie parks his Jeep. The three-story home is minimalist and modern on the exterior, with a combination of cool beige stone and warm wood paneling. No other houses are on either side of the building, so the property is ulta-private, and even has its own beach. As the two of you unpack your bags from the car, you hear a wolf whistle shriek from somewhere around the corner. Jumping slightly, you turn and then smile as Santiago Garcia strolls barefoot out of the house, his pale linen slacks and caramel vintage ribbed polo shirt fluttering lightly against his muscular frame in the sea breeze.

“Hey pendejo, you finally made it!” Santi yells to Frankie, then turns to you with a “hi, hermosa,” and a kiss to your cheek. You wrap your arms around Santi’s torso, inhaling his sandalwood and cinnamon scent and giggling a hello. Frankie walks up, bags in hand, and tries to ruffle Santi’s perfectly coiffed curls. Santi dodges him and then goes in for a bear hug; Frankie smiles broadly as they rock side to side before clapping each other on the back.

“Good to see you, hermano, and thanks for letting us stay with you,” Frankie says warmly as he picks up your luggage and the three of you head towards the house.

“Not a problem, I’m in town for a consulting gig and figured it’d been awhile since we’d gotten together,” Santi responds ahead of you. You and Frankie follow him into the open-concept common area, admiring the sleek countertops, stainless steel fixtures, and plush yet subdued furniture. Light neutrals rule the color palette, with plenty of floor-to-ceiling windows to allow natural light in. You run your hand over the back of a velvet lounger, indulging in the texture against your fingertips. Frankie goes to the bedroom to drop off your luggage, while Santi starts pulling things out in the kitchen for dinner prep. Continuing towards the back of the house, you push open the sliding glass doors, letting fresh air in while you admire the view from the balcony. Below, the azure waves caress the sand gently, and the sound of the ocean encourages you to release all the stress from the last workweek.

The boys get going on dinner as you slip on a silky emerald green dress - opting to go braless and barefoot - and dab on some rosy lip stain. The dress drapes lushly over your body, making it both comfortable and beautiful. After spritzing on some of your favorite perfume and putting on thin gold hoop earrings, you emerge from the guest bedroom you and Frankie are sharing for the weekend. Santi looks up and hums in approval.

“Damn, bebita, you look delicious,” he purrs as he finishes seasoning the steaks. “Do you always dress up for dinner with this chump or did you get pretty just for me? It’s okay, you can tell the truth.”

You roll your eyes at his cockiness and chuckle as you squeeze his bicep in passing. “Santi, don’t flatter yourself,” you retort, “I did it for myself. I don’t need to dress up for him to want to devour me.” You cross the kitchen to Frankie, who’s working on the caprese salad. Frankie huffs a laugh and puts down the kitchen knife, wiping his hands on a towel before to circling his hands around your waist. You lean into him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“That’s right,” he shoots back to Santi without looking over, “she doesn’t need extra dressing up; she’s stunning enough as she is.” He kisses your forehead softly as you gaze up at him lovingly.

“You’re right.” Santi lets his gaze scan over you approvingly. “She probably looks even better with nothing on.”

“Santiago!” you laugh. “You’re such an insufferable flirt.” You walk back over to the opposite side of the kitchen island from him, fixing him with a smoldering smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know, hmm?” Santi has always been relentlessly flirtatious with every attractive woman he meets, including you. Frankie’s never bothered by his antics, but you see his eyes flick towards the two of you, anticipating his response.

“Don’t tease me with promises you won’t keep, sweetheart,” Santi warns you, voice like rich caramel, sweet and smooth. You hold each other’s gazes for a moment before you break away, laughing softly and successfully ruffling his hair like Frankie wanted to earlier. That distracts Santi from the moment, as he huffs and runs his fingers through his curls to fix them.

