#forensic question and answer

[forensicfield]

Multiple Choice Questions on Forensic Medicine

1. The visual disturbances seen in methyl alcohol poisoning include all of the following, except? A) Concentric diminution of visual fields for color and form B) Pinpoint pupils C) Photophobia and blurred vision D) Sudden failure of vision

Continue reading Multiple Choice Questions on Forensic Medicine

[awheckery]

DEATH TW and mentions of murder so if that is triggering for you don’t read, but if it’s not then i’d like to ask if you’ve heard of forensic genealogy? while i am uneasy at the prospect of using it to find suspects, it can also be used to find the identities of unidentified decedents, who die of accidental causes or are murdered, and often it’s the only hope to identify those who have been unidentified for decades. the dna doe project is a nonprofit that’s mostly volunteer run, and i think that your research skills could be useful there or somewhere like there. i know this is kind of a random ask to receive, identification of unidentified remains is my special interest but i don’t have the time or training to get better at researching beyond a few tricks here and there.

I feel like we've read the same articles recently; did you see the tumblr post (and linked articles) about Joseph Augustus Zarelli, the Boy in the Box?

Which is to say, yes, I am aware of forensic genealogy and the DNA Doe Project, because like many white American women, I'm a true crime junkie.* My big Thing is investigative procedure tho, so I'm also deeply interested in plane & train crash investigations, medical mysteries, archaeology, anthropology... basically 'what happened, and by which processes and methods do we figure out what happened?'

So far as getting into the game myself, I dunno. I assume there's probably some sort of required formal training, along with the expectation of reliability and sustained effort, and I'm a chronically ill autodidact with ADHD. I'm the research equivalent of a sprinter; investigative genealogy requires a marathoner, because there's so much exhausting, grinding work involved.

Something I've never seen brought up before in any investigation is how many extant family trees are just wrong. Genealogical sites make it too easy to crib notes from other users, and all it takes is one person deciding 'eh that's probably the right guy' for dozens of other amateur researchers to make the same mistake, and then somebody ties that erroneous information to their DNA profile. I don't know how the forensic genealogists deal with that.

You also have to take into account how many people throughout history have just gone missing, or otherwise fallen off the historical record. Just because someone's date of death is absent doesn't mean something nefarious happened to them. (Just because someone's date of death is present doesn't mean it's correct.) People emigrate. They marry. They change their names. They die alone and unknown in a ditch**, or they die somewhere that doesn't make those records public***. Paper records can burn or flood out, and family stories rarely make it down more than one or two generations. History is messy.

I've only done serious research into my family background for two years, in fits and starts interrupted by illness flare ups. Half the time it feels like I find more questions to ask than I get answers. I've found a pair of illegitimate daughters and a handful of adoptees. I've found some two dozen 'missing persons' who may as well have disappeared into thin air, for how suddenly they dropped out of the historical record. I've found a murder victim and a (maybe) would-be murderess.

And four months ago, I found the answer to another family's 150 year old missing person case, and it changed everything I thought I knew about my mother's family.

This is how.

Five months ago, I thought I knew everything there was that could be known about John Robert McDowell.

I knew he was born July 1st of either 1868 or 1869, in Belfast, Northern Ireland. According to his naturalization petition, he came to the United States in April of 1883, when the absolute oldest he could have been was fourteen, and at the time of his naturalization in 1896 he claimed his nationality was English, presumably due to anti-Irish sentiments at the time.

I knew John's handwriting was idiosyncratic: he wrote the J in his name with a rightward upper loop that scooped up again before curving back around the center staff, and his uppercase R was a mess of curlicues. I've never seen the like before or since.

I knew that despite living in America for ten years longer than he'd lived outside it, John still had an accent in 1908 when his second son was born. Spelling is incredibly inconsistent across historical records because up until very recently, it was the practice of the record keepers to write down their best guess at what they heard, and in 1908 a midwife heard and recorded John's surname as McDoul.

John's life was actually remarkably well-documented, in comparison to his contemporaries. I bought myself access to Newspapers.com along with my Ancestry subscription, and he made semi-regular appearances in the Newport News Daily Press for the better part of thirty years as a Navy veteran, successful entrepreneur, and president of a labor union that later became the United Steelworkers Local 8888. (A seemingly throwaway notice in the Daily Press was the only record I've yet been able to find for his divorce, which eventually led me to find out whatever happened to his wife, which is another saga entirely. Pauline, you dirty rotten cheater.)

I knew that John was in and out of the hospital with thyroid cancer, but he was such a tough old bastard it took the better part of fifteen years to kill him, and he died in 1954 at the age of 86.****

According to John's death certificate (and the U.S. Government records at the VA hospital where he died), his parents' names were Thomas McDowell and Isabell Rabb (or possibly Robb, the Accent strikes again.)

This is the only record linked to either of them on Ancestry.com at all.

I have most of a history degree, so I wasn't surprised. There are next to no records of the 1890 census of the United States, and that was down to a fire in the National Archives. Ireland was dragged backwards through hell by the ankles for centuries by a succession of British monarchs and governments, and Belfast was in the prime of especially conflicted territory for much of it. No census records from John's lifetime were kept, and the likelihood his parents would show up in the surviving fragments from 1841 and 1851 was slim to none.

There were transcribed indexes from birth and marriage records available, at least, and I scoured them through, looking for a John McDowell, and there wasn't a single damn one born to a Thomas or Isabelle McDowell in a decade on either side of 1868. There wasn't any record I could find at all of a Thomas McDowell marrying an Isabelle Rabb until well after John left Ireland.

Five months ago, as far as I knew, John Robert McDowell was probably a bastard, who'd either been left out of whatever records were taken at the time, or he was one of the unfortunate ones whose birth record had been lost.

Four months ago, I realized that the record indexes on Ancestry included film numbers, which meant there were pictures of those records to be found somewhere. If they were organized chronologically, I could try to find his birth registration that way. Googling "ireland civil registration records" brought me to the Civil Records search page of a genealogy site run by, of all things, the Irish government's tourism department.

Once again, there wasn't a John McDowell born to the right parents during the right time period, so I went looking for his parents' marriage. And found it.

If they married in 1872, John would probably still technically be a bastard, but I had a point to start from. Once I clicked into the actual scan of the record I nearly snapped myself in half sitting upright in attention, because Thomas McDowell's father's name was Duncan, John named his eldest son Duncan, Isabella's father's name was John, I had to have the right two people, this couldn't be a coincidence.

And then I noticed Isabella was a widow. Isabella was a widow.

Who was your husband, and when did he die, Isabella? I searched again, and found her marriage to a Thomas Logan July 30th, 1866. No men named Thomas Logan died in Belfast between 1866 and 1870, which meant he was probably still alive when John was born. It meant I had been looking in the wrong direction the entire time.

John Robb Logan came into the world on July 1st, 1868, in the Ballymacarrett district of Belfast, the second child of four born to Thomas Logan and Isabella Robb. Once I knew what I was looking for the rest came easy.

John's early life was riddled with tragedies. His younger brother Joseph was six months old when he died in March of 1870. His father died of smallpox in December of the same year, exactly one month after the birth of his sister Mary. Three months before his fifth birthday, his first half-sibling Bella died, at just five months old. And in 1879, his older brother William died after a long, miserably drawn-out illness from spinal tuberculosis.

(As an aside, god, poor Isabella. She had four children with Thomas Logan, and a further nine with Thomas McDowell, and before her early death from a long respiratory illness she buried a husband, two sons, and two daughters. How do you go on after that, how are you not forever shattered?)

If I hadn't been sure I'd found the right family, I was after William died. Thomas McDowell was the person who reported William's death to the registrar's office after sitting by his deathbed. The registrar recorded William as a "child of [the] baker" that Thomas was by profession; Thomas McDowell claimed his stepson as his own.

Duncan McDowell, John's step-grandfather, had a family burial plot in Ballygowan, and he named William Adam Logan as his grandson, with no qualifiers, when they buried him.

All the evidence suggests that the McDowells loved John Robb Logan and his siblings, and he loved them back every bit as much. You don't choose to take on the surname of people you hate, and it seems very much the case that John chose to go by McDowell when he came to America. I'm honestly not sure there was a way for Thomas McDowell to bequeath his name to his stepchildren, given John's brother William died a Logan and his sister Mary married as one.

John Robb Logan disappeared from history after his baptism, and John Robert McDowell made his first confirmed appearance in the historical record in 1883, but I was certain they were one and the same. The problem was proving it to my mother, because McDowell was her family name. She'd grown up with it, as had her sisters and her dozens of cousins and her father and his siblings and her father's father; I only had a paper trail arguing the name she knew didn't belong to any of them by blood.

So I went for blood.

I refuse to give my DNA to Ancestry.com on a principle born from paranoia and ethics concerns. It's absolutely not happening, ever, like hell do I expect a corporation to do the right thing with my genetic material. My mother doesn't share my concerns, either now or four years ago, when she bought an Ancestry DNA kit and then did absolutely nothing with her results besides marvel at the unexpected Swedish heritage in her 'Ethnicity Estimate' because doing anything else looked like too much work.

It took a few days to figure out how to hook my mother's DNA results into the tree I've built, and a few more for all the features to populate, but all told it took less than a week between learning the truth about my great-great-grandfather's parentage and proving it irrefutably with DNA, via several descendants of his full-blooded sister Mary and a grandson of his half-brother Wallace.

Ancestry doesn't tell you when new DNA matches are found, or when someone adds you to their tree (and thank god for that, my mother has somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty thousand matches). To those descendants of Mary Thomasina Logan, the handful of John's descendants who've shelled out for Ancestry DNA kits could be any random person. Frequently the relationships between matches aren't clear, because of all the folks like my mom who never add a tree to their results, or those who don't try to go any further back than their grandparents.

As far as Mary Logan's descendants know, the sons of Thomas Logan dead-ended his line, and when I do find John in their trees there's never more than a birth year and a blank space where there would usually be a year of death. (They all have the wrong Isabella Robb too, but I don't really blame them; apparently Isabella was one of the most popular names for girls for well over a century, and Robbs weren't exactly thin on the ground.)

Someday soon, I'm going to reach out. People who study genealogy do it because they're looking for something: long lost relatives, answers to questions asked too late, or even a better, more personal understanding of history by learning about the people who were there when it happened. Every family has its mysteries and this one, at least, could be solved.

John's story doesn't end here. Here is where it begins.

~

*I'm aware of the problematic nature of White Lady True Crime Brain Poisoning, but I'm gonna have to pull the 'I'm not like other girls' card. I'm incredibly discerning about my crime shows, I hate the fucking cops, and I'm realistic about how unbelievably low my chances are of ever being the victim of a violent crime. I'm white, I'm broke as shit, I'm built like a running back and walk like the Terminator, and most importantly, I'm single and planning to stay that way for the rest of my life. The only way I'm getting murdered is if I happen to get caught in a random mass shooting, which isn't outside the realm of possibility because America.

