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fluentmoviequoter · 9 days ago

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Words to Die By

The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader

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

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

Word Count: 13k+ words

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

“Can I help you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, it isn’t.”

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

“Is Bradford your training officer?” you ask.

“He is. Do you know him?”

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

“Eleventh,” she answers, surprised.

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

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

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

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

“I am. I assume you remember him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More evidence?” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With my life.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?” Lucy tries.

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did.”

“There’s more to it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You saw him last night?” JJ exclaims.

“I ran into him at the diner.”

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

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

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

“That would be illegal,” Spencer mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll tell Hotch. Anything else?”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine. Why?”

She stops typing suddenly and then inhales sharply.

“Garcia?” You ask.

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

“Penelope?” you ask hurriedly.

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

“It’s about me?” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me finish-“

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

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

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

“Manipulated the data how?” Hotch asks.

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

“Left it where?” Grey inquires.

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

“The date?” Hotch presses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Talk to me,” Hotch encourages.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” Hotch asks. “Where is he?”

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

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

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

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

“34381?” you guess. “And 6147?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if they could help?” JJ argues.

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which affects us how?” Hotch inquires.

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

“Still doubting your hypothesis?” Hotch deadpans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep me updated,” Hotch tells you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready?” you ask Lucy.

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

“What was the cause of death?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a lot of options.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why be a TO?”

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

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

“Got it. Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She retired,” Tim replies.

You drop your shoulders and nod. “Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

“The novellas?” he guesses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me tell my team.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We can hope.”

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

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

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

“She is.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one connection.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was scared.”

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

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

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

“Who?” Tim asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“I’m going with you,” Tim states.

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

“You need me-“

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

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

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

“Alexander Riley,” you murmur.

“What?” Tim snaps.

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

“Convenient.”

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” he agrees slowly. “Why?”

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

“You got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Spencer asks. “Wait, who?”

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

“Abuse of power,” Hotch deduces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll get a BOLO out,” Wade offers.

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

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

“Just send ‘em my way,” Derek jokes.

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

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

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

“Bradford,” Wade begins.

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

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

“No idea. Sir.”

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

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

“Be safe out there,” you conclude.

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

“That was fun,” you mumble to Derek.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“You could have told me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Cursed wanderer?” Tim repeats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. You.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not recently.”

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

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

“Can you do me a favor?” you ask.

“Anything,” JJ and Derek answer together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Welcome to the club.”

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

“You think it will?”

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

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

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

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

“I hope so.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did Derek ask Spencer about the bomb?”

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

“Could he be a cleithrophobe?” Tim wonders.

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

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

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

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

“You made it,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t hurt you.”

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

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

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

Riley fidgets, then nods.

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

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

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

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

“You know who,” Alex mutters.

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

“Of course.”

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

“You were so far away,” he whispers.

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

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

“Kick it,” he demands.

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

“Kick it.”

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

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

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

“She was mine first,” Tim interjects suddenly.

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

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

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

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

“Something changed,” you say from beside Riley.

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

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

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

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

“Fool! They’ve gotten to you, too.”

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

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

“I hope somebody got scans of that novella before he shot it,” you groan as you sit up.

Tim sighs, taking your face in his hands as he wipes blood from your temple.

“Is his writing really that good?” Jackson asks as he stands.

“It’s a little preachy,” you reply with a smile.

Your phone rings, and you swipe the screen to answer, then immediately hang up.

“That was your boss,” Tim points out.

“He can yell at me when he gets here.”

“Alexander Riley has been charged in the deaths of twelve Los Angeles residents,” JJ says at the press conference the morning after your encounter with Alex. “His victims include Janice Davis, Gregory Hunter, Bryce Keller, Hank Sheller, Peter Bristol, Liza Renner, Mel Houghton, Destiny Crest, Angelica Thomson, Alissa Alvarez, and Jack and Cassidy Wilson. Nearly three dozen cold cases are now being reopened, and the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit supports the LAPD’s claim that Riley could have committed these crimes as well. I’ll welcome any questions at this time.”

You scrunch your nose from the side, resisting the urge to remove the bandage on your forehead. Tim stands beside you, watching you.

Tim notices that the bandage is loose but doesn’t move before Hotch warns, “Don’t do anything in the public view that you don’t want to get out and give Riley a chance at walking.”

When the conference ends, Derek sighs and walks past Hotch to return to the hotel and pack. As he approaches you, he smiles and says, “And you didn’t want to come because I can’t help, and LA is too sunny.”

You try to punch Derek for his poor impression of you but miss as he breaks into a jog. Shaking your head, you turn to Tim and prepare a joke about how you don’t sound like that. Tim’s serious expression stops you, though.

“You didn’t think you could help?” he asks. “You were going to be an amazing cop, and I regret playing a part in taking that opportunity from you.”

You shrug and respond, “I like the FBI, and I got to tackle a murderer, so it all worked out.”

“Yeah,” Lucy interrupts, walking to your side. “But now you have to go back to Virginia.”

“Thank you,” Wade says, stopping at your side. “Come back soon, okay?”

You smile as he hands you a paper. As you read it, you sigh, then shove it into your pocket. The email came in this morning telling all active FBI agents about the new tactical unit, one which will work closely with the BAU. They’re actively recruiting, but if you tell Tim, you’re asking him to choose between you and the job again, and you can’t do that to him. Asking Tim to leave LA would be cruel, you think, so you force a smile onto your face.

“Thank you for everything,” you tell him. “Especially the part where you saved my life and the apology. I’ll try not to stay gone so long this time.”

Tim nods, and you smile at Lucy before following your team. He watches you walk away, ignores Lucy’s encouragement for him to chase you, and waits until you leave to whisper what he wants to say. But Tim lost his chance again. Worse, he lost you again.

Two Weeks Later

“Which one of you wants to die first?” the armed suspect asks, swinging his curved meat hook between you and Spencer.

“Probably you, right?” you whisper. “You know, my blood’ll be on it if he kills me first.”

“The mean value of Staphylococcus aureus in raw meat is 3.84 in a butcher shop,” Spencer replies. “I don’t know where that thing has been. At least your blood has been relatively well contained. And any amount of water on that thing increases the number of bacterial specimens transferred from the meat surface.”

The metal door of the meat locker blows open suddenly, and when the butcher before you turns to see what caused the noise, two men in tactical uniforms subdue him and confiscate the meat hook. Spencer rushes out of the facility, and you watch as the new FBI team takes your suspect into custody.

“I could have done that,” you complain.

“Sure you could, boot,” one of the men says, his voice muffled by the helmet.

You look toward him with your eyebrows raised. He takes his helmet off, and your jaw drops. Tim Bradford.

Smiling, you step toward him with questions racing in your mind, but he extends a gloved hand, holding it against your waist to stop you as he whispers, “Morgan has cameras everywhere.”

As you walk into the BAU bullpen together, Hotch looks up from a paper. He looks at you, then Tim, then back to you, and smiles. With wide eyes, you hide behind Tim’s shoulder, unsure what a Hotch smile could mean in this particular circumstance.

“We’re wheels up to Los Angeles in forty-five,” Hotch says.

“Why?” you ask, stepping out from behind Tim.

“There’s a domestic terrorist leaving Shakespeare at foreign-owned businesses hours before they’re bombed or become mass murder scenes.”

You nod, but before you can speak, Derek calls, “Bring Bradford! We could use the Army experience.”

Hotch narrows his eyes at Tim, then shrugs and agrees.

“Good, good,” you mumble, wrapping your hands around Tim’s arms. “I’ll show him the ropes then and we’ll be back in thirty.”

“Please do.”

You quickly forget the ropes as you drag Tim into Penelope’s empty office. He smiles and prepares to ask what this has to do with terrorism, but you slide your hands onto his jaw and kiss Tim. Finally. Tim's hands meet your waist, and he pulls you closer as he kisses you, both of you melting into one another and getting lost in the moment you’ve waited so long for. When you pull back, Tim keeps you close, smiling like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time, though he’s known your heart and potential for nearly a decade.

A quiet gasp draws your attention, and you both look to the door as Penelope says, “I’m telling Chocolate Thunder!”

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

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pellucid-constellations · 7 months ago

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If It All Fell (8)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: If it all fell apart—if you forgot who you were—would you love him again? Would the bond guide you back? Azriel doesn't know if that uncertainty is one he can bear.

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Angst, pining, injury

a/n: I appreciate thoughts and reactions more than you know!!! <333 Italics indicate flashbacks.

Series Masterlist (all parts ♡)

The next two weeks were interesting.

In the first few days after the accident—the ones filled with confusion and incorrect suspicions—you had spent most of your time alone or sleeping. Mor visited your bedroom every morning to share limited information about your past, but there was no routine beyond that. Everyone tiptoed around you, too afraid to set off the timebomb they assumed was your mind.

But Helion had disputed that assumption.

You were allowed to know who you were, to become the person you had been.

So, a routine began to form.

Breakfast early in the morning, usually with a random assortment of the inner circle. Mor was always present, keeping up with her responsibility of telling you about yourself. Cassian joined more often than not—an early riser, he deemed himself. Azriel made it when he could. He was always busy in the morning. Doing… something, everyone told you.

Rhysand would join you after the meal, whisking you away for an hour or two to work on the powers you still could not call upon. He would have a different objective in mind every day and it was your job to parse out what it was.

You failed.