A few hours later, the three of you are relaxing on the balcony by the fire pit after dinner, drinking mezcal margaritas and catching up on life. You sit with your legs across the cream patio sofa, your back against Frankie’s side like you often do with him. His arm is draped possessively across your torso while his thumb rubs absentmindedly back and forth across your shoulder. Santi goes inside to fetch the mezcal bottle from the kitchen, having switched to just the liquor, and you stand from the couch to observe the beach at the balcony’s railing. The darkness of night has settled over the landscape, lending deep navies and turquoise hues to the water, and everything feels more hushed.

As you inhale the coastal breeze, you feel Frankie’s warm body press into you from behind, and then his soft lips pressing a trail of kisses over your shoulder and neck. You hum happily, smelling his rosemary cedar soap on his skin, and press yourself further into him, lightly grinding against his hips. Frankie lets out a quiet groan and presses right back into you, letting you feel his hardening length against your ass. He begins to cup your breasts through the silken fabric of your dress, easily pebbling your nipples with no bra between his fingers and your tits. The heat of arousal starts to pool low in your belly as Frankie slides his hands down to your hips, grinding on you until he’s fully hard beneath his pants. You tilt your head back, closing your eyes, and turn to the side to catch his lips, biting on his lower one and eliciting a louder groan from him.

“Sweetness, I need you so badly,” Frankie whispers into your ear. When you quietly moan in response, you can feel Frankie’s hands slip down the silk over your ass and hear him shuffle behind you. Spinning around and opening your eyes, you see him on his knees, hat next to him on the floor, starting to ruck up your dress.

“Frankie,” you hiss, grabbing his hands, desperate for more but concerned. “What if Santi sees?”

“What if I want to watch?” you hear suddenly over Frankie’s shoulder, and you gasp when you look behind him and realize Santi is leaning against the open balcony door, sipping mezcal straight from the bottle. A fire ripples from the base of your spine upwards, and your gaze drops to Frankie, whose eyes have gone nearly black with desire but remain on you. Your lips pop open slightly, and you freeze.

“Well, querida, answer the man,” Frankie rasps. “Either you let him watch or make him go back inside, but either way, I’m eating this sweet pussy.” His hands slowly drag up your legs until he’s cupping your ass, squeezing the soft flesh, which rips a moan from your throat. As Frankie’s lips trail up and down your legs, you look back up at Santi, trying to read his expression. Gone is the molten chocolate of his irises; instead, you see glimmering adamant, dark and deep like the desire painted over every line of his face. But that heated gaze is still respectful – you know Santi would never cross your boundaries. If you truly didn’t want him to watch, he’d go inside the house, no questions asked.

It’s for that exact reason that your desire thrums through you like a bass line, and you bite your lip. “Frankie, I need your mouth on me right now. I think Santi needs to see how hard you make me come.”

Frankie responds with a groan, while Santi lets out a deep purring sound. He moves to the couch, sitting with his legs spread, and takes another swig of mezcal as he takes in the sight before him. Frankie immediately yanks your soft lace panties down your thighs, and growls at the gossamer-thin string of arousal that connects your weeping center with your underwear.

“Fuuuuck, querida, you’re fucking soaked,” Frankie moans, inhaling the intoxicating scent near your glossy slit. You step out of your panties, and he grabs them, tossing them to Santi. The man on the couch catches them with one hand, bringing them immediately to his nose and sniffing deeply.

“Goddamn,” Santi grits out, “she smells so fucking good, hermano.” He brings the gusset of the lace garment to his mouth, gingerly licking the slick off, groaning at the taste. You gasp at the sight, a wave of wetness trickling down your channel. “Tastes amazing too,” he adds, leaning back into the couch cushions and stuffing your panties into his pocket.

Frankie pushes your dress up to your waist and moves your left thigh to rest on his shoulder, spreading you open. He splays your lips open with his thumbs, staring at your pussy glistening in the fire’s light, on display for both him and Santi. He licks a steady strip from the bottom to the top, swirling around your clit at the end. You moan loudly, leaning back against the railing for support.