**In case anyone's gotten this far and is still interested, there's strong evidence that the mystery of the Somerton Man was finally solved last year. At some point I'd like to take a look at the tree the forensic genealogists built tho, because I have some Doubts. There was only one person in that family that fell off the map in the 40's? Just one? I was lightning-strike kinds of lucky enough to find John's real parentage, but I dug up more unanswered questions with it, because two of his half-brothers dropped out of the records after 1901. Completely setting aside the possibility of infidelity in the Webb family and how common inbreeding has been (both historically and in recent memory) in populations of European descent, I have a hard time buying that Carl Webb was the only person who could be the Somerton Man. It's still cool as shit that they have a strong possibility tho.

***Maryland and Kansas specifically can blow me, if somebody died in either of those states I have to find an obituary or a tombstone to get the mcfrickin' date, and I have to either pay money and prove a relationship to see a death certificate, or show up to an archive in person to search on their intranet, MARYLAND WHY DO YOU NOT WANT ME TO KNOW WHEN MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER DIED. (Being fair, I don't know if she died in Maryland, that's just a great-uncle's best guess, because she ran away from her family in 1949 and nobody ever saw her again after the early 60's. Helen, where the hell did you go?)

****One of the big reasons why I got into genealogy in the first place was to see if I could find how far back the predisposition to early deaths and autoimmune disease went in my family. What I hadn't expected to find was a predisposition for extreme longevity on all sides. Longevity as in 'skewing the life expectancy bell curve' kinds of longevity. As long as someone didn't come down with a freak illness or make a looooooooong string of poor life choices, they were apparently immune to death, which honestly explains a few things about Crazy Grandma, god damn.

[eureka-its-zico]

Hi, hello!! I just wanted to pop in to tell you that I am obsessed with “Chaos in Their Bones” and I am excitedly waiting for the next part which I plan to consume as if I have not been fed for a week whenever it comes out 😂 Also, absolutely no rush!! Take your time because I really do not aim nor want to come across like I am rushing you!

I really enjoyed the few interactions between Doc and Zoro and the parts where Doc pushed Zoro into the room and got blamed for groping him lol and then the end of the chapter where Doc took his drink as well 😂 Ah, it made me feel all giddy and I am curious to see how their relationship will progress going forward!!

Thank you so much for sharing this and I am so excited for the next part!

Sending you all the love ❤️

- Gouda 🧀 (because I will be back in your inbox to scream about Doc and Zoro in the future 😂)

Oh my gosh my Gouda Nonnie lol I LOVE IT! Please feel free to come and scream/talk at me anytime!

Thank YOU so much for stopping by to be the absolute sweetest and say nice things about Chaos in Their Bones and the little world Doc gets to join. I’ve been writing when I should be doing essays for class lol but here I am 7.5k words deep in chapter 3 and nowhere near finishing it 😩

7.5k is already long, but I’m so determined to finish the 1.03-1.04 episode arc that I most likely will finish this at 10k or more 😬 I hope you all like reading big beefy chapters. Zoro and Doc will most definitely have more interactions with each other because once she’s on the ship, they can’t avoid each other [insert maniacal laughter here].

Thank you again for being so sweet and sharing your thoughts and some love. It is appreciated more than you know 🖤 I hope you have a wonderful week! Much love.

[supriyasblog]

Forensic Odontology Question And Answers

[vasanthasworld]

Forensic Odontology Question And Answers

[genshin-impact-updates]

Like fragrance fading, like mist dissipating

"How incredible. I can perceive emotions through water, which humans cannot, yet they are capable of using it to regulate their mood... And they accomplish this with a fragrance in liquid form? I see. I believe I have a better understanding of this concept now."

— Neuvillette

◆ Name: Emilie

◆ Title: A Thousand Scents Traced

◆ Renowned Perfumer

◆ Vision: Dendro

◆ Constellation: Pomum de Ambra

When it comes to fragrances, sensitivity varies from person to person, but their preferences tend to be similar.

Few in the world are amenable to every kind of odor.

Fresh, floral, fruity... Such are the scents of Emilie's perfumes, meticulously crafted, exquisitely presented, dazzlingly displayed on the shelves of Fontaine's Quartier Lyonnais.

Dated, decayed, decrepit... Such are the traces erased by her touch, everything made as good as new.

If you've never before heard of a "forensic cleaner," you might at first struggle to imagine what such a profession entails.

But if you're lucky enough to become acquainted with Emilie, feel free to ask her a question or two. She is both an excellent listener and an exemplary respondent, so you'll no doubt receive a satisfactory answer.

[hesperisms]

// Knight Shift

This is my submission for @nanamiscocksleeve Christmas Secret Santa Fic Exchange! I was tasked with writing for the wonderful @reilemon ! "Please don't squirm...you're making it very hard for me to be a gentleman..."

// summary: you get a little too drunk and make a fool of yourself at the bar, requiring Zayne to haul you out of there.

// content warnings: 18+ (mdni), fluff, second-hand embarrassment, pet names, early-mid relationship, THE IMPLICATION, toothache cuteness, husband as HECK

// a/n: when I saw this prompt go on the list I was so hopeful I'd get it and I'm so glad I did! I hope I did your idea justice <3 Happy Holidays

likes, reblogs, comments are always appreciated!

1:04 AM Zayne's phone screen beamed a soft blue glow back at him as he sat in his car in the darkened hospital carpark, brow furrowed as he skimmed through his notifications at the end of his shift.

A veritable forensic timeline of your night, his nimble finger scrolled through Moment post after Moment post documenting your Christmas party, smiling and shaking his head as he watched each captured tease of your night progressing. The Moment posts were very innocent at the beginning of the night and they made him smile to himself, you looking cute and bright-eyed in your new dress, twirling in your bedroom mirror to show him what you planned to wear. He felt a blush creep into his cheeks as he watched you, beaming happily and giggling with your colleagues at the bar.

Gradually however, the blush and the smile were replaced by a tight, protective, possessive feeling in his chest and a pit in his stomach as your drinks began to flow freely. The little brightly colored umbrellas from your cocktails were now starting to get stacked up in your messy updo like a crown of flowers, each video adding to your pile of paper adornments as the footage got blurrier and more concerning to him. Zayne had never been much of a drinker himself and you had pinched his cheeks as you rolled your eyes at him, insisting you could handle it when he asked you to be careful and pace yourself tonight, but the most recent Moment posts told a different story to your dismissals.

An hour ago, blurry new male faces appearing beside you and your friend that he didn't recognize as being colleagues of yours and they definitely weren't as drunk as you; twenty minutes ago a shaky POV of you cheer-screaming at the top of your lungs as your friend downed a double shot of something as they spurred her on. Thirty seconds ago a jumbled black screen mess of your phone clattering to the floor as you howled with laughter and someone tried to help you up, shoving another drink into your hand.

"This has gone on long enough; she's too drunk to be among strangers", Zayne thought to himself with a scowl as he started the car and began to navigate his way towards the location you'd tagged in your Moment posts. He dialed your number as he drove and after what felt like half a lifetime, you picked up the phone.

"ZAAAAAAAAAAAYNIE! ZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYNIE!" you slurred at him excitedly as your glassy and unfocused eyes finally came into view on the facetime call. You were so much drunker than he expected you to be, so much so that he was half-questioning if something had been slipped into your drinks. "Zaynie I've been having SO. MUSH. FUN. with my new frenzzz here...what uhh...what were your namsh again?" you asked with a giggle as one of the unrecognized men muttered in the background and swiped at your phone when you turned it towards him.

Zayne forced a slight smile for you and spoke in a slow, even tone that hid his true feelings about the situation "I just finished my shift, I thought you might like me to come pick you up and we can finish the night with some dessert, hmmm?". With how happy you'd been to answer his call, he expected an enthusiastic yes, so when you pouted and whined that you were still having fun with your new friends, you weren't ready to leave yet, Zayne couldn't hide his icy scowl. "I'll be there in five minutes, Y/N, I'll carry you out of the bar if I have to." Zayne stated in a firm, no-nonsense tone.

Whether you hung up accidentally or deliberately didn't matter to Zayne, what mattered was you were alone and very drunk with strangers. His knuckles gripped the leather steering wheel tightly and he sped up a little, pushing the boundaries of how comfortable he felt speeding at this late hour. All he cared about was getting to you and getting you home safely.

Leaving his car a block away from the bar, Zayne jogged up to the doors, only to be stopped by the two large men guarding the entrance with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Too late for new entries, Sir" one of them said with a note of apology to his tone as he blocked Zayne from going further. Standing up on his tiptoes to peek over their shoulders, Zayne shook his head and began to make his case to them. "Sorry gents, I'm trying to collect someone. You might've seen her? Blue and white dress, about this tall, very drunk?". With timing so perfect only the cosmos could've coordinated it, you let out a loud squeal of laughter that carried through the open doorway, followed by a crash of what sounded like breaking glass. "Speak of the devil...May I?" Zayne winced in apology as the two bouncers looked at each other then back to him with a nod and stepped aside.

"Better you get her out quietly than we have to turf her out, Sir."

Nodding back with an apologetic tight smile, Zayne pat the shoulder of the bouncer in thanks as he passed, making a beeline for where your noise came from. When you had slipped and fallen off the barstool, your heel had snapped off your left shoe and you were drunkenly wobbling, trying and failing to understand why you had no balance.

Placing a hand gently on your shoulder so that you knew he was there, Zayne made his presence known. "Looks like I got here right on time, Y/n" he raised his voice above the cacophony of noise around you in the bar. On seeing your eyes light up in recognition, he dropped to one knee in front of you, beckoning for you to stick your foot out to him. Rewarding you with a slight smile as you complied, Zayne slid his hand delicately around your heel and began to unbuckle the strap on your shoe, slipping it off your foot. Repeating the process with your other foot, your bare feet now flat to the floor, you looked even smaller compared to his tall broad frame as he hooked his index finger into the straps of your shoes to hold onto them as he stood up, picking paper umbrellas out of your hair and letting them fall to the floor.

"Lets get you home," Zayne said to you softly, eyes scanning between the floor and your short dress, frowning at the broken glass you would risk navigating to the exit. "Hold these for me please," he instructed you, handing your heels back to you, before slipping his suit jacket off and wrapping it around your hips so that it draped down over the back of your legs to protect your modesty. You blinked at him in confusion before letting out a little squeal of surprise as he wrapped his strong arm around your thigh and picked you up over his shoulder, holding you tightly and securely in his arms. "Don't worry Y/n, I've got you, I won't drop you" he said confidently as he headed back past the bouncers at the front door.