Obviously.

He started bringing in random Velaris citizens instead, but you still felt nothing. It was nice to see the smiling strangers; they were all kind to you, all apparently knowing who you were. The vagueness surrounding them leveled the playing field more. They didn’t know your whole life story and you weren’t supposed to know theirs.

“You’ve explained it to me before,” Rhysand had said. “It’s a vibration, sometimes a light or a color. You see it around them, feel it. You understand a deep part within them that they don’t even know they’re revealing.”

Well, there was never any light or vibration or color. You could never tell that the fae were lying or that Rhysand was planning something big for his anniversary with his mate. None of this otherworldly intuition that the Night Court seemed to value so highly. It was all just stagnant.

After spending some time failing with Rhys, you got to explore Velaris. You had insisted that you didn’t need a chaperone, and your family believed you—for a time. You had three whole days of walking around the city alone before that privilege was revoked.

Granted, it was your fault that it was revoked, but that was neither here nor there.

It hadn’t been your plan to get lost, just as it hadn’t been your plan to get caught up in a street brawl over a cart of potatoes. But when you weren’t at the designated meeting spot for Cassian to bring you back up the house, and when he found you with a bleeding nose an hour later, what you meant to do didn’t matter.

“Y/n?” you heard a voice shout, heavy footsteps shaking the ground beneath you. “Shit—y/n, look at me, you okay?”

Warm hands enveloped your shaking ones, drawing them back and catching sight of the red staining your fingerprints. It was Cassian, you realized, with his broad wings cloaking you in their shadow. The General’s expression hardened when he took in your face.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low, comfort combatting fury. “Where have you been? We have about 10 people looking for you, sweetheart.”

You grimaced—both at the pain in your nose and the notion of your family scouring the streets of Velaris. “I’m so, so sorry, Cassian. I got turned around and then I was in this alley and there was a boy—”

“Hey!” Defeat washed through you at the sound of another voice in the alley, all hopes for a peaceful return home washed away. “Is your girlfriend over there gonna pay for the product I lost?”

The Illyrian before you paused, body going still at the accusatory tone. Cassian’s jaw clenched and he turned, keeping you well behind him. You still caught a glimpse of the scene from between his legs, and the merchant—to his credit—had the mind to stop his taunting.

And to look afraid.

Really, truly afraid.

“You did this to her?” Cassian growled, fists clenching at his sides.

The merchant swallowed. “You’re—and she’s…”

“Did you. Do this. To her?” Cassian asked again, words broken up by malice.

A beat of pressing silence, only whispers of the street meeting your ears. The merchant took several, shaky steps back, but the movement damned him. His hands swayed with his backtracking feet, and red glistened on his knuckles.

Cassian’s wings flared at the sight. It only took a small uptick of his brow for the smaller man to fall to the floor in a plea.

“Please, please don’t kill me! I didn’t know who she was. Don’t turn me over to the Shadowsinger, I won’t make it! I have a family to care for—a wife! I was only trying to protect my crops and she butted in. I didn’t want to hurt her!”

The General hooked his chin over his shoulder and sent you a questioning gaze, one you were sheepish to answer. With a harrowing breath, you revealed, “There was a little boy stealing potatoes. He was going to hit him. I stepped in the way.”

A tug at your chest had you gasping as Cassian turned back around. The feeling had been persistent the moment you got lost, increasing after you’d been implicated in the merchant’s conflict. It pulled and pulled, a desperate winding around your ribs that you didn’t know how to relieve.

It had to have been fear. Or stress.

Cassian eyed the man crumpled to the floor. “Is the boy okay?” he asked, the question meant for you but directed across the alley.

“Yes,” you confirmed, pressing your hand to the blood running down your chin. “He ran away.”

Cassian grunted, sent a harsh warning to the man, and then crouched back down to your place on the ground, shaking his head in frustration. “Let’s get you home.” And then he grumbled, “I might get my ass kicked but…”

Cassian had not gotten his ass kicked when you got home, but many other things happened. Mor just about cried in relief, her arms thrown around your neck followed by a string of commands to never do such a thing again. Rhys rubbed at his jaw as tension lifted from the House. He also had a command—that you wouldn’t be traveling alone anymore.

And Azriel… Azriel looked like he would vomit, his shadows flitting angrily around him before bridging a path to you. He had cleaned the blood from your face, eyes haunted by misplaced grief, and pure guilt replaced all else in your myriad of emotions.

You agreed an escort would be better.

Azriel volunteered. Every day.

And so you got to know Azriel.

Mor had described him as reserved, not one to offer the intimacy of touch or personal information so readily. That was not your experience with the Shadowsinger.

Fleeting touches had become commonplace between the two of you, whether it was his hands or his wings or the brush of his thigh as you sat by the Sidra. You weren’t sure if he was doing it consciously, but you welcomed the familiarity. You found he did it most when he wasn’t paying attention—when he was deep into a story about your past or listening to your opinions intently.

He was open, sharing pieces of himself you didn’t have to pry to receive. He told you about his mother, about his scars, about how he overcame them. He shared with you how important you were to him many, many times, slipping it into conversations so causally. A thread connected the pieces of his life, and you, it appeared, made up the spool.

He did not speak of his mate, despite being prompted.

A sadness came over him at any mention of her, one so achingly melancholy that you told yourself you wouldn’t ask again.

He loved her deeply, but something had happened there.

You tried not to get too close. This was friendship, a deep familial love that he relied on. That you seemed to have relied on for so many years.

And Azriel was hurt. Even if he and his mate were no longer intertwined by their bond, he didn’t need the onslaught of emotions his amnesiac friend was suddenly overcome with.

Because you were—overcome by emotions for him.

It was wrong.

You wished you had the context to separate those feelings. If you understood your history—if you had memories beyond the few weeks of sweet stories and brushes of his fingers along your hair—maybe you wouldn't be feeling this way. Maybe your heart wouldn’t beat painfully against your ribs each time he entered the room… each time his eyes met yours as if he could feel your admiration for him within his own chest.

You wouldn’t be feeling this way, surely. Because no one had told you that you should be.

You only had the recounts of your friends, and the three of them had made no insinuations about you and Azriel.

You wished you could meet the rest of the inner circle.

There had been plans to, but then you came home with blood on your face and a disorientation in your eyes and that was suddenly off the table.

After your time exploring Velaris, you read.

Mor would pile your favorite books beside you in the small reading room you had come to love and rave about how great of an opportunity this was for you.

“You would kill to be able to read these for the first time again,” she’d laugh. “So have at it!”

Reading felt easy.

Books did not pressure you to remember things you weren’t able to.

You could see it all in their eyes, the way your family clung to each of your words for even a hint of reminiscence. They’d make a joke and hold their breath, desperate for the laugh that should be bubbling out of you. But you never got it, never making the connections that they did.

Azriel was the only one who’d catch the shame you felt at your lack of deliverance. Although he was the one with the most torture in his expression, he was also the one with the most understanding. He’d lean his head down and whisper what you needed to know in your ear, and then you’d giggle—for show—and hope would return to the room.

But nothing had returned to you.

You were still a shell.

“What do you think?”

Cassian’s question blanketed the table, forks halting their movements atop plates. Breakfast had just begun and you were dressed for a morning in Velaris at the theater, this time with Cassian.

“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” Mor questioned, eyeing the General beneath a raised brow.

“Were you there last week when I brought her home all bloody? I think it’s a great idea. Rhys agrees.”

“And Az?”

Cassian continued his breakfast, reaching for his drink. “Cassian—”

And so you found yourself steps away from the roof of the House of Wind—no longer in the comfortable daywear you’d been sporting—squinting into the morning sun. Leathers fitted for your body were laced up at your back and waist, stretching with a groan as you reached up to block the light from your eyes. Although the pain in your head had subsided to practically nonexistence, it often flared up in brightness or in times of stress.

Like when you stood atop a mountain and stared into the sun. Or got punched in the nose by a potato merchant.

“This is where I go while you go galavanting around the city,” Cassian chimed in, a grin evident in his words.

“Charming,” you muttered, still adjusting to the jarring assault of the sun.

The sound of grunts and clashing metal oriented you quicker, and as your eyesight settled you were met with the image of Azriel. He was bare-chested, leathers donning his legs as he pressed further and further forward, the knife you always saw at his hips hacking away at the metal dummy before him.

He moved so quickly that it was difficult to track him, one swipe after another, so carefully skilled and practiced. Sweat beaded down his tattooed skin. His wings rippled and spread in time with his footwork.

He was mesmerizing, a force of nature only halting as his shadows wound around his ear, whispering. Azriel whipped around, sheathing his knife at his side and staring out beyond the training ring with a narrowed gaze. He spotted you instantly, without looking near or around—a magnetic force.

Until he wasn’t looking at you, instead glowering in Cassian’s direction. “What are you doing, brother?” he bit out. The back of his hand made a quick pass along his forehead.

Cassian didn’t look the slightest bit sheepish, ushering you to the outskirts of the ring. “She’s going to train. Now that we know she won’t break at the slightest thing.”

Hazel eyes slid back to you, a softness overcoming them as you quickly averted your gaze from the broadness of his chest. You were not ogling him.

You bit into your cheek to stave off the embarrassment.

“I thought we agreed—”

“Az, come on. It’s been a couple of weeks now. We need to get her back in the swing of things.”

A crack of defeat edged its way onto the Shadowsinger’s face.