“Oh bebita, listen to those sweet sounds you’re making for Frankie,” Santi croons from the couch. “He must be making that pussy feel so good.”

“Yes, Santi,” you gasp, swallowing thickly as your eyes close in pleasure. “He’s so fucking good with his tongue.” You hear Santi rumble deep in his chest in response.

Frankie begins licking, sucking, and tapping on your clit exactly like he knows you like it, gripping your cheeks with both hands and massaging them. You writhe against his face, rocketing faster towards your impending orgasm. When you look up, you see Santi palming his cock through his pants, the bulge straining against the linen. Your cunt clenches at the image before you. Frankie can tell you’re close, so he slips two of his fingers into his mouth momentarily to slick them up and then plunges them into your warm cunt. You throw your head back, nearly screaming in ecstasy. Your grip tightens on the railing.

“I know you’re close, querida,” Frankie growls. “Let Santi see how pretty you look when you come.” Frankie then hooks his fingers just right inside of you and hits that soft spot that sends you into orbit, squealing. You feel everything tighten and then release, your orgasm rippling through your core and into your extremities. Frankie and Santi both moan at the sights and sounds of you reaching your peak, Frankie lapping up every drop of release from you.

“Good fucking girl, mamacita,” Santi says, getting up from the couch and stalking towards the both of you. Frankie gets off of his knees, easing your leg off his shoulder while wiping a hand across his drenched mouth. He knows exactly what Santi wants, so he moves back a couple of steps. You almost stumble, legs like jelly, and Santi catches your waist.

He tilts your chin up to meet his eyes, and his assessing gaze breaks through the post-orgasm haze you’re in. “I really want to taste that perfect cunt, baby,” Santi whispers. “Can I do that for you?” You look at him, hesitating for a moment only because this is a line you’ve not crossed with Santi before. You nod clearly at him. Santi shakes his head. “Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Santi,” you breathe. “Please put your mouth on me.” Santi groans in anticipation and starts walking backwards, pulling you with him. When you look at him in slight confusion, a sheepish smile passes briefly over his lips.

“Bad knees,” he reminds you, and you laugh. “Kneeling on concrete would kill me.” He tilts his chin to Frankie. “Fish, open the door to the bedroom. I’m gonna lay her down. And bring the bottle.” Frankie obliges, sliding open the other glass door to the expansive bedroom and grabbing the mezcal bottle.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers. You sigh a yes, and Santi kisses you softly at first, then deeper. He tastes like cinnamon, tropical fruits, and smoky liquor. Moaning quietly, you start to lose yourself in his kiss as he moves the both of you backwards into the bedroom.

The California king size bed is draped in soft taupes and creams, the bedding a gauzy cotton that feels incredible on your skin as Santi gently lays you on it. He pulls your dress up your body, and you arch your back to help him remove it over your head. As your bare body is exposed to him, glowing in the low light, he sucks in a breath. Frankie places the mezcal bottle on the bedside table, then strips out of everything except his black boxer briefs, his length fully hard against his left thigh, and sits down on a sleek chaise lounger in the corner, watching you and Santi.

Santi strips off his shirt and then climbs onto the bed over you, slowly sliding his hands over your soft skin as he goes. You shift on the bed at his touch, back arching a bit and thighs rubbing together. He keeps his eyes locked with yours as he reaches your head, forearms bracketing either side of your face. His body is so close to yours yet not touching.

Moaning, you tangle your fingers in his salt and pepper curls and pull briefly. Santi bites your lower lip in response with a small growl. Sitting up, he grabs the mezcal off the bedside table.

“Open,” he commands, taking a swig from the glass bottle. You obey, and Santi leans over your open mouth and fucking spits the mezcal into it. You swallow, moaning at the taste, the alcohol and him. He kisses you roughly, licking into your mouth, and you whimper, your legs dropping open of their own accord.