"Zaaaaaaynie," you giggled tipsily. "You're carrying me like a princess, am I your princess?" You teased him as you clung to his neck tightly, your heels and your purse tapping into his strong shoulder blades rhythmically as he walked you back to his car. He paused mid-stride and pulled his head back to look you in the eyes, noting they weren't as glassy as they had been, but you were still far from sober. "My knight in shining armor," you giggled and buried your head in his shoulder. Zayne answered you with a low rumbling hum, your words stirring something in him that makes the tips of his ears flush red. He hoped you were still too drunk to notice and you seemed to be.

He delicately cradled your head to avoid you hitting it as he bundled you into his car passenger seat and he paused, stunned for a second when you suddenly reached up and stroked his hair gently, like you were petting a cat. "So soft..." you murmured sleepily. Zayne cleared his throat and pulled his head away hoping you wouldn't notice the flush deepening. "Feel free to sleep in the car on the way home, I'll wake you when we get there," he whispered to you as he leaned across you to lock in your seatbelt, but by the time he looked up to your face you were already out like a light, your breathing steady and peaceful, cuddling your shoes and your purse to your chest.

Zayne smiled down at you gently, brushing his thumb against your cheek tenderly and closed the car door as quietly as he could, trying not to disturb your slumber. Zayne drove carefully the whole way to your apartment, taking care not to accelerate or brake too suddenly and risk jarring you out of your sleep.

He needn't have worried, because you didn't stir when he opened the passenger side door or when he reached across you to unbuckle your seatbelt. "Princess Y/n," he whispered to you, a playful tone sneaking into his voice. "Wakey wakey your knight is trying to carry you in." Zayne smiled at you as your half-lidded eyes fluttered open sleepily and you struggled to focus. He chuckled and shook his head with an exasperated sigh as you held your hands out to him expectantly, but he still bundled you into his arms to carry you bridal-style up into your apartment complex without a word of complaint.

Zayne shifted you in his arms, putting you down for a second so that he could punch in your front door code. Missing the warmth of his strong arms and the steady beating of his heart lulling you, you snuggled in tightly against his chest, slipping your arms around his hips and pressing yourself flat up against him.

"Please don't squirm...you're making it very hard for me to be a gentleman..." Zayne blushed, reaching to stroke your hair. "Are you steady enough to stand on your own now?" He asked gently. You nodded up at him with a smile, before blushing with an embarrassed giggle as you almost tripped on your own feet trying to walk to your couch. "Wait there, I'll be back in a moment," Zayne instructed you as he shut the door behind you both and made his way to your bedroom and bathroom, moving through your apartment confidently like his own.

From your bedroom he collected a set of pyjama shorts and a shirt of his you had promised to wash but had instead kept to sleep in; he never asked you about it after the fact, liking the idea of it being wrapped around you at night when he couldn't be much more than it gathering dust in his closet. Detouring to your bathroom, he took your toothbrush, loading it up with toothpaste for you, your retainer, your pack of makeup remover wipes and a jar of eye mask patches.

"Your dress, while beautiful, smells like a brewery I'm afraid," Zayne chuckled, sitting down beside you on the couch with the pile of supplies he'd collected for you. He held his hands out to you and made a "come hither" motion with his fingers, encouraging you to scoot closer to him until your knees touched. "Give me your face, Princess Y/n," he said gently, holding your chin delicately with his right hand as he pulled makeup wipes out of the pack with his left and began to carefully wipe the grime of the night from your face.

You sat barefaced in front of him, eyes closed and sighing contentedly at his delicate attentions, your skin tingling from the makeup wipes. "Nope, I'm just resting my eyes," you murmured with a smile when he gently tapped the tip of your nose asking if you had fallen asleep on him. You stiffened for a second as the cool shock of aloe hit your undereye and you opened your eyes lazily to see Zayne placing the little masks carefully and brushing them smooth with his thumbs. Zayne took hold of your chin again, pressing your mouth open with his thumb and index finger, before holding out the toothbrush and popping it into your mouth.

As you brushed your teeth sleepily, enjoying the calm domesticity between you both, Zayne picked up the clothes and put them in your lap with your retainer on top. "Go rinse and change into those while I throw away these wipes and put your phone on charge," he instructed you, brushing your hair back away behind your ears before taking the rubbish into your kitchen to dispose of. You made your way to the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. Slipping the clean shirt on over your head, you noticed it smelled like him again and you knew you'd worn it to bed often enough that it had lost his smell...you half-wondered if he hadn't rubbed it on himself a little to transfer some fresh cologne to it for you and the thought made you flush with giddy happiness.

Looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror as you spat and rinsed your toothpaste, you couldn't help but grin to yourself, feeling so spoiled by him. After you disposed of the eye masks and fitted your retainer, you stepped out of the bathroom to find Zayne was nowhere to be found. Wandering through the apartment, you softly called out for him and felt a wave of relief wash over you as you heard him respond from your bedroom. Wandering in, the sight that welcomed you made your heart beat faster; true to his word, Zayne had plugged your phone in on your bedside to charge and was now fluffing your pillows and quilt for you. "There you are," he said with a teasing tone. "I was starting to think you might've passed out on your Knight again."

Zayne held his hand out to you and helped guide you into the bed, bundling you in under the covers, tucking you in. You grabbed his hand, catching his eyes as you felt his breath catch at your unexpected touch. "Stay with me? Please?" you asked and he nodded, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "As my Princess wishes," he responded, swallowing thickly. "Let me just get out of my suit and I'll stay the night with you". You watched Zayne's movements around the room with half-lidded eyes as he slipped his tie and belt off and draped his suit slacks over the back of your arm chair. His nimble fingers worked to undo his cufflinks and free himself from his button up shirt, which promptly followed his slacks onto the chair, the clink of his silver snowflake cufflinks hitting your jewelry dish on your chest of drawers ringing through the silence.

"That gaze of yours is going to bore a hole in me if you keep it up, Your Highness," Zayne teased, a tone of a smirk to his accusation and you blushed, pulling the quilt up over your head. You felt the quilt pulled back from you and internally pouted that Zayne had already slipped on some pjyama bottoms you had bought and left for him to use at your place. He slid himself into the bed beside you and pulled your back up tight against his broad warm chest, wrapping his arms around you in a firm hug and planting one last kiss on your hair.

"Thank you for everything tonight Zaynie," you whispered. "Sometimes I feel like I don't des-"

"Shhh...." Zayne cut you off, his arms squeezing you tighter as he pressed his chin down on the top of your head. "I'm exactly where I want to be," he hummed to you. "If you really want to thank me for being your knight in shining armor, in the morning you can help me make us blueberry pancakes. For now though," Zayne punctuated his final thought by inhaling a deep breath of your hair. "Sleep, my Princess."

[missbunnybunny]

『𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 ���𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖘.』

𝕿𝖜: somno, yandere, stalking, breaking and entering, fem-reader,non-con, manhandling, dubcon, overstim, Pervert!choso.«🛑𝙼𝙳𝙽𝙸🛑» I think that's all.

NOTE: I don't know what I wrote. Not edited. Let me know if I missed anything.

You're desperate for a roommate. Entering your first year of college, you decided to find an off-campus apartment.

Thus, the reason why you're so desperate, you can't pay the bills yourself!

A friend recommended posting an advertisement online. So you did just that, asking for a roommate close your age.

Choso answered your ad, and after some questions, you decided that he was perfect. He was majoring in forensic.

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊!𝕽𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔: Who convinced you to get cameras for the apartment. " It's to make sure nothing happens. I wouldn't twant you getting hurt." He assured you.

But he doesn't tell you that he set up a few small ones in your room. He didn't want a random man with you in there.

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊!𝕽𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔: who has a collection of videos of you changing. His favorites are when you try and fail to muffle your moans when you pleasure yourself.

He strokes his length at the same pace your fingers pound your hole. Whimpering your name with a fucked out face.

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊!𝕽𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔: Gets brave and enters your room when you're deep a sleep. Removing the covers and taking pictures of your figure.

Your sleeping choices are an oversized t-shit and shorts. The shirt scrunched up, making you look delicious.

Fuch his getting hard just thinking about it.

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊!𝕽𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔: Who for nights on end just takes pictures of your clothed figure. Until it's not enough, he lifts your shirt and moans softly when he sees your perked up nipples.

Taking pictures of his hands squeezing your soft mount, his cock in between them. An electric pleasures shot throughout his body, at the feeling.

He takes pictures of his mouth around your cute lil nipples.

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊!𝕽𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔: Who slides your shorts just enough to see your clothed flower. He runs his finger against your slit, feeling a sticky pool form.

Who can't take it and uncovers your cunt, taking up close pictures. Some spreading your folds, some with his tip kissing your entrance.

He takes videos of how he ate you out like you were a 5 star meal.

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊!𝕽𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔: Who takes a video of his length rubbing against your fold, your honey coating his member as his hips buckle.

"Y/n-Ah- s-so good." He mumbles in a trance. His self-control slipped with every movement.

He knows it's wrong. But you feel so good to stop.

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊!𝕽𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔: Who takes his length and slowly begins to slit you open, sleepy moan and whimpers left your lips. Choso records the action, a perfect view of where you both connect.

He slowly fucks you, until he feels your walls flutter and constrict around him. He had to bite his shirt to stop himself from waking you up.

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊!𝕽𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔: Who has you coming on his cock, he want to desperately cum inside you but he pulls out before he spills his seed on your stomach.

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊!𝕽𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔: who cleans you and puts your clothes back. He exists your room, and he turned to his so he could masterbate to the video over again.

God, your face was so devine, drooling, and with your back arched. He wished he could fuck you silly, and have you past out around his length.

He secretly made your pleasured filled face his wallpaper.

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊!𝕽𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔: Who pretends he didn't fuck your sleeping body and carries on like normal. He continues to fuck you in your sleep, he feels a sense of pride when you complain about being soar the next morning.

You were doing homework in your room when your computer died. "Choso, can I use your computer?" You asked as you exited your room.

Choso called out in the affirmative from the living room. Entering choso's room, you quickly found his computer.

It was a large desktop with two screens. Signing into your Google docs, you continued your writing.

While typing your hand accidentally moved the mouse, opening a tab. Quickly going on to close it, not wanting to invade choso's privacy.

You froze, staring back at you was a video. One that had a setting that looked like your room, with shaking hand, you pressed play.

It was a view of someone entering your room before your sleeping figure came into view. You watched as choso began to touch your body.

The door to choso's room opened, and in walked the man himself.

Choso looked froze in his spot while you looked at him horrified. The video plays in the background.

Everything becomes a blur. Your body springs out of the chair. As choso moves closer to you, you make a room for the door.