What had they agreed on? To wait it out? To treat you like glass until you were their version of yourself again? Something ugly licked up into your chest, something raw.

For a moment—just one—you stood on the sidelines and felt pathetic. While the two Illyrians stared at each other, a silent conversation between eyes, you let yourself feel like an outsider. They had had discussions about you, but not really about you. About the you that they loved—the one with memories and reciprocation.

“Will you be careful?” Azriel’s even voice snapped you out of the spiral you had initiated. His expression was uneasy, a hand pressed to his chest. “And tell us if you need to stop? If your head—”

“My head has been completely fine for a while now,” you assured, hands coming up to grasp the rungs of the training ring. “Promise.”

Azriel pressed his lips into a line but motioned you in with a nod of his head.

Despite the conflict still raging within your mind, you smiled at Cassian, the two of you letting out a small cheer and high-fiving before the General lifted you by your hips and past the rungs. You regained your footing and stood before the spymaster, meeting his level gaze with your own.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Cassian began, a loud clap resonating behind you. “Muscle memory is going to play a big role here, but I don’t want to risk you getting hurt, so you’re just with this guy for now.” He patted the shoulder of the dummy Azriel had been practicing with.

You scoffed, dropping your hands to hang by your thighs. “What? I still have the same muscle tone from before and last I checked my face was beaten in by a real person, not a chunk of metal.”

“And that will not happen again,” Azriel cut it. “Ever. But especially not when you’re… in this state.”

You ignored the unsettling remark. “Okay, well I think sparring one of you would be more effective in the prevention of that, don’t you?”

“Cassian and I could hurt you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“We can’t guarantee—”

“I trust you,” you interrupted, your view of Azriel partially obstructed by the shadows that wound up your body. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me. Let me do this, Az.”

The male before you faltered, his eyes darting quickly between yours. His chest, gleaming in the sunlight, rose and fell with strenuous effort. A clench of his jaw. Another pass of silence.

“Okay,” he nodded, gaze roving over your features. “Okay, y/n. Get warmed up and we can spar.”

You warmed up with Cassian, stretching and relishing in the feel of your body moving. He went over a few basic maneuvers with you, and you tried your hardest to pay close attention to how his feet slid around the ring.

It was a rather hard task, seeing as Azriel had continued his blade work on the dummy. Still shirtless.

After the General was satisfied with your progress, he passed you off to his brother. The Shadowsinger’s posture had softened a hair from when you first entered the ring, his wings coiled back and his shadows creating uneven shapes along the floor. He kept his hands by his sides, his feet relaxed—not a fighting stance in the slightest.

“Come on,” you teased, cocking your head to the side. “You have to at least try, Az.”

“I did not spar with you often before your memories were lost,” he admitted. “I do not enjoy the thought of hurting you.”

Guilt immediately flooded you. You hadn’t even thought about what this would be like for him, too caught up in your own strife. Your stance dropped, the fists at your chin loosening and falling.

“Oh, Azriel, I’m sorry. I can have Cassian—”

“No.” He dragged his left foot back. A ghost of a fighting position. “Only me.”

You took a painful breath in.

He didn’t move, allowing you to lead.

You shook your hands out and then your body moved of its own accord.

You swiped at his legs first, unsurprised when he leaped back with practiced grace. The two of you fell into a dance of drawn arms and calculated shifts and you were almost unnerved by how your body moved without you willing it to.

Cassian had said that muscle memory would play a role.

It seemed to be the only thing driving you.

You went for his knees, but in a way that maneuvered past his wings.

You used his shadows as cover, taking advantage of their familiarity with you and cloaking yourself in their mist.

Azriel swung a halfhearted punch at your shoulder and you bypassed the motion, grabbing his wrist and twisting at his back.

It felt right. Your actions were not your own but they were ingrained in your being.

This was your body.

Something that remained unchanged.

In your newfound joy, you missed the open palm Azriel carefully directed at your chest. The impact caught you off guard, stealing your breath from your lungs as you were pushed to the ground. As your back hit the floor, another shocking burst of air was ripped from you.

You laid frozen for a moment before a shadow cast over your body, the sun no longer beating down on your skin. Through the ringing in your ears, Azriel’s voice flowed through.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—y/n, take a breath.” A scarred hand rubbed along your clavicle. “Breathe. You’re okay. Breathe.”

A startling gasp of oxygen entered your lungs. You were fine, completely unharmed, only shocked and disoriented. Azriel bowed his head as you continued to circulate the air into your body, and it was then that you saw it.

A chain hung between you, dangling from his neck and brushing against your chin. It swayed back and forth, a grounding point as you blinked back the tears lining your eyes. The ring glinted in the sun, rubbing against the golden chain, looking as if it did not belong there.

Azriel tracked your gaze as he raised his head, looking down at the object of your attention. He sat back on his ankles and the diamond followed him, resting close to his chest.

You raised yourself to your elbows. “Who’s—” You coughed. Azriel winced. “Is that yours?”

A stupid question, but you couldn’t stop yourself from asking. A guarded look passed over the Shadowsinger’s face and you regretted it instantly. He reached up and clutched the necklace in a closed fist.

“No,” he responded. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t release the ring.

“I’m okay,” you confirmed. “I’m not hurt. It just knocked the wind out of me.”

Azriel nodded. A grim line formed between his brows.

“Hey! She alright?” Cassian called. He had moved clear across the roof when you began to spar with Azriel, mentioning something about inventory or knives or something you hadn’t paid attention to. You had been too focused on the warmth you felt from being so close to Azriel’s skin.

The sound of Cassian’s voice did nothing to break the hold Azriel’s eyes had on you.

Another beat of silence passed.

The wind blew a strand of his hair across his forehead.

“I—”

“I have a mission. I was supposed to meet with Rhys before midday.” He spoke the words apologetically but his hand shook when it lowered to his knee.

The sun was already past the high point in the sky. It was no longer midday.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I want to thank you for—”

“Don’t thank me. Please, just—Be careful. I have to go.”

A quiet collection of parting words fell from your lips and Aziel twitched, looking as if he would move forward but thinking better of it.

But you had thoughts too, and they worked against Azriel’s

You raised to your knees and brushed the hair on his forehead back, a small smile gracing your face, trying so hard to melt some of the tension that had grown between you. Azriel’s breath caught as you moved, but you only doubled down, softly dragging your nails along his scalp.

He shuddered, eyes falling shut for a brief, unguarded moment.

His shadows consumed him.

Azriel was gone.

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #azriel x female!reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel acotar #azriel angst #acotar #acotar fanfiction #fanfic

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alistarascendance · 7 months ago

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❝𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨, 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧—𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧?❞

— in which, fabled legend Alistar returns from the Chasm decades after their descent, only to find themself faced with an issue: humanity, in their absence, has created a world of suffering, dilapidated by greed, and Alistar’s presence only continues to fuel their selfishness, as a living legend must kill… or be killed.

Alistar: Ascendance is a cyberpunk, dystopian romance interactive fiction that was originally intended to simply be a story, before its writer (me) decided to be impulsive and turn it into an IF.

DISCLAIMERS

this story will contain depictions of alcohol, smoking, blood, violence, profanity, mild gore, yandere behavior, toxic relationships, suggestive themes, discrimination, self-hatred, mentions of emotional and physical abuse, suicidal thoughts, an oppressive government, fictional languages and religions, real world philosophies/religions including but not limited to: cynicism, nihilism and atheism; a corrupt world, discussion of morals and human conscience, as well as other mature themes. this list will be updated as the story is written.

please keep all of this in mind while reading!

A gender-selectable MC, who you choose the name, personality, sexuality, appearance, and morals of.

A wide variety of choices to choose from that will impact your story, and the need to keep your MC sane (or just go batshit insane. That works, too).

5 male love interests + 1 secret RO, all of whom you can maintain a simply platonic relationship with if you wish, or you can just continue to flirt with them endlessly (+ a FWB relationship for some).

An enriching world and story, set in a cyberpunk dystopia (we know all of you are here for the romance though).

A powerful MC 😔😔

ROs (romance options, also referred to as LIs or love interests).

THE SURFACE DWELLER:

Seven. 21, Chaotic Good. Mechanic.

“The HIVE needs to fall. There are no exceptions—not even for you.”

The first person you meet once you arrive on the Surface, you and Seven have a unique bond. He’s got a reputation in the slums and Neon for being great at parties, but his friendliness can easily be read as something more.

Is it something more? Further observations will have to be made…

THE SURVIVOR

Saturn. 23, Lawful Evil. Bartender.

“Keep your head down, and you’ll survive.”

The quiet bartender has a curious perspective on things. He seems to have no problem with the HIVE members patrolling his bar, even serving them drinks like they’re normal customers, despite their heavy armor and edges that are too sharp to be humane.

He also doesn’t seem to be particularly interested in you in the slightest. Why’s that?

THE DIPLOMAT

“Is it better to live in quiet solitude, your voice stripped and taken—or would you rather have died, knowing your voice was the loudest amongst them all?”

Chain. 23, alignment unclear. Current occupation unknown.

He’s someone to keep an eye out for. While he hasn’t practiced his craft in years, he may still prove to be dangerous. Just as friendly as Seven, but far more difficult to truly befriend.

Obtain new information as soon as possible…

THE PUPPET

Judge me if you must. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m up here, and you’re down there.