Santi notices and chuckles darkly. “Oh, you liked that, huh?” he purrs. “Dirty girl.” He kisses and nips along your ear and neck, across your collarbone, and down your chest. Reaching your nipples, he swirls his tongue around and then gently nips each of them. You feel slick pooling at your entrance, starting to drip down your inner thighs. Santi traces his tongue down your belly and to the curls above your pussy, inhaling deeply. He pushes your thighs open further and groans at the sight.

“Goddamn, you’re drenched,” he grits out, shuffling down to put his face at your center. You glance over at Frankie in the corner, and notice he has his cock out, slowly stroking the length. You whimper at the sight and Frankie licks his lips. You feel a sudden pinch at your inner thigh and whip your head back to the man between your legs.

“Eyes on me, hermosa,” Santi orders. “I want you to look right at me when I eat this pretty pussy.” And with that, he dives in.

Santi is a messier lover than Frankie, who usually eats you out with absolute precision, priding himself with knowing exactly how to make you come as fast as possible, and repeat the process until you’re crying out from overstimulation. Santi, however, is licking at you like he wants to drown himself in your cunt. His tongue is everywhere, licking broad stripes across your slit, sucking on your lips and clit, biting at your thighs, shoving his tongue deep into your channel.

“So fucking sweet,” Santi pants out in a daze, separating his mouth from your sopping cunt for just a moment, and then goes back in for more. You mewl and grip the bed sheets as he continues to ravage you.

Your moans of pleasure stir something in Frankie, who gets up from his seat and walks over to the bed, his need to touch you nearly insatiable.

“Frankie,” you whine as you see him, your eyes hazy with lust, reaching out to him.

“I’m right here, querida,” he reassures you, then gets onto the bed, placing himself behind you. You scooch up the bed so that you’re sitting in between his spread legs, your back to his bare chest. You can feel his hard length against you, silken and hot, his precum smearing slick against your skin. Frankie kisses your forehead, then leans forward and grabs your legs behind the knees, pulling back and spreading you impossibly wider for Santi. The man between your thighs groans, slipping two fingers into you, making your back arch even more.

“Does our little slut like to be spread out? Do you like Frankie holding your legs open for me, bebita?” Santi growls, pumping his fingers in and out of you. You cry out at his words, throwing your head back against Frankie’s shoulder. One of your hands grabs Frankie’s thigh, and the other one grips Santi’s hair once again.

“Yes,” you respond, pushing his head back towards your dripping slit. “Lick my pussy like you mean it, Santi.” He groans deep in his chest and dives back in, and you feel Frankie bite the junction between your neck and shoulder in arousal. Santi continues pumping his fingers into you as he sucks your clit between his lips, swirling his tongue over it in tiny circles. You feel your orgasm begin to rise in your lower belly, intensifying with each thrust and lick. Santi feels your slick walls bear down on his fingers.

“That’s it, honey, I know you want to come for me,” Santi says.

“Give it to us,” Frankie whispers in your ear. “Come for me and Santi.”

Frankie’s command is all it takes to snap the tether in your core, shattering you into pieces as the pleasure courses hot through your body. You scream their names as your pussy gushes wave after wave of slick, running down your thighs and Santi’s fingers, into his waiting mouth, licking and slurping obscenely, his fingers continuing to press into your g-spot to prolong your high.

“God, I need to be inside you right fucking now,” Santi grits out, pussydrunk. He stands up and hurriedly shoves his pants and boxers down his legs, his thick cock springing free and bobbing slightly. You feel your mouth water; his dick is just as gorgeous as Frankie’s.

Santi meets your eyes once again. “Do you want me to fuck you while Frankie holds you open, sweetheart?” Santi asks you. You pause, your pleasure-addled mind narrowing in on one idea – having them both.

“I want you both,” you moan. Santi’s eyes widen a bit and then dart to Frankie. They share a smirk and then Frankie turns to you in his lap.