But he catches you. His hand covers your mouth, and the other holds your waist, intrapping your arm.

Choso threw you both onto the bed, your body displayed on top of his. He kept you caged so you couldn’t run from him.

" shh, shh. It's okay, you know I wouldn't hurt you."He whispers seductively into your ear.

You try and struggle your way out of his grip, tears treating to fall. Your ass rubbed against his crotch and onto his growing bulge.

His hips thrust involuntary, in search of any pressure he could get. He whimpers in your ear, making you flush.

His hand that was wrapped around your waist slipped to your shorts. He tugged them down, gaining a startled yelp from you.

His fingers danced over your slit before plunging into your gummy walls. His pace was rough, making your back arch and muffle moans.

He can feel as your greedy hole clamps on his fingers. His palm rubs over your peal. It was over stimulating, and your eyes began to cross.

Your mind is going blank, stars behind your eyes. So much was happening at once, choso was finger fucking you while he humpped you like he was a dog in heat.

Trying to seek any pleasure he could from you.

He whispered, moaning your name, calling his good girl. The coil in your tummy snapped, and you twitched and convolced around his fingers.

Choso freed his hard on. Without warning, his tip began to kiss your entrance before he thrusted into you.

Your body twitched forwards, trying to escape the stimution, but choso's hand over your mouth was firm. Keeping you in place.

Your moans were like angelic calls to him, begging him to continue.

His shaft assaulted your G spot as he plunged roughly into your warmth. His hand snaked around your waist again, giving him a stable hold.

The new grip made it easier for him to abuse your womb. With every thrust, his length and girth made you stuffed.

His movements became uncoordinated as he reached his high. Your tummy tightened as the coil started to tighten.

Your mind was becoming mush, too cock drunk to think right. Choso rubbed your clit before giving it a pull.

The action broke you, pleasure electrocuted your brain, snapping your coil, and you came undone top of choso.

Choso removed his hand from your mouth, gripping your waist tightly as he pounded into you before stuttering and painting your warn walls white.

Unfiltered moans and whines left your over pleasuered body. Choso turned your face towards him and kissed you.

It was a hungry kiss, and he pumped more of his warm seed into you. Giving you a few more thrusts to make sure you didn't spill a single drop.

"Ah-G-good girl. So good f-for me." He says out of breath, almost slured before he pulled out.

His seed and your honey mixed into a puddle into the sheets. By now, you had passed out.

"Next time, let's do a sex tape." He chuckles at your sleeping face.

[orangeblossomsintheair]

DON’T BE A STRANGER – CS55

summary : faceless driver + secretly royalty carlos sainz w leclerc!reader

wc : 2k

an : ring ding ding ding- its me again >:)) what an amazing week this has been on the website, thxx everyone. i mostly just wrote this so the idea could stop bludgeoning me

The faceless driver of Ferrari steps onto the paddock like a rumor, all sharp lines and shadows, the prickle of something not quite real. They call him Sainz, only Sainz, as if a single name could hold the weight of everything unknown.

His helmet never comes off.

Never.

Not on the podium, not in interviews, not in moments of victory or failure.

A flawless red shell.

And the rumors?

They twist through the paddock like smoke from an invisible fire, impossible to pin down but inescapable all the same. Louder than the engines sometimes, they cling to the corners of conversations, the edges of glances, until the air is thick with questions no one can answer.

After all, the motorsports world is small, excruciatingly tight-knit, and talent doesn’t spring from nowhere. It has roots. And roots, as everyone in the paddock knows, have a way of surfacing when you dig deep enough.

Surely, he belongs to someone.

People don’t just rise to the pinnacle of Formula 1 without a trail to follow, without whispers of their origin. There are always breadcrumbs: the karting academy, the private sponsors, the family connections that weave a web so tight it’s impossible to escape.

And yet, with Sainz, the web feels intentionally erased.

Which is why the theories have grown, wild and unruly, feeding on the silence Ferrari so fiercely maintains.

Some say he’s royalty.

“Think about it,” one engineer murmured late one evening over drinks at the hospitality tent. “It makes sense. Why else would Ferrari go to such lengths to protect him? Royals love their secrets.”

“Royals?” The mechanic across from him snorted into his beer. “You’ve been reading too many tabloids. Royals don’t hide. They thrive on attention.”

“Not if they’ve got something to lose.”

“Like what? A throne?”

The first engineer leaned back, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why not? Formula 1’s full of money, right? What’s the difference between a billionaire’s kid and a prince? Nothing. Except one of them has a crown.”

The argument has traction, though. The idea that Sainz is an heir to a European throne, Spanish, most likely, has fueled countless debates, forums, and conspiracy threads.

“Think about it,” fans say online, dissecting every detail like forensic scientists. “A prince could afford the best. He’d have access to elite training, connections, and anonymity if he wanted it. He’d be untouchable.”

And yet, skeptics roll their eyes at the notion. “If he were a prince,” they argue, “you think Ferrari wouldn’t plaster that all over their marketing? A royal in the red? They’d be printing posters and selling merch faster than the car hits 200 miles an hour.”

It’s a fair point. Ferrari doesn’t just protect Sainz, they shield him, encase him in layers of secrecy that feel deliberate, almost sacred.

Why? That’s the question that eats at everyone.

They defend him like he’s the crown jewel of Maranello, and when it comes to Ferrari, you don’t defend just anyone like that. The Scuderia doesn’t go to bat for drivers like they go to bat for Sainz.

Why would Ferrari, a team known for its relentless media machine, its flair for drama, its love of spectacle, choose to keep someone like Sainz hidden?

Why fight tooth and nail to keep his helmet on, even when the FIA itself came knocking?

The fight with the FIA was the turning point.

It started with whispers, rumblings that the governing body was “concerned” about Sainz’s anonymity. Drivers, after all, are public figures. Fans deserve transparency, or so the FIA claimed. There were rumors of mandatory press appearances without helmets, of new regulations aimed squarely at pulling Sainz into the light.

Ferrari’s response was swift, brutal, and uncompromising.

“The helmet stays on,” Luca, Ferrari’s head of PR, told the press during a heated exchange after qualifying in Monaco. His tone brooked no argument. “His performance speaks for itself. His identity is irrelevant.”

When pressed further, Luca leaned into the microphone, his voice like steel. “We protect our drivers. Always. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the board in Maranello.”

Behind closed doors, it was said that Ferrari’s lawyers were already drafting lawsuits before the FIA even made their first official statement. Confidential documents circulated among team principals hinted at Ferrari’s threat to pull out of the championship entirely if Sainz’s privacy was breached.

“They’d never leave,” Toto Wolff scoffed during a press conference. “Ferrari is Formula 1.”

But the threat worked.

The FIA backed down, releasing a carefully worded statement about “respecting driver boundaries” and “valuing individual choices.” And just like that, Sainz’s helmet remained firmly in place, untouchable once more.

It was the kind of move that convinced everyone that Sainz wasn’t just another driver. Ferrari doesn’t go to war for nobodies. They don’t risk their reputation, their legacy, for just anyone.

“He must be someone important,” a junior driver muttered once, staring at Sainz’s car as it glided into the garage. “You don’t get that kind of protection unless you’re…”

“Unless you’re what?”

The driver hesitated, then shook his head. “Never mind.”

But here’s the thing: it’s never enough.

The rumors spread, and with them, the obsession. The more they try to pin him down, the more he slips through their fingers. It’s the perfect magic trick. Sainz isn’t just a driver.

He’s a myth, an idea, a story unfolding with every lap.

He is both the question and the answer.

—-

The paddock is a sensory overload: cameras flashing, fans yelling, mechanics rushing around like their lives depend on it. The heat and humidity press down on you like a second skin.

You weave through the chaos, dodging a camera crew and a gaggle of reporters, the noise too loud, the air too thick.

All you want is a quiet place to breathe.

You pull your phone out and fire off a quick text to Charles. Where are you?

The reply comes almost instantly. Driver’s room. Come here.

Relief washes over you.

Finally, somewhere away from all this madness.

You know the layout of the Ferrari paddock well enough to navigate without issue, your access pass swinging from your neck giving you clearance to move unbothered.

You round a corner and spot a door, slightly ajar, with a sign you swear reads “Leclerc.” Close enough. Without thinking, you push it open and step inside.

It’s quieter in here, the noise from outside muffled by thick walls. You let out a breath, already feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. But as you glance around, something feels… off.

This isn’t Charles’s room.

The walls are too clean, the floor too pristine. There’s no sign of your brother’s clutter: no jacket thrown over a chair, no half-finished water bottle on the counter. Instead, everything is painfully organized, the space clinical in its perfection. And the overwhelming Ferrari red, too much of it, everywhere, makes your stomach twist.

Before you can retreat, you hear footsteps. Sharp. Purposeful. Coming right toward you.

Your pulse spikes. You freeze, too startled to even turn around. When the figure emerges, it’s not Charles, or a mechanic, or anyone you recognize.

It’s a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with a kind of quiet intensity that instantly sets you on edge. He’s already pulling a balaclava over his head, but not quickly enough, you catch a glimpse of his sharp jawline, his piercing dark eyes. He stops when he sees you, his body going rigid like a predator caught off guard.

His voice slices through the silence, sharp and low. “Who the fuck are you?”

You flinch, your throat dry as you scramble to explain. “I- uh- this is-”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snaps, cutting you off. His accent is Spanish, his tone icy. “How did you even get in?”

Your brain short-circuits. The balaclava, his tense posture, the way he’s blocking the door—it all screams danger.

Your fingers move before your brain catches up, fumbling for your phone.

“I- uh- just stay right there!” you stammer, raising the phone like it’s a shield. “I’m recording this! You’re not gonna- uh- get away with- whatever you’re doing!”

The man’s eyes narrow. For a moment, he just stares at you, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Then, with terrifying speed, he lunges forward and snatches the phone out of your hand.

“Are you serious?” he growls, holding your phone up like it’s a toy. His voice drips with disdain. “You barge into my space, and now you’re trying to record me? Do you even know who I am?”

“No! Do you know who I am?” you snap back, panic making your voice louder than you intended. “You’re the creep in my brother’s driver room! I should be suing you!”

He pauses, his head tilting slightly, confusion flashing across his face. “Your brother?”

“Yes, my brother!” you shout, emboldened by your growing irritation. “Charles Leclerc? Ring a bell?”

His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place- amusement? Annoyance?

“Leclerc,” he repeats, almost like he’s tasting the name.

“Yes! And he’s going to be so pissed when he finds out- ”

“This isn’t his room.”

His words are slow, deliberate, and laced with sarcasm. They hit you like a bucket of cold water.

You blink, your bravado evaporating. “What?”

He gestures lazily toward the door. “The name on the sign. Read it.”