Orion. 25, Lawful Neutral. HIVE operative.

The HIVE member patrolling Saturn’s bar. Part of something greater than he is, but he’s a part of it, regardless. Keep him around…

OTHER ENTITIES

Argos: Neutral Good. Age unknown. The deity whose spear you brandished, after his passing. He was a good man, but the fact only makes your sins rest heavier in your heart.

Teacher: True Neutral. Around ~200 years old. The chasm-dwelling shadow who taught you all you know of the Chasm and its residents.

Alistar: alignment unknown. Around ~200 years old. That’s you! You’re Alistar. At least, that’s what the world has been calling you ever since you ended the war and revitalized humanity, so that is what you will be referred to as throughout the entirety of the story. However, if you’d like to change your name (as Alistar is the default) you may!

As I am primarily an author (as in I literally have done nothing else with my life) I am new to coding (I took ONE coding club in fourth grade) and am trying to write out and perfect a chapter before converting it into typical IF form.

Once I manage to get things situated, I’ll started to code. I’m currently almost done writing chapter 4, so I’ll start working on coding once I finish it.

If anyone wants to read the chapters I’ve written until now, just shoot me an ask or message :)) I’d be happy to show you. otherwise, here are the ones I’ve posted so far:

CHAPTERS

CHAPTER ONE: COURTING DEATH CHAPTER TWO: THOSE WHO REMAIN CHAPTER THREE: TARNISHED DREAMS

asked to be tagged for new chapters!

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alisonsfics · 3 months ago

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off limits - part five

pairing: brother’sbestfriend! henry cavill x reader

summary: henry was best friends with your brother, theo, which meant despite the clear chemistry between you two, you both had chosen to not date.

word count: 2.3k

warnings: swearing

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 6 coming soon

After getting the ominous text from Theo, your mind had been racing a million miles a minute. You had no idea why he suddenly wanted to hang out with you and Henry, specifically. Theo wasn’t even really supposed to know that you and Henry had been spending time together.

You tried to distract yourself with a whole lists of hobbies, but your mind kept running back to wondering what Theo wanted to talk about. Theo wasn’t normally very secretive. He was normally an extrovert who didn’t keep anything in. You started preparing yourself for the chance that Theo knew about you and Henry.

Theo had sent you an address for some gala being hosted by the company he worked for. The only other information he gave you was that you’d talk once you got there.

You tried to assure yourself that if he was going to yell at you for dating-but-not-dating his best friend, he probably wouldn’t have picked a public event.

You got dressed up, as the invitation mentioned, and arrived at the gala way earlier than you were supposed to. You hadn’t seen or spoken to Henry since you got the text from Theo. You both were mentally spiraling and needed some time to think.

When it was finally an acceptable time, you headed into the lobby, where you saw Henry waiting. He was sitting on a bench, anxiously tapping his leg.

He gave you a soft smile once he saw you. He was so anxious that he couldn’t even force himself to stand and give you a hug.

“Theo here yet?” You asked him, trying to keep your hands from shaking. He shook his head. “Haven’t seen him yet,” he told you.

You grabbed your phone out of your purse, hoping you could distract yourself. It didn’t work. You anxiously switched between your Instagram feed and your email for ten minutes, until Theo showed up.

When Theo finally walked through the door, you and Henry practically jumped. “Hey, Theo. How are you?” You asked, giving your brother a quick hug. You were partially convinced that if you acted like everything was okay, maybe it would be. “Hey, guys. It’s good to see you both.” Theo said, also giving Henry a hug.

“So, you guys are probably wondering about my text. I’m sorry that I was so vague, but I was worried that neither of you would agree if I told you beforehand.” Theo started to explain.

Your fears that this was about you and Henry started to fade, but they were replaced by fears that this was worse.

“So, you both know that you’re the maid of honor and best man at the wedding, which me and Sarah are so happy about. But, we knew neither of you had a date yet to the wedding, so me and Sarah wanted to set you both up.” Theo finished explaining.

You and Henry were stunned. You glanced over at Henry, trying to read his expression. You both had been so worried about Theo finding out, and now, it sounded like he wanted the two of you to be together. You weren’t sure what you were hearing. Neither one of you knew how to respond.

“So, Sarah’s on her way in with two of our friends. We think you’ll love them. For you, we have my coworker Todd. He loves all your favorite movies, and he’s really into cooking. And Henry, Sarah has this friend named Mia, who owns this little bakery downtown. And if all goes well, maybe they could be your dates to the wedding.” Theo said, causing a pit to form in both yours and Henry’s stomachs.

Theo wasn’t setting you up with Henry. He was setting you both up with different people. You couldn’t even tell Theo that you weren’t interested because both your dates already in the parking lot.

“Alright. One of you say something, please. You’re scaring me.” Theo said, noticing your stunned reactions.

You were pissed. Theo had ambushed you.

“What’s to say? They’re already here, aren’t they?” You said, with a slight bitterness. Henry and Theo both picked up on it, but neither of them mentioned it.

Then, the front door to the lobby opened, and Sarah walked in with two people behind her. Sarah smiled at you both, unaware of the awkward tension in the room.

“Hey, guys. This is Todd and Mia.” Sarah said, introducing you all. You politely smiled at Todd, who was giving you an expectant look. “Shall we?” He asked you, holding out his arm for you. You reluctantly held onto his arm, and he led you into the banquet hall.

Henry didn’t realize how protective he was over you until he saw you with Todd. It made Henry sick to his stomach.

Todd brought you over to your assigned table. You glanced at the name tags and realized that all six of you were at one table. Todd pulled out your chair for you, but you still didn’t even want to look at him.

“So, you work with Theo?” You asked with a desperate attempt at conversation. Todd nodded his head and starting rambling about his job. You watched Henry, Mia, Theo, and Sarah start heading towards your table and prepared for the disaster that you knew would occur.

You zoned out as Todd rambled on and on. Henry gave you a sympathetic look as he sat down. You’re weren’t mad at Henry in anyway, but for some reason, you hoped that he would stand up to Theo and fight for you. You knew it was a crazy hope and that Henry wouldn’t do it. Henry had promised you that he’d keep whatever your relationship was a secret from Theo. He wouldn’t break that promise without your permission.

As if you weren’t feeling upset enough, watching Mia practically drool over Henry wasn’t helping.

“I’m going to go get a drink. If anyone wants to come with.” Sarah excused herself, starting to pick up on the tension. “We’ll come with you,” Mia volunteered, grabbing onto Henry’s hand.

You watched Henry’s eyes widen as he was dragged away from the table. “While they’re gone, I’m going to run to the bathroom real quick. I’ll be back in a minute.” Todd excused himself as well.

“So how do you like him?” Theo asked from across the table as soon as Todd was out of earshot.

You refused to look at Theo. You fixed your attention on the other side of the room and didn’t budge. “Hello? What’s wrong?” Theo asked you.

“I’m fucking pissed at you. That’s what’s wrong.” You snapped at him. Theo looked genuinely shocked by your response. “You’re mad because I…got you a date?” He asked, confused.

You rolled your eyes, running a hand through your hair. “No, I’m mad because you ambushed me. You didn’t ask if I was interested, and I couldn’t have said no because he was already here.” You ranted. Theo was trying to reason with you, but all the stress from hiding your feelings for Henry was bubbling up.

“I was just trying to be helpful. I just want you to be happy.” Theo told you. You believed him, and you knew he had good intentions, but sometimes his execution was shit. “Maybe I already am happy. Maybe I don’t want to be in a relationship right now. Just because you’re getting married doesn’t mean I have to. I mean, I get enough of this shit from mom. I don’t need it from you too.” You said, standing up from the table and walking away.

You started walking towards the lobby again. You walked past the bar, and Sarah and Henry saw that you were fuming. “I’m gonna go check on her. Can you get me a drink?” Henry asked Mia, to which she quickly nodded.

Henry followed you into the lobby. “Hey, wait up. It’s me.” He called after you. You stopped when you recognized his voice. You turned around to face him and a few tears rolled down your cheeks.

“Talk to me,” Henry said, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into a hug. You hated how safe you felt with him. You wrapped your arms around him, holding onto him like it would make your problems go away. “I am so fucking pissed at Theo for this, and this has all been so much recently. I’ve just fucking had it.” You rambled.

Henry rubbed your back as you ranted to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to complain so much. I mean, you’re going through this too, and I haven’t heard you complain once.” You apologized.

Henry took your hand and pulled you over to one of the benches against the wall. He sat down next to you. “You’re allowed to complain all you want. This fucking sucks. And trust me, I am just as upset as you are.” He comforted you, moving a strand of your hair behind your ear. You never felt alone when you were with Henry.

“You’re such a good listener. You should be my therapist. God knows I’m gonna need one after tonight,” you joked, laughing as you wiped another tear off your cheek.

“I hate seeing you cry.” Henry said, grabbing one of your hands in his. He ran his thumb over the back of your hand.

You saw a flash of doubt in Henry’s eyes for a split second, and then he cupped your face with his free hand. Then, he slowly leaned in to kiss you. It wasn’t like any of the other times you’d kissed Henry. Normally, it was heat of the moment and rushed. This was different. It was slow and sweet.

You leaned into the kiss. Butterflies swirled around inside you. You interlaced your fingers with Henry’s. It was magical.

Henry could feel you smile against the kiss. For a second, his feelings for you were simple. In that moment, he didn’t care about anything else, especially Theo. He just wanted you.