“Querida, how do you want us?” Frankie inquires. “One at a time or at the same time?”

“At the same time,” you whimper. “I want you both in my pussy.”

Santi and Frankie groan in unison. Santi smiles wickedly, looking at Frankie. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, eh?”

“Just like we used to,” Frankie chuckles darkly, and your fuzzy mind tucks away their exchange for later. “We have to get her ready, then.” He slowly releases your knees and turns to you, kissing the side of your face and lightly nibbling your ear. He grabs your chin gently with his fingers, turning your head sideways to meet his eyes. “We’re going to work you open first, okay, baby?” he intones softly. You nod your head yes. Santi and Frankie’s eyes meet, and Santi opens the bedside table drawer, grabbing a bottle of lube and tossing it to Frankie.

He catches it, reading the label. “Guava?” Frankie asks quizzically. “What happened to the mango-pineapple one?”

Santi shrugs. “I still have it,” he explains, “but guava goes better with pussy and mezcal.” You huff a laugh and Frankie smiles, kissing your forehead again and sweeping your hair out of your face.

“Guess we have an edible lube connoisseur here,” jokes Frankie, opening the cap and pouring some of the slick liquid onto his thick digits.

The sweet, juicy fruit scent wafts through the air, and Santi grabs the bottle from him, doing the same while shaking his head incredulously.“It’s not my fault that you have no sense of refinement,” he retorts. Frankie just rolls his eyes and turns back to you.

“Are you ready, sweetness?” Frankie murmurs. You nod your head and breathe out a “yes, baby”. Frankie reaches in front of himself and slips his two lubed fingers into you, and you whimper softly. Santi follows suit, slipping two of his fingers into you next, kneeling between your legs. You feel stretched full but so turned on. They allow you a few moments to adjust, and when you nod your head, they begin swirling their fingers in opposite directions. A moan rips from your throat and you grab at the bedsheets. They continue swirling and pressing their fingers in and out, and the sight of your pussy filled with their fingers gets the both of them rock hard.

The cloud of euphoria in your head is all-consuming as they continue, your arousal reaching an almost painful peak. Suddenly you grab their wrists and both men stop immediately, concern crossing their faces. “Are you okay, bebita?” Frankie asks, his brows furrowing.

You nod your head rapidly, and then bleat out, “I need you both inside me right now.” Santi and Frankie grin at your fucked out expression, looking at each other conspiratorially.

“Well, you heard the lady, Pope,” Frankie says. “Let’s give her what she wants.” He shifts you forward as he moves to the side, pulling his underwear all the way off. He lays on his back on the bed, his hard cock against his stomach dripping pre-cum. “I want you to ride me, hermosa, and then Santi is going to enter you from behind as you lean forward,” Frankie explains.

You nod your head in understanding and straddle his thighs, facing him. Frankie hands you the lube bottle. You dribble a stream onto his waiting thickness, and he hisses as the cool liquid hits his hot velvet skin. Grabbing his slick length, you shuffle forward and guide him into your channel, whining when he bottoms out easily. Frankie reaches up and grips your hips, guiding you to ride him.

After a minute, he looks over your shoulder at Santi, who is slowly stroking his dick. “I think she’s ready, Fish,” Santi says, and Frankie nods once. Santi gets on the bed, coming to his knees behind you and grabbing your hips. Frankie slides his hands to your back, gently pulling you towards him until you’re leaning forward, laying chest to chest, your pussy on full display for Santi, stuffed with Frankie’s cock. You hear Santi groan behind you at the sight.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this, bebita,” Santi admits as he slicks up his hardness with the lube. “Been thinking about being inside this pussy for months.”

“Well, now’s your chance,” you tease, looking back at him. “Better hurry before the offer expires.” Santi smirks at you as he places his hands on your hips.