Your stomach churns as you turn to look. There, in bold letters, is a name that definitely isn’t “Leclerc.”

Sainz.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, the realization crashing down on you.

“Anything else you want to accuse me of?”

You stammer out a garbled apology, your face burning with embarrassment. “I- uh- thought- I mean- oh god, I’m so sorry- ”

“You thought,” Sainz interrupts, his voice flat, “so now I’m the creep in your brother’s room? Really?”

Your tongue feels like lead. Every molecule of bravery evaporates under the weight of his piercing stare. “I didn’t- I mean, I-”

He sighs, glancing at the phone in his hand. “Did you take any photos?”

“What?” you squeak.

“Photos.” His tone sharpens, patience wearing thin. “Did you take any?”

“No!” you exclaim, horrified by the implication. “Why would I-”

“Because if you did,” he cuts you off, leaning in slightly, “I’ll sue you.”

You take an involuntary step back. “Sue me? For what?”

“For trespassing,” he replies coolly. “For invading my privacy. For whatever the hell I decide to call it. Take your pick.”

“I didn’t even know this was your room!” you blurt out, frustration bubbling over. “I wasn’t trying to invade anything! And you’re the one wearing a balaclava like some kind of-”

“Like some kind of what?” he challenges, his eyes narrowing.

“Like some kind of criminal!” you fire back, your voice rising in pitch.

For a moment, the tension hangs thick in the air. His lips twitch, almost like he’s trying not to laugh, but his gaze stays icy.

“I wear this because I’m a driver,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining it to a child. “Not because I’m robbing a bank.”

You press your lips together, mortified and furious at the same time. “Look,” you say, holding out your hand for your phone, “this was a mistake. I didn’t mean to walk in here, and I didn’t take any photos. Can I just have my phone back so I can leave?”

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before finally handing it over. “If I find out you lied,” he warns, “I will sue.”

“Noted,” you mutter, clutching your phone like it’s your lifeline.

You spin on your heel, desperate to escape this nightmare, but his voice stops you just as you reach the door.

“And maybe next time,” he calls after you, “learn how to read a sign.”

You don’t turn back. You can’t. Your face is burning, your heart is racing, and the humiliation is seared into your memory forever.

[forensicfield]

June 2022 UGC-NET Solved Question Paper (Forensic Science)

Continue reading Untitled

[heyheydidjaknow]

Two in a row! We’re back in business! We aren’t going for three in a row but I do want to at least acknowledge that Dazai exists if we’re doing the bsd thing now.

Kindling

You were supposed to be fun.

He remembered the day he met you in that coffee shop. He had an hour to kill before a meeting. The shop was dead— the local schools had not been let out yet— and you stood behind the counter, eyes flickering from the clock on the wall above the door to the textbook in front of you. He had never been there before. He never had much reason to bother around largely residential areas before then. He had never seen you before. But you were nice to look at, so he approached the counter.

He liked the look you gave him. Cold, annoyed, almost indignant, desperate in the overblown way students often are: it took you a moment to remember your manners. You must have been new in town. “How may I help you?”

“One black coffee, please.” He smiled politely.

You straightened yourself up, not bothering to hide the way your gaze flitted between him, your book, the clock. “How much sugar?”

He blinked. “I said—“

“You’re not a black coffee drinker,” you answered dismissively, clearly distracted. “I’ve served three guys today already who asked for black coffee and then asked for cream and sugar and— no offense, guy— I’m so not in the mood to waste more of my time.” You picked a pencil from between the pages of your book, grabbing a notepad from your apron. “So, how much sugar, and how much cream?”

“Do you know who I am?”

You paused at that, giving him a once over. “No,” you said. “Should I?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets, an easy smile crossing his bandaged face. “No,” he replied. “You shouldn’t.”

You tapped your foot against the ground. “Fascinating. So—“

“May I ask you a question?” He nodded at the book. “How come you’re studying so hard at this time of day? It’s not midterm season already, is it?”

You looked down at the floor. “No.” Your brow furrowed. “Why is this your business, exactly?”

“It’s not.” He shrugged. “I’m just curious.”

You swallowed. “Huh.” Regret. “I’m sorry for snapping at you; I’m in a bit of a rush to get this stuff done.”

“What sort of stuff?”

You held the pencil between your forefinger and thumb, rolling it back and forth between them. “I’m helping a friend with a project. I owe him one, and he’s in a different time zone so my part is due in a couple hours.”

He went on his toes, peering over the register to read the textbook’s text. “Forensic pathology,” he noted. “Is your friend a criminologist?”

You shook your head. “A writer,” you explained. “He needs a comprehensive explanation of how corpses rot, and I’m the only one he knows with an understanding of that sort of thing.” You pursed your lips. “What he doesn’t know is that I’m taking this class as an elective and that I also have no idea how a corpse rots. But I can’t tell him that, because then I’d be letting him down, and he’s put so much trust in me and helped me so many times—“

He stopped you. “That’s all?” He held his hands behind his back. “Well, that’s simple enough. Most anyone downtown can tell you that.” His smile brightened. “How about we make a deal? If you pay for my drink and promise that this won’t take…” He looked back at the clock. It was an hour off. He wondered if you knew. “If you promise it won’t take longer than forty-five minutes, I can give you all the grisly details of human decomposition, with added notes accounting for weather, location, and time of day.”

The look of hesitant relief on your face brought him a sense of satisfaction he had not felt in a long time. You took a deep breath. “Sir,” you nodded, “you have yourself a deal.”

“Call me Osamu.”

You were easy. That was what first drew him to you. You had no reason to lie to him, so you did not. You had no reason to respect him, so you treated him like anyone else. The two of you— at least on the slice-of-life flavored stage the two of you played on— were equals, which he appreciated. Not many people offered him that luxury. The ones who did tended to disappear in the night for one reason or another, but you had no reason to, so you did not. Your problems were largely emotional. You stayed out of trouble. You were consistent. You were simple.

More important than your being simple, however, was the fact that you thought of him as a liar.

He remembered the conversation well. It was a Thursday. He had a couple hours before he was scheduled to help his newest apprentice train. The coffee shop was as slow as it always was and you, as always, stood behind it with a casual dismissiveness that would have gotten you beaten were you in different company. You had been in town long enough to know of the mafia— about a month— but had not yet accepted all of the stories you heard as true. You were recounting one of those stories to him, weight leaned against the counter as you described an incident regarding a teenager with phantom black limbs that could, without his so much as lifting a finger, murder a building’s worth of people in an instant.

“It’s bullshit, obviously.” You took a sip from your water. “I don’t get what they’re trying to prove; if they wanted to scare me, they’d come up with a half-decent lie.”

He did not have to smile around you— to you, he was nobody— but he did regardless. You were fun. “I know him,” he said. “I tutor him.”

You scoffed. “Yeah? What do you tutor him in?”

“Martial arts.” He took a sip from his coffee, which was thoroughly diluted with copious amounts of sugar and cream. You were right; it was bitter. “He’s not very good. He keeps trying to think of himself as a hand-to-hand combatant when he’s much more suited for support and has such a large inferiority complex that he loses all sense of strategy in exchange for a slavish need to validate his existence. In other words, he is close to useless.”

And, of course, you groaned tiredly. “Why are you encouraging them?” you asked. “You already know I know it’s bullshit; what kick do you get out of me already knowing?”

“I’m not lying,” he insisted, knowing you would not believe him. “I’ve been with him on hits before; a couple months ago, we killed thirty people in cold blood.”

And you laughed half-heartedly— as you should; to any regular person who did not know about how many bodies they had hidden, these claims were beyond ridiculous— and said, “Well, I knew the man that trained you, and I know he has a small dick, so what do you think of that?”

“I’m just glad to know he isn’t a pedophile.”

“Shut up and drink your coffee.”

He wondered what you thought of him sometimes. For the first week or so, you asked him questions, but you learned quickly that he was never going to give you satisfactory answers. You probably thought he was an ass, but you still talked to him like you would a peer, so he kept showing up. You must have thought he was a dick. He was sure that he was by your standards.

Once, on a Sunday, he had to attend a funeral. He had some time to kill before, so he walked into the coffee shop, clad in clothes nicer than what was typical, and ordered.

You looked him over. “You got a date?”

“No,” he replied, cheerful. “I have a funeral in an hour.”

You set his cup in front of him. “Oh. For someone you know?”

“My boss,” he explained. “He died the other day so we’re doing a service.”

“Oh.” Your brow furrowed, sympathy making way for confusion. “I’m… I’m sorry, but did you like him?”

He shrugged. “He was alright.”

“How long were you under him?”

He considered it. “A couple years?”

“Oh.” You nodded. “So enough time for your nonchalance to be weird. Cool.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s not as if he were my father.” He leaned back in his seat. “He was bound to get shot eventually; I’m just surprised it took this long.”

“He was what?”

“Shot,” he repeated. “In his sleep.”

You lowered your voice, looking around the cafe like someone would come out to shoot the two of you. “What,” you mumbled, “like an assassination?”

He nodded, looking around courteously. “Exactly. But it’s alright; they won’t stick around too long, I’m sure.”

“How come?”

He leaned his head on his hand. “I don’t imagine whoever did it could get very far out of the city. People are upset that he’s dead; I’m sure someone will lash out.”

You crossed your arms, swallowing thickly. “You know most people don’t speak so casually about people getting shot or whatever.”

“Well,” he shrugged again, “it happens often enough. It’s not like being formal is going to bring him back from the dead; who cares?”

“Don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you…?” You searched for the right word. “… I don’t know, shaken? He was a coworker, wasn’t he?”

He took a sip from his coffee. “Yeah.”

“So, isn’t his death a bit shocking?”

“Not really.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, actually, that’s a lie. It means I’m in line for a promotion, and I thought I’d have to wait for him to die of a heart attack for it, so I’m happy about that.”

You cradled your head in your hands. “I don’t think you get my meaning,” you insisted. “Do you not feel anything for his death?”

He set the mug down, meeting your eyes. “No,” he repeated. “I don’t.”

Your questions were simple. “Why?”

“Because,” he answered, “His death was inevitable and his life’s impact on mine was nearly nonexistent. All he did was give me orders; why would I care if he died?

You stared at him, meeting his cold, bottomless eyes with ones aflame with passion. “You sound like a serial killer,” you said.

His smile was as vacant as the rest of him. “I feel like one.”

You were fun until you were not. If asked to identify when your relationship— acquaintanceship, friendship, whatever you called it— stopped being fun, he would point to an otherwise inconspicuous Monday morning three weeks after the funeral. The two of you were splitting a cinnamon roll. It was your break and you got a discount and you had no desire to eat a whole one. You were talking about something silly— a friend of yours had broken up with your other friend— when you had stopped in the middle of a sentence to look out the window, seemingly distracted by something. Witnessing this development, he turned to look out the window too, only to see that the scene outside— an overcast sky, street populated by people rushing on their way to work— had not, in fact, changed since he last looked out the window. “What are you looking at?” he asked.