“Hey, Theo said you ran off. I wanted to come check on you.” Todd said, bursting into the room before realizing what was going on.

You and Henry froze. You half expected Henry to jump away from you. He didn’t. He let his hand rest on your waist. “I’m sorry. We really had no idea Theo was going to set us up. Theo doesn’t know about this. Please, don’t tell him.” You apologized.

Todd nodded and left you both alone.

Henry quickly stood up. “I need to go talk to Mia.” He said.

“That’s your first reaction after kissing me?” You asked him, half teasing.

“I need to tell her that there is somebody else who makes me very happy. I don’t want to lead her on when I am one thousand percent crazy about you.” He said, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“What do we do about Theo?” You asked him.

“I think we should talk to him and see how he reacts. There’s so much stuff going on with the wedding in three weeks, but I think we should talk to him after the wedding. I know that’s still a while from now, but I don’t want him to be stressed about the wedding when we talk to him.” He suggested.

You pulled him in for a hug. “I’m going to go hang out with Sarah. I’m not really in the mood to talk to Theo yet. But we’ll talk soon, okay?” You told him. He nodded and smiled before you left.

Then, Henry went to find Mia. “Hey, can we talk?” He asked her. She quickly nodded.

“I had no idea that Theo and Sarah were setting us up today. I don’t want to lead you on, and there’s this girl. I mean, it’s complicated, but it wouldn’t be fair to lie to you. Theo doesn’t know anything about it though.” He explained.

“Thank you for telling me. I really appreciate your honesty. And I totally understand why you’d be nervous to tell Theo.” She told Henry. Henry furrowed his eyebrows. “Wait, I’m sorry. What do you mean?” He asked her, curiously.

“Because she’s his sister,” Mia told Henry, as though it was clear as day.

Henry chuckled to himself. “I didn’t realize it was so obvious.” He admitted. Mia shyly nodded her head. “It’s just the way you look at her,” she told him.

They wrapped up their conversation, and Henry went back into the lobby to think. He wanted to seem confident and hopeful in front of you when talking about telling Theo, but Henry was terrified. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin his relationship with his best friend or ruin yours and Theo’s relationship.

The stress had really gotten to Henry over the past few weeks. He felt his eyes start to water from the pure stress and anxiety. He had no one to talk about these things with except you, and he wanted to be strong for you.

Theo walked into the lobby, startling Henry. “You mad at me too? My sister's pissed, and judging by the way Mia and Todd are making out, I’m assuming neither of you were interested in your dates.” Theo said.

Henry shook his head. “I’m not mad at you. Slightly irritated, but not mad. But, I couldn’t date Mia, Theo.” He told him.

Theo noticed the emotion in Henry’s face. “Hey, man, are you alright?” Theo asked, concerned. Henry just shook his head. “There’s this girl. And god, I want to be with her. I think about her all the time, and it fucking sucks because I know how amazing we could be together, but it can’t happen. All I really want to do is take her on a date.” Henry explained, wiping his eyes quickly and faking a smile.

Theo put his hand on Henry’s back. “No one can really stop you though. You should go be with this girl if she makes you happy. Don’t let anything stand in your way.” Theo assured Henry. Henry chuckled to himself at the irony. He knew Theo would have a very different sentiment if he knew the girl was his sister.

“It’s just way too complicated. You have no idea.” Henry told him.

taglist: @laurakirsten0502 @miraclesoflove @nathaliabakes @millipop18 @lillyssh-tposts @shyinadarkplace @vanteguccir @missroro @guacam011y @sw33t-cupid @ice-dtae @leyannrae @sia2raw @nyx2021 @just-a-littlebit-of-everything @shyconversationalbookworm @shadowhuntyi @visenyaverse @ruzannetheseahorse @superdeath @wandaswifeyforlifey @spookyqueen @mcuswhore @bookwormchick91 @princess-evans-addict @n3ssm0nique @peakascum @cjand10 @namsey1987 @supernaturalstilinski @stephv213 @kingliam2019 @summersong69 @warriormirkwood @weirdpeoplecoolpeople @amalfoyandariddle @softestqueeen @shellyshellshell @wiesels @hannah9921 @luftmenzch @peaceinourtime82 @moonlightaura03 @kleinegamerin @henryownsme

Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for all my imagines or for a specific character/fandom!!

#brothersbestfriend!henry cavill x reader #brothersbestfriend!henry cavill #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill #henry cavill series #henry cavill fluff #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill fic #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction

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neiptune · 1 year ago

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always for the first time

c/w: 1.2k wc, reader is deep in her head, gojo is stupidly in love & wants nothing more than to be the best boyfriend on planet earth, sickeningly sweet, disgustingly self indulgent, inspired by andré breton's poem, wrote this in like 10 minutes, reader discretion advised: you'll drown in fluff

Life has been brutal in teaching Satoru the consequences of not picking up on things in time and with that now comes the anxiety of missing out on hints, small details, imperceptible signals.

He is a good learner, although he wasn’t ready for what you had in store for him. He can be too much, always has been too much, people have told him. Too strong, too loud, too obnoxious, too dumb. He didn’t know how to juggle his worst traits and keep them under control around you, has never wanted not to scare someone away so bad.

Satoru is also, and most importantly, a keen observer.

He has to be, not only to watch his back every now and again but also to pick up on more subtle things that could escape a less trained eye. You are one of those things.

He has studied you, mapped out every twitch of your lips or crease between eyebrows, he has memorized the heaviness of your sighs and which limits it’s best not to push. He knows you need your space and that some people don’t appreciate how overwhelming his interest in them can be. Because what if his insistence ends up crushing them? What if he cares so much you eventually drift away?

So Satoru knows when to keep quiet, when to leave you be or wrap his arms around your waist to bury a gentle kiss in your hair. You have taught him that he doesn’t have to prove his presence all the time, a broken record of I’m here, don’t you know that I’m here for you?

You know. His presence is embedded in every aspect of your life, in every soft thought crossing your mind. He’s there when he lies on top of you in bed, infinity turned off for good measure, cheek pressed to your stomach and arms wrapped around your frame in a petulant attempt to convince you to stay five more minutes. He’s there when he gets back early from a mission and you come home to the tall, familiar figure making a mess of your kitchen. I had half an hour to spare and I thought you’d like soup.

Satoru sees the flow of individual atoms that make you, you. Which means that he knows when you’re in pain, feels your sadness creeping up into his very bones, only experiences true fear the first time you bury your face into his chest and your body shakes in his arms, consumed by the terror of not seeing him again. Satoru is not scared because he thinks the thought of something happening to him is even remotely rational, it’s the thought of leaving you without him for a second too long that petrifies him.

He’s there when he looks at you and sees everything there’s to see, the good and so much of the bad. Satoru has eyes that grant him extraordinary perception and cause a constant, exhausting influx of information. But he can now see you as well as he sees cursed energy: the flux of excitement, sadness, rage or embarrassment. He sees how big your heart is and yet deems it not nearly large enough to contain the love you have for him and for others, threatening to bubble over at all times.

He sees your shame and insecurities and how desperately you attempt to keep those from him. Sometimes he forces himself to respect it, other times it’s hard not to at least attempt to work his charm.

You could get mad but he can’t risk skipping the chance of reminding you once more that he’s there. Just in case. He’s there.

“What’s up?” he asks nonchalantly, nose still buried in that book you couldn’t stop talking about for an entire week.

“Nothing’s up. If something was up, you’d know first” your grin is charming although a little forced and when you go back to the cooking show you’re watching on television, Satoru lets a few seconds pass.

“I think something’s up”

You sigh. He’s not even looking at you but you feel the wary concern vibrating in his voice.

“I’m okay” your own pitch gets softer, a gentle reminder that there’s nothing to really worry about. It’s just that your mind can get very loud at times, but that’s not to become another one of his battles. He has enough of those already.

But that’s when he puts the novel down, a bunch of dried lavender twigs used as a makeshift bookmark.

“I can see that” he knows the punchline will always make you roll your eyes with fondness, especially if he has his blindfold on “your limbs are still attached, your hair looks pretty, skin is fairly hydrated” you huff out a laugh as he crawls over you only to slump his long, inconveniently heavy body on top of yours.

“But something’s wrong” he whispers it into your skin, hopes that it’s easier to get you to open up if you can’t see him and think he can see less of you. His lips are pressed to your neck and snowy hair tickles your chin, so you attempt to comb some of it back with a light scoff.

“You currently obstructing my airways?”

He lightly pinches your side and you squirm underneath his weight with an airy giggle.

“Stop doing that”

“Doing what?” you flick his forehead but he doesn’t even flinch.

“Deflecting. Something’s wrong, I can feel it”

Satoru wishes he didn’t sound every bit as pathetic as he did. But he’s made peace with the fact that this is what love does to him a long time ago. He’s in love, and pathetic, and simply prays it’s one of the times he’s lucky enough you’ll give him the green light to make a breach in the walls.

“You can feel it?” you muse “what are you, obsessed with me or somethin’?”

“I am” he lightly nips at your jaw and draws a gasp “what a stupid question”

As obsessed as an invincible man can be, one that spends each day hoping he’ll be allowed to gain yet another victory over the ache throbbing in your ribcage. What good is being the strongest if he’s barely allowed to shield you from yourself?