The moment you feel the head of Santi’s cock slide into your pussy, you gasp as the sting of the stretch hits you. You hear Santi behind you grit out a quiet “fuck”. Slowly he continues sinking into your hot, wet heat. Reaching forward, he circles your throbbing clit softly, making you whine but relax, allowing him to slip deeper into you, inch by inch. Your pussy twitches and both Santi and Frankie choke on moans.

When he fills you as far as you can take both of them, the three of you hold still. As the seconds pass, the sting gives way as you adjust to being this full. The result is rolling waves of lightning sparking through your veins with each minute movement inside of you. You let out a high-pitched whine as a knot of white-hot pleasure tightens in your core.

“Mierda, bebita,” Frankie moaned, “are you gonna come just from both of us being in you?”

“God, she feels so fucking good,” Santi murmurs, almost to himself. Both of them are gripping you tightly as you continue to whimper and whine, your high quickly building. Your breathing intensifies, and you start to shake.

It’s so much, being so full of them physically, and the thought of them both in you - two of the most attractive, sexy men you know - is nearly making you lose your mind. But you don’t want to come before your boys have even gotten to move. It almost feels like a weakness, being this fucked out for them.

“It’s ok, sweetness, let go,” says Frankie softly, realizing you’re holding off for them. He presses a kiss to your neck and it’s your undoing.

The brush of his lips against that sensitive spot right under your ear pushes you off the edge and you wail, your pleasure cresting as you jerk under their firm grips. They moan loudly, your pleasure stoking theirs. The three of you catch your breaths as you come down from your high.

Frankie looks up at you, eyes pitch black, swimming with devotion for you. Santi strokes your hips gently, his strong hands shaking slightly.

“How are you feeling?” Frankie asks you sweetly, rubbing his hands across your back, his thighs clenching from holding back.

You take a shaky breath. “So fucking full,” you respond, and then giggle softly at your obvious observation. The boys laugh too, and then moan slightly as your bodies shift. Santi squeezes your hips and asks, “Are you ready for us to move, hermosa?” Your head is swimming in endorphins as you whimper out, “Yes, Santi. I need both of you to fuck me now.”

With that, the two men lock eyes and nod, beginning an apparently practiced dance of their cocks. As Frankie slides himself out, Santi pushes in, and then they reverse roles. You cry out in ecstasy. It’s so much more than you could have ever imagined.

Frankie and Santi start off with slow, shallow thrusts in and out, gradually stretching you around their lengths. When Frankie hits a particularly sweet spot, you moan fervently and more slick coats them, making them both moan back in response. The friction between their cocks and your walls is delicious.

“Fuck, bebita, you look incredible taking the both of us,” Santi says, gripping your hips harder, a sheen of sweat glimmering across his body.

Frankie hums in agreement. “You’re doing so well, baby,” he praises. You preen at their words, arching your back to change the angle. Santi whimpers and kisses along your spine, worshiping your body. The room is thick with the smell of sex, guava, and mezcal, the squelching sounds of your pussy weaving between all three of your moans and cries of pleasure.

The boys begin to speed up the wetter you get, starting to fuck into you with vigor. You feel like your whole body is vibrating. Leaning down to kiss Frankie changes the angle once again, and Santi lets out yet another whimper as you slide your tongue along Frankie’s.

“Fuck, baby, just like that, that’s perfect,” he gasps, getting even harder inside of you. He starts to rub your clit in tight circles, making you yelp. “I want you to come one more time for us before we fill you up,” he continues. “Gonna make your pussy milk our cocks. C’mon, honey, you’ve got one more in you, I can feel it.”

“I don’t know,” you whimper. “I - it’s so much…”

Frankie lets out a growl. “Oh, querida, I know you can come for us one more time,” he says. “Just think about how full of cock you are right now.”

He’s right. The psychological thrill of having both men inside of you is the push you need. You start to shake again, everything tensing up. Both men moan as your channel pulls tight.

Santi leans down to your ear, still thumbing your clit. “Fucking come for us. That’s an order.”