Your words were soft, eyes transfixed on the window. “I need to buy a decent camera,” you murmured. “Or write. Or paint.”

“You want to take a picture?” He looked out the window again. The scene was still the same. “Of what?”

“Leave me alone, Osamu.”

“I’m not messing with you,” he said. “I just have no idea what you could possibly be looking at.”

“Sure you aren’t.” You gestured with your fork, not looking in his direction. “You have a reputation. I refuse to indulge you in something you’ll clown on me for.”

He sighed. “You are being so over dramatic.”

You shot him a glare. “I told you my friend’s boyfriend got stabbed last week and you said, and I quote, ‘I wish I could say the same.’”

“Yeah, but that was a joke.”

“Jokes are supposed to be funny.”

He crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not my fault you have a lame sense of humor,” he protested. “Why won’t you tell me?”

You peeled your attention from the window. “You wanna know what I think?” You gave him a cold smile. “I think you’re so neurotically obsessed with knowing everything that whatever joy you’ll get from knowing will be totally outweighed by the amount of pleasure I get at getting to make you squirm for once.” You stuck your tongue out. “You’re the nihilist. Suffer under the weight of your ideals, dipshit.”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “Do you seriously think I can’t get you to tell me? Is this the hill you want to die on?”

“What if it is?” You crossed your arms, mimicking his pose. “What if it was really emotionally impactful to me? What if it was literally nothing and I’m just fucking with you? What, are you going to torture an answer out of me?” Your smile grew. “I get why you do this now; this is fun.”

He huffed. “You’re such a child.”

“No, you’re just easy to read.” You reached for your drink, cradling it to your chest. “Lenin gave himself a heart attack when he came to power, you know; it’s not healthy to obsess like that.”

He crossed his arms. “It was a stroke,” he grumbled. “He died of a stroke.”

“See, like that. You have issues.” You crossed your legs. “ Maybe it’d be good for you not to know.” You covered your mouth as he leaned forward and adopted an all too familiar smile. “And so help me if you try and seduce me into telling you what I saw so help me I will laugh you out of the room.”

His face soured. He stared you down, and you stared back, unphased, because why would you not? The two of you were equals as far as you were concerned; this was how you treated your peers, and despite the fact that the two of you barely knew each other in any meaningful way, you knew him enough to know what the rules of the game he was trying to play were even if you did not know what it was called. “I could kill you,” he said. “I know plenty of ways to do it. I know how to make it hurt, too.”

And you, knowing you had won, replied, “You could, but you won’t. Who would serve you your coffee?”

The two of you stared each other down one last time. Finally– and mercifully, he liked to think– he looked away. “You win.” He tossed his hands up. “That’s all my cards.”

Your smile softened at the edges. “Good.” You sat up. “I’m not going to tell you what I was looking at, but I can tell you how to see it, if you want. That way you get to know but you don’t get to be all smug.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved you off. “Because I’m not allowed to win, right?”

“If I knew you weren’t going to try and rule-lawyer me, I would just tell you.”

“I spend too much time here.”

“You said it.” You set the fork and the cup down on the table. “Close your eyes.”

He groaned. “I am so not into meditation.”

“Is that backtalk I hear?”

“No, no,” he relented, closing his eyes. “I’m with it or whatever. Now what?”

Your voice lowered. “Breathe in.”

He inhaled.

“And out.”

He exhaled.

“Now,” you continued, “what do you hear?”

“You talking to me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You asked.”

You huffed. “I– look, besides me, what do you hear?”

He paused, considering it. “People outside,” he said. “And the air conditioning unit. And the milk steamer.”

“Good.” He heard you sit back in your seat again. “And physically, what do you feel?”

“Isn’t this a panic attack thing?”

“Answer my question.”

He considered it. “It’s cold in here.”

Your voice was soft. He wondered how exactly this place stayed in business for how quiet it was. “What do you taste?”

“For giving someone who was just talking about flirting–”

“I have a point. What do you taste?”

He meant to say, ‘My mouth.’ What came out was, “Cinnamon and icing.”

He heard you smile. “Good. Open your eyes.”

He did, blinking at the light. You were back to looking out the window; the scene had not changed.

You nodded towards it. “Now, look and tell me what you see.”

He looked between you and the window. “A tree,” he said. “And people.”

“Look at the tree, first.”

The tree itself was, by his estimation, the same sort of tree that could be found just about anywhere in this part of town. There were fewer as the years went on, he knew– there was some government initiative to get rid of the trees on the side streets– but the tree itself was unextraordinary. “It’s dead,” he noted.

Your eyes didn’t leave the window. “It’s overcast.” You sounded a million miles away. “The light from the sun is hitting it from the other side, so the side that we’re on is dull and dark. It’s casting a shadow on the table, on your face.”

He looked down at the table. Sure enough, in the low light, cold shadows laid across the table like faint veins.

“The people,” you continued. “What do you see in them?”

He shifted his attention to the passersby. “People going to work.”

“How are they dressed?”

“Warmly.”

“What color are their clothes?”

“Dark. Are we at the point yet?”

“Almost.” You took a breath of your own. “Now, take all of those things together, and look back out the window again.”

He did.

Nothing had changed. His heart caught in his throat.

“It’s more now, isn’t it?”

He looked back at you.

You witnessed that mundane scene with the seeming awe of an acolyte before their god. It was as though you had never seen a street or a tree or the sun before, as though you would never see it again.

With a horrifying ache in his chest, he realized that he had never seen anything quite so beautiful or enviable as you in that moment. “So,” he asked again, voice tinged with an entirely unbecoming and uncharacteristic reverence, “what are you looking at?”

“I’m not looking at anything,” you replied. “I just remembered how lucky I am to be alive, here, with you.”

He wondered if you would mourn for his indifference like he would.

[navia3000]

Enchanted - S.R.

Warnings : Mentions of a sad Reid (I hate him being sad), fluff, not really proof read

A/N : I know it’s not my best work buttttt I really liked this idea and I just recently watched this episode and felt so sad for Reid and I knew I wanted to write about it. The gif of him breaks my heart 😢 Also, thank you to @mariasont for giving me some tips to getting out of a writing slump, this would definitely not have happened without you 😭🤍

Masterlist

Requests are OPEN

Dr. Spencer Reid watched from the sidelines as his fellow agents and coworkers answered questions regarding their discussions. The BAU team was invited as guest speakers to a convention, where both he and Emily gave personal accounts and lectures regarding their work. Whilst Emily’s speech seemed to be a hit, Reid had not gotten a single question, and, frankly, everyone seemed confused and put off by the words he spoke.

He felt embarrassed and insecure, as though he was that twelve year old boy in high school all over again. After what felt like hours, he couldn’t take any more of standing off to the side alone and turned to leave.

“Dr. Reid!” He stopped at the sound of his name being called. He turned towards the culprit of the spoken words, eyebrows raised in surprise, and his heart stopped once his eyes landed on her.

She stood before him in a sweater and slacks, hair in a messy ponytail. She felt unsure of whether she should approach him, thinking she looked too laid-back for the sophisticated doctor. Still, she wore a smile on her face and could barely contain her excitement.

“Hi, my name is Y/N, and I just wanted to say I really enjoyed your speech. I think it’s so interesting how you can learn so much about an unsub from a geographical profile.”

He subtly pinched himself, attempting to discern if this was real. The most beautiful girl was standing there, talking to him, and actually interested in what he had to say.

“Thank you. I- I wasn’t sure if I was the most interesting up there. Are you a student?”

“Yeah, I am. I’m in the FBI Academy, and I’m studying forensic psychology. I actually have done a bit of research using your papers and your work,” she watched as his face grew red, and couldn’t help but smile even more.

“Really? You’ve read my work?” His voice morphed into a more excited tone, his personality slowly peeking out from the curtain it hid behind.

“Yes, I’m a big fan.” It was her turn to blush, for she told herself she wouldn’t make a fool of herself by admitting that fact to him, yet she did.

He felt all the insecurity and disappointment evaporate from his body, and all that was left was a need to get to know this girl more. He took a deep breath to calm himself, simultaneously conjuring up the courage to ask her out.

“Well, if you’d like, I could tell you more about geographical profiling and anything else you want to know, maybe, over coffee?” The last part came out like a question.

His eyes searched her face as her cheeks grew pink and her eyes crinkled from smiling. “I would love that.”

Happiness took residence in him. He removed a business card from his pocket, his hand brushing hers as he passed it onto her. “Give me a call and we can set up a time and place.”

After their goodbyes, he found Emily smiling at him from afar, seemingly witnessing their interaction. He was suddenly glad he didn’t leave when he wanted to.

[watermelongirl01]

The Tattoo

Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

Criminal Minds x Supernatural

Summary: Your first humankind case reveals a new Hotchner´s side you didn´t know.

Content Warning: Flirty Hotch, Homicide description, Abuse, Rape, Violence, Triggering situations. (Please let me know if I let something out.)

Note: This is my version of the episode "Jones" in the early seasons, I changed a lot of the things but not all of them, It is just how I would've liked the case to be in my opinion, and obviously added a bunch of other things to fit the thread of my story, like Jason Gideon not being there. I hope you like it.

“Short stuff, are you ready?” 

“Nope”

“Come on, you’re going to be just fine.” Morgan gifted you a reassuring smile.

This was your first time filling in for a member of the group. Normally it wasn’t necessary, but the team was reduced to four. Emily was on mandatory vacation and JJ stayed at home to take care of a sick Henry, so now your presence was requested.

“It’s not what I’m used to.”

“No it’s not, but you are a great agent and will do just fine.” He said gently squeezing your arm. “You will charm them all.” 

“Of course I will, there is no doubt.” You smiled back.

“Let’s go then.” 

You both walked to the briefing room where the rest of the team was waiting, Morgan quickly walked to the empty chair In front of you, slightly pushing you to the side, leaving you with no option but to sit next to Hotch, not that you minded but lately all the members of the team have been acting a little weird.

You looked at Morgan with a questioning look but he completely ignored you and lowered his gaze to read the case files.

“We have a serial killer in New Orleans. Two men’s dead bodies were found over the last month, and a third body was found last night, the same MO, male, throat slashed, they were all found in semi-public places in the French Quarter.” You heard Penelope explain.  “The local police have no leads and no suspects so far, Mike Weller, the head detective is waiting for you.”

Hotch nodded and looked at everyone in the room. “Wheels up in thirty.” He said before disappearing out the door. 

—

When arriving, Hotch sent you and Reid to the forensic lab to examine the body.