“I’m just tired” you articulate the words slowly, attentively, and your heart swells in your chest when he instantly stills his movements “it’s a tiring day. I’ll be fine”

And Gojo hums against the warmth of your skin, tightens his arms around you. Of course you’ll be fine, he’ll be there to make sure you will be. Not that you need him to fight your battles, you never needed him in the first place.

“Thank you” for making this one of the moments I’m allowed to climb over those walls, even if just to take a small peek.

“You’re so silly” you smile and don’t even understand how the hell someone could get so lucky.

“S’why you love me”

“Wrong, I love you because of your pretty face and remarkable abs”

“I’m more than a nice piece of ass, y’know?”

Another silent laugh fills the air, now lighter, and you can already feel his smile as you gently pull his blindfold down. Satoru lets you, lifts his face to make your job a little easier and when his eyes slowly flutter open there’s nothing but sincere adoration swirling in them. There’s trust, and love, and you can’t help but force them shut again as you gently press your lips to both his eyeslids.

To tell him that you love him with just as much fierceness, with every fragment of your flawed, human body.

To thank him for seeing you with such earth shattering clarity, always for the first time.

#gojo x reader #satoru x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #jjk x reader #please be nice it's only my second time writing fully for him #and I must confess angst gets me going more than fluff #anyways #I'd love feedback!!

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girlkisser13 · 3 months ago

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emily i’m sorry

"emily, forgive me, can we" "make it up as we go along?" "i'm twenty-seven and i don't know who i am" "but i know what i want"

pairings: emily prentiss x fem!reader

warnings/tags: angst with a bit of fluff at the end.

summary: you and emily find your way to each other.

returning to quantico was like stepping into a time capsule. the bau had always been a place of intensity, where minds were stretched to their limits and where you had once spent countless hours. but this time, walking through those familiar halls, you felt a different kind of pressure— the weight of seeing emily again after so many years apart.

the past had a way of creeping up on you, especially in a place like this, where every corner held memories. you had loved emily once, more than you thought possible. but in your pursuit of a career that demanded everything, you had made the impossible decision to walk away. it was mutual, or at least that’s what you both said at the time. there were no harsh words, no accusations— just two people who had to part ways for the sake of their futures.

yet standing here now, you couldn’t help but question that choice.

as you made your way into the bullpen, you were greeted by the team— a group of people you knew by reputation but had never worked with before. penelope garcia was the first to spot you, her eyes lighting up as she made her way over.

"you must be the new liaison!" she exclaimed, her voice as bright as her personality. "i’m penelope garcia, resident genius, and lover of all things tech."

you smiled, accepting the warm handshake. "y/n l/n, nice to meet you, garcia."

"please, call me penelope. we’re all friends here," she said with a wink before turning to the rest of the team. "everyone, meet our new liaison."

you exchanged handshakes and introductions with david rossi, spencer reid, aaron hotchner, and derek morgan. they were all friendly, professional, and welcoming. none of them knew your history with emily, and you weren’t sure if that made things easier or harder.

"prentiss is in her office," rossi mentioned, almost casually. "she’s probably buried in paperwork."

you nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral. "i’ll go introduce myself."

the walk to emily’s office felt longer than it should have, each step heavy with anticipation. you took a deep breath before knocking on the door, trying to steady your nerves.

"come in," came emily’s voice, slightly muffled by the door.

you pushed the door open and stepped inside, your heart skipping a beat as your eyes met hers. emily looked almost exactly as you remembered— poised, strong, with that keen, intelligent gaze that had always drawn you in. but when she saw you, her eyes widened in shock, and she froze, the file she was holding slipping from her fingers and landing on the desk.

"y/n?" her voice was soft, almost disbelieving.

"hey, emily," you said, your voice betraying a hint of the nervousness you felt. "it’s been a while."

she stared at you for a moment, as if trying to convince herself that you were really there. finally, she found her voice. "i didn’t know you were coming back."

"i’m the new liaison,” you explained, stepping further into the office. "i just met the team."

emily blinked, clearly trying to process this new information. "you’re taking jj’s position?"

"yeah," you confirmed. "it feels right. like coming home, in a way."

a long, tense silence stretched between you. the last time you had seen emily, you both had agreed to part ways. you needed to focus on your career, and she had understood. but standing here now, all those old feelings resurfaced, and you realized how much you had missed her.

"i didn’t think i’d see you again," emily finally said, her voice low and laced with emotion.

"neither did i," you admitted. "but life has a funny way of bringing you back to the things you thought you’d left behind."

emily studied you, her expression unreadable. "why did you come back?"

her question was simple, but it hit you like a ton of bricks. you had thought about this moment, about what you would say if you ever saw her again. now that it was here, the words felt heavy in your mouth.

"emily, i’m sorry," you began, your voice cracking slightly. "when we broke up, i thought i was doing the right thing. i thought i needed to focus on my career, and i convinced myself that it was for the best."

she listened, her eyes never leaving yours, but she didn’t say anything.

"i thought i was making the right choice," you continued, your voice filled with regret. "but after all this time, after everything i’ve done, i still don’t know who i am. the only thing i’m sure of is that i still love you. i never stopped."

emily looked down, her expression softening. "you left," she whispered, her voice carrying a weight of hurt. "you chose your career over us."

"i know," you replied, feeling a lump form in your throat. "and i'm sorry for that, more than you can imagine. i thought i was making the right choice, but i was wrong. i've spent all this time trying to figure out who i am, but the only thing i'm sure of is that i still love you."

her breath hitched slightly, and she finally looked up at you, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "you broke my heart, y/n," she said, her voice trembling.

"i know," you whispered, taking a cautious step closer. "and i’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to you, if you’ll let me."

for a long moment, emily just looked at you, as if weighing your words. then, slowly, she stepped forward and pulled you into a tight embrace. the warmth of her arms around you, the familiar scent of her hair, it all came rushing back, and you held her close, never wanting to let go.

"i missed you," she murmured against your shoulder, her voice thick with emotion.

"i missed you too," you whispered back, relief flooding through you. "i’m not going anywhere this time, emily. i promise."

she pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. there was a hint of a smile on her lips, a glimmer of hope in her gaze.

"maybe we could… start over?" she suggested tentatively.

you smiled, your heart feeling lighter than it had in years. "i’d like that."

as you stood there, holding each other, you knew that this was where you were meant to be. not just in the bau, but with emily, in her arms, where you’d always belonged.

and this time, you weren’t going to let her go.

116 notes · View notes

doctor-dusk · 7 months ago

Text

𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢'𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲 | 𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐱 𝐭.

you decide to surprise your boyfriend (late sias!alex) on valentine's day.

warnings: oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (piv), veeery sub!al (but then after comes dom!al cuz i don't know how to write sub lol), a bit of aftercare :3

word count: 5.7k

celebrating the baby recents in nyc i'm going crazy that man's just….... *chef's kiss*

the bed felt cold that morning for alex, not just because the thermometers were reading low temperatures, but because you weren't there beside him to warm his body when he woke up. which was kinda weird.

‘’it’s not possible that she left so early today.’’, he thought while still staring at the empty side of the bed before raising his head. he smelled your perfume in the room, albeit faintly, narrowing his gaze at the half-open bathroom door in the hope that you would get out of there, even though he knew that wouldn't happen.

especially because it was valentine's day. alex wanted to wake up, look at you and your messy hair, your sleepy face, wake you up with a million kisses all over your face, then ask what you would like to eat for breakfast.

he looked at the digital clock on his cell phone, seeing that there were still ten minutes until 8am. you usually never leave for work so early, and alex really hoped you could curl up with him in bed for a few more minutes until you ran the risk of arriving late at the office.

in addition to the time, he saw a message that you sent to him twenty minutes ago informing him that you needed to go to work early that day and that you had left the breakfast table set for him in the kitchen in case he wanted to eat something.

but alex wasn't feeling as hungry as he would have liked, limiting himself to taking some sips of black coffee as he got ready to go to the studio.

as much as he wanted to focus on the demands during the recording process, his mind was stuck on the idea that it was strange that you hadn't sent him anything other than a text all morning. he thought he could ask you to have lunch together at any nearby restaurant, even if it was for fifteen minutes.

his hand reached his phone on his pocket, the wallpaper was a photo of you that he took during your annual skiing vacation in the austrian alps.

‘’hi.’’ you answered his call on the third ring. alex was surprised by the way you answered. in fact, everything seemed too strange for him now.

‘’hey... are you busy?’’ he said after a few seconds, speaking softly more so as not to let his friend hear him than to not disturb him.

‘’yeah, why?’’ you asked quickly, getting irritated by a document that was not scanned well, which made you curse under your breath.

‘’nothing, i… i thought we could have lunch together in a little while.’’ alex replied, nibbling on the cap of the pen he had in his hand, pretending to be focused on the computer screen, but in reality it only made him more anxious.

‘’i can’t, alex.’’ you answered him almost immediately, making him bite the pen cap harder.

‘’c’mon, just fifteen minutes. i didn't even saw you get out of bed this mornin’, y/n.’’ he replied, trying to not show his frustration through his voice.

‘’i already i can’t, turner. i’m really busy, there's no chance of leaving here now.’’ you replied in the same tone to him, making him sigh and remain silent. alex thought about asking you why you were like this, but he thought it could just be the stress consuming you day after day, you have great responsibilities in your department that sometimes keep you up at night. ‘’are you going to say anything else or can i hang up?’’