You scream so loudly when your fourth orgasm hits you, that you’re grateful that Santi has no neighbors - because they definitely would have called the cops by now. Tears leak down your face from the intensity, and Santi whimpers loudly as he thrusts in and comes deep in you, his hot seed coating your walls. The tightness of your pussy and Santi shoving deep end up pushing Frankie’s cock out, but he couldn’t care less.

When Santi’s strokes slow and then stop, indicating he’s finished, Frankie pushes him off of you, and roughly flips you over onto your back. He shoves your legs apart, and pushes his dick harshly into you. Boneless, you lay there, moaning and taking it, unable to say anything coherent except for Frankie’s name. Your boyfriend presses your legs even further towards your shoulders, nearly bending you in half as he fucks into you hard and fast, Santi’s cum forced out of you with every snap of Frankie’s hips.

“God, you look like such a goddess right now,” Frankie babbles, nearly snarling, “so full of cum. You like that? You want me to fill you up good? You’re gonna be leaking our cum for days, querida.”

“Yes, Frankie, yes,” you moan, “please fill me up. I love your cum in me. I wanna be so full of both of you.”

With a shout, Frankie bares his teeth and comes, getting as deep as possible and filling up your cunt just like he promised. You feel his cum thick and hot in you, triggering another moan.

Frankie drops your knees back down to the bed, nearly collapsing down against your chest while the two of you pant heavily, trying to catch your breaths. Looking over, you spot Santi sitting up at the corner of the bed, looking disheveled but utterly sated, his now-soft cock still shiny with lube and your combined releases.

You reach your hand out to him, and he crawls towards you, slotting himself next to one side, while Frankie hisses as he pulls out of you and lays next to you on your other side. He smothers your neck and face with kisses, and you giggle, feeling Santi pepper kisses across the top of your head and stroking the underside of your breast affectionately with his thumb.

You let out a contented sigh. “Wow, that was…”

Frankie hums out an “incredible” at the exact same time Santi rumbles a “so fucking good” to complete your statement, which makes the three of you laugh. Giggles subsiding, something they said in the heat of the moment suddenly pops into your mind.

“Wait a second,” you say as you sit up. Both men lazily look up at you, faces blissed out, waiting for your question. “Frankie, you said, ‘just like old times’... How many times have you double teamed with Santi?”

The two of them look at each other with nearly identical smirks. Santi pipes up first. “Well, back in our Army grunt days,” he explains, “when we’d go on leave together, we kind of had this habit of teaming up to pick up women.” Your jaw drops slightly, and Santi looks amused at your shock.

“It was a fairly effective strategy,” Frankie continues. “Trying to land a girl alone was a crapshoot. But with the both of us offering her a night to remember?” Frankie huffs. “It seemed like fantasy fulfillment for almost every woman we fucked together.”

Your eyes rake over the two of them, gloriously naked and handsome as ever, in bed with you. Yeah, you can see the appeal.

“Okay, but who came up with the idea?” You ask, then immediately put up a hand into the air. “WAIT, no, I know exactly who… Santi, you slut!”

Frankie lets out a loud bark of a laugh as Santi rolls his eyes, folding his arms over his chest, annoyed.

“Hey, don’t act like you didn’t benefit from it, idiota!” Santi grumbles. Frankie reaches over, finally successfully ruffling Santi’s hair. Santi flinches and bats Frankie’s hand away, making you shake with laughter as you lounge in the post-coital haze with your boyfriend and his best friend. You don’t blame those women they slept with one bit. This was a night you will surely remember.

No pressure tags: @mermaidgirl30 @legendary-pink-dot @nerdieforpedro @mountainsandmayhem @arcanefox207 @campingwiththecharmings @exquisit3corpse @gutsby @honeyedmiller @lavendertales @lu62 @luxurychristmaspudding @ozarkthedog @qveerthe0ry @swiftispunk @sheepdogchick3 @thatshortgirlwithglasses @wannab-urs @musings-of-a-rose

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