“No hesitation marks.” You said pointing to the terrible wounds.

Spencer nodded. “Cuts are methodical and almost procedural.”

The forensic doctor looked at both of you. “The person who did this definitely had medical training, there’s no other way he could have done this.”

“He?” You glaze up to the doctor.

“No defensive wounds and took out pretty big men.” You frowned. “Although all the toxicology tests showed signs of alcohol.” 

“Any relatives came to claim the body?” Spencer asked.

The doctor nodded. “His wife came with his former colleague.” Both of you looked at him with a confused expression. “He was a retired officer.”

“The lead detective didn’t say anything about that.”

“I’m not surprised, he wasn’t popular at all, he had a reputation for being a dirty cop.” 

“I’ll call Garcia.” You said getting your phone out.

But suddenly Spencer’s phone began to ring and he immediately answered. “Where? Okay, we’ll be there.”  He looked at you as he got off the phone. “Another body was found, call her on the way there.” 

—

“Same MO.” Morgan informed. “Some people saw him leave the bar down the street.” 

“So, he was drunk just like the other victim.” You said while eyeing the Weller. “Do we know his profession?”

“Does it matter?” He asked with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

You step aside standing closer to him and shrugging your shoulders. “Humor me, detective.”

Detective Weller side-eyed you but nodded. “He was a well-known lawyer.”

“I see.” You crossed your arms while raising an eyebrow. “You forgot to mention that the fourth victim was a cop who used to work at your police station.”

“I don’t think it is relevant to the case.” Weller huffed.

“Well, we don’t know that yet.” You insisted. “Do we?”

The BAU men were looking at your disagreement with confusion, and suddenly a strong back wearing a gray and elegant suit got in between, blocking your vision. It took only a few seconds to recognize that it belonged to Hotchner.

“We would like to have access to all of the information available, it’s vital to be able to get the unsub’s profile.“ You heard Aaron talking to the detective.

“Sure, Agent Hotchner.” After Weller left the crime scene, Hotch turned around to see you.

“You are riding with me.” Hotch left the place hurriedly making you roll your eyes and toss your keys at Spencer.

You manage to keep up with Hotch’s pace and climb up on the SUV, some minutes passed and neither of you talked, but you got tired of the unbearable silence.

“If you’re going to scold me, just do it now.”

“I’m not.”

“Hotch he was in the wrong, you know that, right?”

“I’m aware.” You shot him a puzzled look.

“Then why get in the middle of my conversation?”

”Because that wasn’t a conversation, he was starting to raise his voice.”

“I can take it, Hotchner.”

“I know you can, doesn’t mean I want you to.” You felt how your facial expression softened at his comment. “Listen, some of these detectives think we are here to make them look bad, they feel threatened.”

You rolled your eyes. “How are their insecurities my fault?”

Hotch chuckled a bit. “They are not, just go easy on them so we can keep the case.”

—

You, Hotch, and Spencer stayed at the precinct to read all the new information about the victims while Rossi and Morgan left to talk with the new possible witnesses. Currently, you are on your third cup of coffee and your fifth case file.

“I can’t believe we were missing all this information.” You hissed.

“Simmer down.” Hotch murmured.

You looked at the evidence board leaning against the table, focusing on the victim's photos, and frowning when looking closer.

“Oh.”

“You found something new?” Spencer asked.

“Hmm, have you seen that all the victims have tattoos?” Both men got closer to look at the photos. 

“Well actually, in some religions tattoos are forbidden because they think of the body as a temple.” Spencer babbled and immediately stood up from his chair. “Some other religions even think that if you get a tattoo, you’re not allowed in heaven.”

“Really?” A look of confusion crossed your face.

Spencer quickly nodded while pointing up with his finger. “You shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor tattoo any marks on you: I am the Lord. Leviticus 19:28.” He added.

“So, we think this is a religious matter?” You asked.

“It could be a coincidence. Let’s ask Garcia if she can find something about it.” Spencer took his phone and left the room, leaving you and Hotch alone, looking at the board side to side.

“Well, that’s concerning. You know, some tattoos are meant to protect you.”

Hotch turned his head towards you. “What do you mean?”

“There’s this kind of tattoos that are protection symbols, usually hunters get them.”

“You have one?” Hotch’s upright posture was visibly shaken.

“I'm no hunter.” You said before walking back to the table, Hotch following you. “But yes, I do have one.”

“I’ve never seen a tattoo on you.” Hotch frowns

“That´s because it’s not in a visible spot.” You giggled while turning your back on Hotch to take out another stack of files.

Hotch’s eyes were found unconsciously roaming over your body. He had seen you in the summer, in short skirts and tiny tops, or with risky cleavages, hell he even had seen you in your pajamas when you shared a hotel room once or twice, but he never noticed any tattoos. That can only mean one last place. 

Hotch knew you were busy getting the files so his eyes ended up going down your back to your ass, He was positive your tattoo was on your hip or ass. 

You could feel Hotch’s eyes going down and up your body, You even turned your back on him longer than needed, so he could linger his sight on you even longer. Anyone could’ve said it was just Hotch’s curiosity but you saw that tiny shade of lust, sparkle in his eyes for a brief moment when you mentioned you having a tattoo.

You turned your body in a slow move and caught him still hypnotized by your body. “Looking for something Hotch?”

“Hips or ass, agent?” He asked with a straight face but his voice showed a hint of playfulness. He was teasing you.

The question made you smirk. “You’re not gonna hear it from me, you’re going to need to find out in another way, Sir.”

But before he could open his mouth to speak, Spencer came back to the room with bad news.

“Another body appeared, no tattoo.”

–

“Body number five, we can barely keep up with this guy.” you heard in the distance.

“Do we know who he is?” Hotch asked.

“Since it matters so much, His friend says he is a salesman.” Weller said, sending a nasty look at you. “No connection.”

“Detective Weller, I would appreciate it if your answer were directed at me. When I ask a question.” Hotch replied.

Weller huffed with irritation and you thought you heard him grumble something, but you’re not sure if he was agreeing with Hotch or cursing you under his breath. “We have five bodies, Agent Hotchner, and no correlation.”

“Okay, all victims were partying late at night with their friends and killed in the alley with no one noticing, how did the unsub manage to get them alone?” Hotch looked at his team, they were all lost in thoughts.

“A woman.” Detective Weller's mocking laughter echoed in the room.

“Let her finish.” It only took the look on Hotch’s eyes to harden, to force Weller to shut up.

“What is the only temptation for a straight man that’s going to lure him away from his friends and make him leave the bar?” Your expecting eyes were moving around glancing at your team’s faces.

“A woman.” Rossi repeated while nodding his head.

Hotch turned on his heels and looked at the detective. “Gather your men, we are ready to give a profile.” 

—

“Ready?” Hotch whispered in your ear, making the baby hairs on the back of your neck stand at the sound of his voice.

“What?” You whispered back feeling numb by his closeness.

“Ready to give the profile?” 

“Hotch, I’ve never gi-.” Your voice trails off. “I don’t think it is a good idea.”

“It is.” He assured you pushing you to the side and walking to the room full of cops.

Lost in your thoughts you barely felt two hands holding your arms from behind, giving you a light squeeze. “You got this, Kid.” Rossi left your side and followed Hotch in the other precinct's room.

You sighed and took a deep breath. This was your first time profiling a human case, not covering up supernatural events or rehearsing made-up stories. This felt different, good different.

You walked confidently and stood in the middle of the room surrounded by your team.

“We are looking for a woman between 30 and 35, she’s friendly, she’ll lure with charm but kill with rage.” You began your speech, feeling every pair of eyes looking at you with attention. “We believe she kills men to reclaim her power.” 

“She probably suffers from low self-esteem but covers it well.” You heard Morgan's voice.

“We believe this woman went through a catastrophic event, that’s when the killing started.” Rossi pointed.

“She has medical training, you should consider EMTs, doctors, or veterinarians.” 

“It’s more likely we are dealing with the Aileen Wournos archetype, motivated by paranoia and fear, luring men with sex.” Spencer added.

“She certainly knows the terrain, so be careful out there.” Hotch remarked.

A couple of hours later after the profile, Detective Weller came in a hurry with a piece of paper in an evidence bag.

“Forensics found a letter on the victim's body.” He said handing it over to Hotch. “She’s mocking us.”

“Dear boss, he wanted it. With that sharp tongue and vulgar hand. I thought you’d like to know that another will soon get what he deserves.

Yours truly.”  

“That 's weird.” All eyes searched Spencer’s voice. “Typically offenders write letters to be heard. Jack the Ripper bragged about not being caught yet this Unsub isn’t using correspondence to flaunt her latest kill. Only to explain why she did it.” He explained while moving his hands around.

“It’s possible that she considers herself a vigilante. That the man she’s killing deserves to die.” Rossi blurted.

“Then, every kill she’s acting out is a fantasy of revenge or a real revenge?” Everyone in the room returned to their thoughts wondering at Morgan’s question.

You shifted in your place with uncertainty. “Maybe she is contacting us not because we are on the case, but because she believes we understand.” With fingers tapping against the wood, you began to unravel the tiny hints in the letter. “The Unsub wrote, He wanted it as she couldn’t help herself. What if she’s mirroring the man who raped her?”

”Where are the files stored from your Sex Crimes Division?” Hotch looked at Weller’s direction.

The detective stepped out of the room momentarily and returned with a medium-sized carton box with a few files that barely stuck out of the box. “Here they are.”

“That 's it?” You let out with a surprised tone of voice.

After several hours of trying to match your profile with any file in the box, you were exhausted. You decided to take a quick break and enter the bathroom, You locked yourself inside one of the bathroom booths and sighed while your hands held your head.

The sound of the door being opened ripped you out of your pessimistic thoughts. Suddenly a hand left a piece of paper report at your feet, leaving you uncertain on what to do. You tried to thank the person but, you were answered with fast footsteps leaving the place.

You took the paper and read in a whispered voice, Disturbance at Jones.

~~

“Care to tell us what happened then, detective?” Hotch asked.

Detective Weller shifted in his seat with discomfort. “How did you know about this incident?”

“It was in the box you gave us, Weller.” Morgan said while leaning against the wall, looking directly at Weller.

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you misplaced it, who cares?” You argued. 

He looked at you with disdain. Aaron couldn’t help himself and stepped closer to you showing protection. “This happened when the head detective before me was in charge, I took some of the declarations but that’s it.”

You smirked with satisfaction Knowing you were right all along. “The detective before you as our third victim?” He nodded.

“What happened there, detective?” 

“One of the boys asked her if she wanted to play pool. Witnesses claim she was up for anything. His friend, not far behind.“ All the eyes were on him. “He claims she knew he was there, She said she claimed for help but not a single person claimed that they heard her.”