‘’no, i have nothing more to say.’’ alex replied shortly, not hiding the frustration in his voice.

‘’fine, i'll see you at home.’’ you replied and then hung up, not expecting him to answer you back.

turner threw his cell phone onto the table, letting out a heavy sigh as he tried to relax his tense shoulders as he adjusted his posture in the chair. he didn't know if he had done something wrong to you the day before or even before that, because everything seemed to be fine with him. or not.

did he forget to take out the trash yesterday? did he not compliment the color of the nail polish on your nails? is he spending too much time in the studio?

after all, he was a man and men can be stupid when it comes to women's feelings. but you didn't have any communication problems, at least not that he knew about.

“tough valentine's day, huh?” he heard matthew comment next to him, his eyes never left his cell phone screen, but his ears were certainly very sharp to the conversation next to him.

alex didn't answer him, preferring to immerse himself in any recording demands and not stress about the idea that you were acting weird with him for no reason.

and well, he failed the mission miserably.

what alex hadn't really stopped to think about for a second was that this was all a plan so that you could leave work early and get to your apartment first to surprise him.

and of course, you knew that alex would probably arrive a little after 8pm due to the chaotic traffic, or even later because he would probably be too upset to not want to get home early, so you knew you needed to be quick, tidying and organizing the entire apartment, and of course, preparing his favourite pasta, as well as the quick strawberry cheesecake for dessert. you just hoped you hadn't angered alex enough to make him not even want to look at your face at the end of the day.

it was past 10pm, you were finishing lighting the last candle placed on the dinner table when you heard the sound of the password being entered into the digital lock outside, indicating that alexander had just arrived. you directed your gaze to the door at the exact moment you saw him enter, one of his hands was wrapped around the suitcase handle and the other was trying to close the door behind him.

turner was too distracted to notice that everything was dark until he smelled tangerine and pink mango in the room, as well as some rose petals that trailed a small path through the hallway. he stopped, looking ahead and seeing you standing next to the perfectly set table for dinner.

he wasn't staring at you for too long without saying anything just because he was trying to understand what was happening, but because you were wearing a red dress with shoulder-to-shoulder straps, leaving the collarbone exposed and the skirt with a slit that began just above your left knee. he felt disoriented for a few seconds to the point where he even forgot that he was upset with you.

“what is that?” he asked, letting his shoulders relax as you approached subtly, letting him see how your makeup was light, but at the same time striking due to the red lipstick pigmenting your lips.

“what does that look like?” you chuckled, taking the suitcase from his hand and placing it against the wall close to the door, then wrapping your arms around his neck. turner looked once again at the dining table, the smell of gorgonzola cheese sauce mixed a little with the aroma of the candles, not that it bothered him.

“thought you were mad at me. i spent the whole fuckin’ day reviewing my sins to find out what i did or didn't do.” he squinted at you, seeing you laugh comically, and then he couldn't help but smile too. “it was all a plan, eh? i should ‘ave suspected.”

“you're still the smartest and dumbest man i know, honey.” you quipped, sliding the tip of your index finger along his chin, lowering it a little so you could give him a kiss that probably left his mouth stained with lipstick. not that he cared about that. “c’mon, i made this recipe in record time and i want to know if you will like it.” you said, taking his hand and making him sit in the chair at one end of the four-seater table and you sat in the chair on the other side.

there wasn't a moment when you both weren't laughing, or talking about the food, or planning what you were going to do the next day. alex felt mesmerized by you, as if you were always able to make him fall in love with you every day, or in every act like smiling at him and asking him why he had that silly expression on his face when you get up from your chair, walking around the table to hug him, taking the opportunity to sit on his lap, feeling him hug you with one arm while the other remained over your partially bare leg.

soon, you were laughing loudly with your minds connected, your face was red from laughing so much, and alex was trying not to choke on taking another sip of wine, as he was now laughing more at your laugh than at the conversation itself. he loved those moments where he lost himself in the feeling of laughing until his stomach hurt, or just enjoying your laughing face as you tried to stop laughing.

‘’oh, baby, i love you so much…’’ alexander murmured, kissing your rosy cheek, dragging the kiss a little longer until he reached your parted lips, giving you a long open mouthed kiss as you felt him playing with the slit of your dress, his hand moved a little further to feel the warmth of the skin on your thigh.

‘’not more than me.’’ you replied, kissing him again, feeling him smile between the kiss, biting your bottom lip.

‘’why not? i didn't knew this was a competition.’’ he drawled his voice, feeling you caress the back of his neck, giving him goosebumps slightly. you pretended to think for a while, nibbling your lip gently.

‘’cause i have something to show you.” you whispered as if it were a secret, holding his hand so that you could now leave the small room between the kitchen and the living room, crossing the hallway a little further until you reached the bedroom.

turner wasn't too surprised to see the bed littered with rose petals and more scented candles on the nightstands. the dim lights from the candles along with the city lights that invaded the room through the half-open curtain only added an even more romantic touch to the occasion.

in fact, what really surprised him was a chair in front of the bed, which apparently had no use until he realized he was going to sit there when you pushed his shoulders down, making him sit down. his curiosity and excitement were already at an all-time high as he looked at you and wondered what was going through your devilish mind.

he didn't dare say anything as anticipation pounded his chest, watching your every move as you went to the portable speaker connected via bluetooth to your cell phone, double-clicking on the cell phone's screen only to make the first rings of the selected song start to echo in a considerable volume.

you shook your head gently, closing your eyes to feel the music a little and let you body adapt to a rhythm, your closed mouth hummed the melody, your hands slid across the silky fabric of your dress, as if you were in your own world and for a moment, forgetting that alex watched your every act without blinking, thinking that he was incapable of missing something, especially the mischievous way you smiled at him when you opened your eyes and watched him.

‘’i really tried to be a little more creative this year, ya’ know?’’ you said, forming a hook with your two index fingers to pull the straps of the dress, and then the fingers of one of your hands quickly wrapped around the zipper, just to lower it enough to let the piece of clothing run like water down your body. ‘’you're a little hard to please, turner.’’

‘’oh, honey, i’m happy with literally anything you can give me. especially this.’’ alexander replied, opening his legs a little and leaving his body a little more relaxed in the chair, feeling uneasy with his girlfriend's figure in just lingerie in front of him. you were always able to leave him speechless. ‘’this lingerie is new, isn't it?’’ he asked, paying attention to every detail of those intimate pieces, his fertile imagination just formulating the image of those panties and bra thrown in some corner of the room while he was too busy touching and feeling every inch of your body.

‘’did you like it? i bought it just so you could take it off.’’ you smiled, turning around so that turner could lose himself once again in your curves, in the skin that seemed to glow in the candlelight, and, while he would love to continue having this privileged view, he couldn't wait to do what his mind already formulated.

you allowed yourself to get a little closer to him in rhythm with the music, each touch seemed to send him a certain type of stimulation, and alex was loving every second of it, feeling his chest rise and fall restlessly amidst his heavy breathing, watching you spreading your legs so that you could sit perfectly on his lap.

‘’look at you…’’ you murmured, slowly tilting your head to capture every little feature of his face, feeling that his eager hands were already trailing a small path from your knees to your thighs. ‘’you seem so desperate.’’

‘’i am.’’ alex responded almost immediately, feeling your lips press against his neck as you tilted your head a little more, taking in his scent, feeling it invading your nostrils like a summer breeze. alex let his hand go up a little more to hold your hair, taking it off of your shoulder to leave the area free so he could give you a simple kiss, but it was certainly capable of making you shiver completely. ‘’i need you so much, baby…’’ turner dragged his voice into your ear, letting his hand gripping the back of your head as he felt you smile into his neck.

‘’oh, but i'm not finished yet, love.’’ you tutted, moving your hands up to his shirt, and then your mouth took his in a deep and passionate kiss. alex felt the urgency to help you get rid of the shirt as soon as possible, now enjoying the sensation of your nails scraping the skin of his chest from top to bottom, the skin boiling with the desire that consumed him more and more. he loved the touches, the way you handled everything and made him more aroused to the point where he felt like he would explode just with these small acts.

the kiss didn't last long, as soon alex was enjoying the sight of you slowly flexing your knees to lower yourself in front of him as you got off his lap. normally, you were always quick to get rid of his undergarments, but at that moment, you absolutely loved to take advantage of the slowness, just to increase alex's anxiety a little more to the point of realizing that he felt goosebumps and was holding back a few curse words due to your slowness in just lower the zipper of his pants.

‘’you're very…’’ he murmured, holding his tongue between his teeth and letting his mouth contort into a crooked smile. he didn't want to act like he was practically dying from it, even though you knew that very well. it was clear to you how desperate he was, and that only made it more fun for you.

you laughed, ceasing the torture that would probably make alex climb the walls at any moment or just lose his patience, pulling his pants down with his underwear, watching his cock pratically jump out of the confines of his underwear, painfully hard.

you licked your lips at the sight, wrapping your hand around his throbbing erection, making him let out a sigh both from the relief and the simple pleasure he felt with the slow slide of your right hand, making him shudder.

for him, that was enough to make him see stars, but of course you could improve even more by replacing your hand with your lips that were thirsty for that touch, getting a preview of his taste as the precum entered in contact with your tongue at the exact moment your slid the muscle over the tip.

you wrapped your lips around him in a deliciously pleasurable way that made him raise his hips towards you a little, thrusting into your mouth, the tip of his cock hitting your throat roughly, making you gag in response, drooling over his length.

alex closed his eyes tightly, letting his head fall back, a long moan escaped his mouth when he felt you stimulate him with your lips and hands, stroking him where your mouth couldn't reach. he felt the spasms getting stronger and stronger, letting his fist close on your hair when you took him deeper.

but of course, you needed to take breaks, letting your hands work their magic on his cock so you could look at him. his face was flushed and frowning, his mouth was half-open, letting out the moans and whispers of someone who was loving it, and his hair was messy, with some strands sticking to his forehead due to sweat.

he opened his eyes, sighing deeply as he looked down and saw you smile discreetly, pleased to see him totally vulnerable and completely out of breath. and only because of you. he felt like if you kept going for a little more he was going to cum in your mouth, even more so if your kept looking at him like that.