You shook your head in disbelief. 

He continued, “That’s why it was registered as a disturbance. She wanted to press charges. But the head detective back then told her it was a waste of time.”

“How is this just a disturbance?” Rossi asked, frowning at Weller.

“As far as I was concerned, no such rape ever took place, and the boy was a colleague’s son, he is a good boy.”

Something in your stomach twisted and anger started to build up.

“We are trying to know her name; she could be our Unsub.” Morgan pointed out. Weller sighed when this realization dawned on him, but he slightly shook his head as he was ashamed of not knowing the answer. 

But you were sure shame wasn’t a feeling men like that could understand.

“You don’t remember her name?“ Morgan asked with incredulity.

“It was nine years ago.” 

“What about the name of the good kid that raped her?” You bickered.

~~

“Mr. Tibideaux, we need you to answer a few questions about a disturbance you were involved with.“ Hotch’s voice resonated inside the four walls of the interrogation room.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Disgust appeared in your face, but you hid it by biting your tongue. You didn’t know why Hotch asked you to be there, but you hated every minute of it.

“At a bar called Jones, It was Mardi Gras.” Hotch reminded him.

“You know, then I must’ve been drinking or something. Cause I don’t remember a thing.”

With your feet tapping the floor, you were counting the seconds to be able to leave the room and be away from the so-called good boy.

“We just need to know the name of your accuser.” Hotch demanded. If he was annoyed there was no way to know.

“Look, I told you. I don’t know what you are talking about”

You roughly massaged your right temple, fuming.

”The statute of limitations is up, we just need a name.” He added calmly.

“Someone accuses me of rape, I’m gonna remember her name.” You taunted.

“Well, what can I tell you, Cher? I guess she didn’t make that good of an impression.“

Your eyes narrowed dismissively.

”Unlike yourself right now.” You retorted.

“You know. I’m guessing if someone did do something to that girl that night then she was probably asking for it. Maybe even liked it.”

You controlled the urge to smash his head against the table and abruptly took the file out of Hotch’s hands, you opened it and began to display all the victim's photos in front of him.

“You know Hotch, maybe we are not too late, she murdered these men and I’m guessing it’s only a matter of time before she works her way back to the one she really wants to kill.” You tilted your head to look at him but he was busy looking at the pictures with a horrified look. “Is she making an impression now?

Your words suggested you were talking to Hotch but your sight was set on the other man in the room.

“You don’t want to tell us, fine.” You snickered. “Cause Daddy can’t make this go away, and I have no problem waiting for your dead body to give me a new hint.”  

You leaned closer, you didn’t have to talk anymore, you knew your eyes were saying enough. But you continued.

“In fact, I wouldn’t like anything else, so I’m gonna go ahead and set my alarm for tomorrow morning when I get the call from the police.” You ranted.  “Cause, believe me, I’m going to sleep better knowing there is one less offender out of the streets.”

After hearing the name you needed, you stormed out of the room leaving everyone behind without looking back until you heard a voice calling for you.

“That was out of line, agent.” You abruptly stopped and turned on your heels to look at Weller. 

“The only thing out of line is how pathetic you are at doing your job, Weller.” You turned back at him one more time and kept waking till reaching a quiet corner to make a phone call.

“Work me.” You hear Penelope’s voice on your phone.

“We have a name. Sarah Danlin. I need an address.”

“1141 Sherman Avenue. It looks like she was a med student at Tulane but she dropped out.”

“Let me guess, February nine years ago.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.” 

~~

You returned to the hotel room by Hotchner’s request, and you knew he was in the right to send you back, you got carried away by your emotions. 

You were a mess. Closing your room door, you let your emotions overpower you once more. Tears were falling down your face. You weren’t sure what you were feeling. No one ever prepared you for this kind of case, you felt powerless, empty, and lost. And finally, rage possessed your emotions.

You tossed glasses and trails of empty dishes, and your luggage and clothes flew around the room until your energy and strength gave up and tiredness reached you.

You are sure the hotel staff let Hotch know, cause he kept checking with you constantly. He let you know when they arrested her and how she told them she killed every man who helped cover up her abuse.

You heard your door being open and looked at Hotchner with a questioning look when you saw him standing there.

“How did you open my door?” 

He showed you his key. “We are sharing.”

You frowned. “Since when?”

“Since now, there has been an unexpected cut in the budget.” You nodded knowing it was a lie and he probably wanted to check on you. But you said nothing.

“Some things fall by themselves, I think there’s a ghost.” You said when you caught him looking at the mess on the floor.

“I think you can manage that.” 

He left his duffel bag on the floor and sat next to you on the bed. 

“Are you okay?” He asked.

That simple question was enough to break your strong façade. It was a question you normally have no problem answering with a lie, and you didn’t know if it was the situation or just because Hotch was the one asking. But it brought you down to tears. 

He took you in his arms and hugged you tight.

“I’m sorry.” 

“It 's okay.” He softly mumbled on your head reassuring you. “You said what you needed to say.”

You quickly shook your head.

“I meant it.” You sniffled. “I was willing to wait.”

“I know.” He said while caressing your back with soothing movements. 

“So, normally you have to deal with these detectives making your job impossible?”

“Yeah, all the time.” He chuckled. 

“God, it’s exhausting.” You laugh a little 

“You don’t?”

“No, they basically beg me to take the case out of their hands.” 

Hotch sighed. “You need to learn new methods for the interrogation.” He searched for your eyes. “I mean, only if you want to keep coming to these cases with us, you want to?”

“Yeah.” You smiled at him.

“You are a profiler now, welcome to the team.”

~~

Back in Quantico, you were getting ready to leave your office when you got a call from an unknown number. You hesitated but finally answered after letting it ring for a couple of seconds.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart.”

“Dean?” You frowned looking back at the number.

“We need a little bit of help.” Reality sank on you.

“Tell me you are not calling from where I think you are calling.” 

“Agent Henriksen got to us.”

“Damn it, Dean, How the heck did he manage to do that?”

“Bella Talbot.”

“That bitch again?” You sighed. “Where are you?”

“Colorado.”

“I’m on my way.”

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

new hs history teacher(/basketball coach ofc) steve who is being shown around the school by gym teacher chrissy.

she takes him around the building to show him where the teacher's lounge is, the cafeteria, what bathrooms to avoid at all costs, and to where her office is if he ever needs anything.

"If I'm not here, I'm probably in Robbie's class over in the language department."

"Robbie?"

"Robin, my partner. She officially teaches ASL, but she likes to join in on the others' lessons whenever she has downtime."

Finally, once they've covered the whole length of the school, she brings him to his room. "So this is you, and right next door is Eddie, our Criminalistics teacher." gesturing to the still-dark window of the door directly across from his in the alcove. 

There's polaroids covering nearly every inch of the outside of the door, pictures of what he can only assume are students with the same dark-haired man.

"Criminalistics?"

"It's a science elective," she explains, "It focuses on the basics of forensic science!"

"Wow that’s…really?"

She nods enthusiastically, "It’s super interesting,” she nods, moving to unlock the empty what-will-be history classroom. “Eddie’s here on even days, and in the music room on odd days for the guitar elective classes."

"Anything I should know about my wall neighbor?" he asks as she pushes the door open.

It looks like she's going to say no, but something flickers across her face and she winces minutely.

"Oh god, what is it?"

She looks at him sheepishly, "How do you feel about metal music?"

--

Since his tour in mid June, Steve's completely overhauled his classroom. 

The only room available to him was the one down here in the science hall, but he made do, plastering removable whiteboard contact paper to the tops of the lab tables and a little reminder at each spot for the students about his less-than-stellar hearing, to make sure they speak up when answering a question from the back of the room.

And ever since he got his room, he'd been waiting for the day he finally meets his neighbor.

He met Chrissy's Robbie the same day he had the tour, and they clicked instantly (No seriously, how did he ever function before Robin?). Chrissy had made the comment about them being platonic soulmates one night in August when they'd gone out for one too many drinks, and it's stuck ever since.

Speaking of: "What are you still doing here, dingus? It's almost five."

"Yeah, I know, I know," he says, waving her off.

Robin comes in from the hall and plops herself down on one of the table tops instead of helping him hang a map behind his desk. "You're still adding stuff to your walls?"

"Well, I haven't been here for a couple years already, Bobs," he grits out as he stretches up on his toes to hang the far corner of his map. Finally, the eyelet hooks over the many-times-painted-over hook embedded in the concrete wall. "So yes."

"Well you can finish up tomorrow, we," she emphasizes the word by dramatically waving the same sign with her hand between them, "Have a burger date to get to." 

--

The following day, the day before the school year officially starts, Steve arrives early to his classroom, only to find his neighbor's classroom lit up as well.

The be-polaroided door is propped open all the way, the sound of heavy drums and guitar streaming out the door along with the faint smell of moth balls and a spicy incense.

His own room forgotten, Steve steps through Mr. Munson's doorway.

Eddie is standing behind his desk at the front of the room, but hunched over it scribbling onto something.

When Steve's shoe squeaks against the tile floor, Eddie says "Hey, what do you think, identifying skeletal remains, or blood spatter first?" without looking up at him.

"Skeletons, of course." Eddie's head snaps up to look at him. His huge dark eyes are much more striking in person than in a photo. "Much more interesting, yeah?"

Eddie blinks at him. "You're not Chrissy."

"You're correct."

Eddie blinks again, "Who're you?"

"Oh, sorry, hi. I'm Steve. I'm your new neighbor." he gives the other man an awkward wave when he still doesn't move. "Sorry, should I--" he says, gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb.

"No!" Eddie interrupts, standing straight and hurrying out from around his desk. 

He extends a hand and jogs lightly up to Steve. His pen is still laced into his fingers, the end of it chewed flat. "Oh shit, sorry, sorry," he tucks the pen behind his ear, "I'm Eddie. Munson."

"I know," Steve smirks, taking Eddie's hand. "I've been waiting to meet you."

"Oh have you?" he smirks.

"Yeah, Chrissy told me you're her best friend and I wanted your advice on maybe asking her out."

Eddie's face hardens immediately, the warm milk chocolate of his eyes curing into a solid dark, the easy smirk morphing into a cringe as he looks Steve up and down.

He opens his mouth to say something particularly scathing, Steve's sure, but he cuts him off before he can. "I'm kidding, man, I know she's with Robin."

His expression softens just a bit.

"Plus, she's not really my type anyway, even if I were hers."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I'm more into brunettes." Steve winks, finally releasing Eddie's hand. "I still have a bit more to get done, but I'll check in with you later?"

"Oh--yeah, for sure, I'll be here." Eddie stammers out, his cheeks tinged pink.

Steve fist pumps in his head as he heads to his door, You still got it, Harrington.