‘’fuck, baby, please…’’ he pleaded, moving your face away from his cock when you slid your tongue once again along the hard and pulsing length, he didn't want to finish in your mouth now. you were already so turned on at this point, so you didn't respond and didn't dare tease him anymore, using your free hand to reach for the elastic of your bra.

alexander thought you were going to get rid of the piece, but he saw the moment you took out a condom strategically hidden inside the cup of your bra. he found that to be surprisingly exciting, and even more so when you wanted to make a point of looking deep into his eyes as you brought the packaging to your mouth, tearing the plastic in a careful yet provocative way so as not to end up damaging the latex.

your touched him again briefly, always having control of everything you were doing there, from the moment you fitted the condom onto his erection, lubricated in advance by both precum and saliva, until the moment you sat on his lap again.

‘’you must be so wet right now…’’ alex murmured, his sneaky hand wandered over the fabric of your panties, noticing how soaked it felt at that point, which made him smile devilishly as he brought his mouth closer to your ear. ‘’of course you are.’’ he said, nibbling your earlobe gently, his hot breath gave you goosebumps all over, feeling him grope your back to get rid of the bra, and soon the piece was on the bedroom floor and your firm breasts were in full and total contact with his chest as the two of you began kissing again urgently.

and alex chose not to waste time, just pulling your panties to the side and making you sink down on him while your mouths were still attached, losing himself inside you and making you feel every pulsating inch invading you in one single thrust.

‘’fuck, alex…’’ you caught your lip between your teeth, arching your back a little, feeling his hand on your lower back while the other massaged one of your breasts, trapping the nipple between his index finger and thumb, giving your extra stimulation.

it didn't take long for you to place your feet on the floor, feeling alex squeeze your waist as you moved up and down, as if with each thrust you felt him even deeper, you were trying to concentrate on each stimulus and trying not to forget how to breathe. alex was also in the same state, even more so when every time he opened his eyes he was faced with the sight of you bouncing on his lap constantly, your breasts seemed to bounce like two large tennis balls as the chair was making an annoying squeaking sound.

he wasn't expecting you to use your best trick so soon when you were on top of him, so he completely lost his train of thought when he felt you rolling in his lap while he was fully inside of you and the tip of his cock was brushing on your cervix. it was slow and provocative, which made him place both hands on your waist and suck the air tightly between his teeth.

‘’that's right, love... you love doing this, don't ya’? you know how fuckin’ crazy i go when you do that.’’ alex murmured as he pulsed hard inside of you, twitching as his nails digged on your skin, which stimulated you even more, pressing your fingers on his shoulders as you’re getting more wet. ‘’such a little devil.’’ he said through his teeth, leaving a hickey on your neck that made you roll your eyes before giving a cheeky smile.

‘’i'd be lying if i said i didn't know.’’ you answered, feigning such an innocence that didn't go unnoticed by him, which made him decide that now he wanted to have control. he wanted to tease you the same way you did to him. he wanted to make you beg for more.

‘’i want to fuck you on all fours. now.’’ he said in a serious tone when your lips brushed against his. you felt the authoritarian tone from afar, and oh, how much you loved this side of alex, especially now when he’s so turned on, determined to have his way with you.

turner grabbed your thighs from below with both hands, not daring to pull out for a second, getting up from the chair and turning around only to throw you on the bed, his free hands now pulling his pants and underwear down so that he wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible, kicking it out when it reached his ankles. you loved seeing his desperation, the desire sparkling in his barely blinking eyes.

‘’turn around, ass up.’’

you turned around, your body was partially lying on the bed, your breasts were slightly compressed by the mattress, while your belly and ass were a little higher, your spine was arched to the maximum. alex loved the view he had as he crawled across the bed, parting your legs a little so the angle was perfect for him.

‘’look at you…’’ alex said in a purr, imitating your speech when he saw that the roles were reversed, and obviously he wasn't going to miss the opportunity to tease you a little since you were in that position, so vulnerable and so thirsty for him. ‘’you seem so desperate.’’ he let out an ironic laugh through his nose, letting his hands slide down thighs, a naughty smile appeared on his lips when you grunted something that he didn't understand because you were so numb.

his fingers caught the elastic of your panties, sliding the underwear down to your knees and you finished taking them off in one quick act, throwing it away. he drew random patterns on the hot skin of your right buttock with his index finger, leaving a few kisses there, and then that same finger invaded your wet hole in an easy glide, making you bury your face in the sheet, breathing deeply and smelling the faint aroma of one of the countless rose petals scattered across the bed that was dangerously close to your nose.

alex took his sweet time, loving the scene of you holding his wrist while he continued moving his index finger until it reached the knuckle of his hand, and soon his middle finger slided in, doing rapid movements that made you writhe like a true acrobat in bed.

‘’oh, fuck, yes, yes!’’ you moaned, feeling a hard slap on the other buttock that he made a point of hitting with his open palm to leave the mark, the burning feeling sending tingles all over your body. you gripped his wrist, feeling his breath hitting the middle of your back, trailing a few kisses to her shoulder. ‘’you love torturing me like this, don't you?’’ you said amid another groan, turning your face a little closer to get a glimpse of him, his left hand strummed on the side of you waist as if he were playing a piano.

‘’mhmm, it's my favorite pastime, darlin’. i love hearing you moan like that for me.’’ he bit your bottom lip, sinking his two calloused fingers once again inside you only to see you roll your eyes. ‘’and i really want to fuck you now.’’ he continued, increasing the pressure a little so that he could hear you panting with each thrust, his digits massaging your spongey spot.

‘’and what are you waiting for?’’ you asked, your eyes glued to his, especially when he took his two wet fingers out of you and put them in your mouth to make you taste yourself, savoring it as if it were your favorite lollipop, licking his fingers without breaking the visual contact. you definitely knew how to wake up his demons.

still without breaking eye contact, you felt his cock slide up and down your folds in a slow provocation, you knew he still wanted to prolong the torture a little longer, he was so thirsty to hear you beg for him that he just slide the tip on your hole, pushing just a little and pulling out, sliding it back over your clit, tapping it to cause minimal friction that made you close your legs a little and clench your empty hole around nothing.

‘’fuck, don’t do that to me, love.’’ you let out a whine, moving your hips towards him a little just so you could feel him enter a little more, and then he moved back, listening to her cries.

‘’what do you want, baby? tell me.’’

‘’i want y-you.’’ you said in a whimper, trying to get a hold of his hip.

‘’you already ‘have me, sweetheart.’’ he tutted. he knew what you wanted, but he wanted you to say it.

‘’y-your cock. i want it. please, just…’’ you swallowed hard, feeling frustrated with how much you wanted him to fuck you until pass out.

‘’just what?’’

‘’fuck me, alex, just fuck me, i need-’’

he didn't let you finish your sentence, sliding inside of you in one deep thrust, making you moan loudly as you felt every inch of him filling you at once.

alex took a deep breath, both hands holding the flesh of her buttocks, keeping it spreaded as he went back and forth slowly but with the right pressure until he bottoms out. you felt the strands of his gelled hair tickling your cheek and his warm chest pressed against your back for a few seconds when he made those slow movements.

‘’al, please…’’ you whispered, so cockdrunked that you can’t even think straight. ‘’the condom. take it off.’’

‘’you sure?’’ alex asked. the condom was something rare when you had sex, but still alex always wanted to make sure you wanted to go with or without it, always respecting your wishes.

‘’y-yes, please, i want you to come inside me, please…’’ you said in a plea, you’re so desperate to feel him filling you up that you didn't care about the consequences.

alex kissed your cheek, pulling out quickly just to remove the condom of his cock, penetrating you again with such ease, hissing at the feeling of your wet and warm walls wrapping around him, making it difficult to hold on for longer.

‘’faster…’’ you said eagerly, opening your eyes again to look at him, rolling your hips around a little more when you felt him buried deep inside of you, lost in a deep devotion that he even forgot how to breathe with those thirsty eyes staring at him and his slender body, begging for greater friction as you dictated the movements that made him lose consciousness.

turner smirked, gathering a handful of your hair in his right hand, pulling with enough force to make you bend your head back, forcing you to now support the rest of your body with your arms stretched out and your hands resting on the mattress, your head fell back enough so that your sweaty forehead touched the tip of his chin.

you couldn’t stop panting and moaning like crazy when you began to feel his movements gain more speed and more pressure, making you feel his cock so hard and with such perfection that you could even say that you were feeling the veins of his cock pulsing inside of you. the sound of your sweaty bodies colliding could not be overshadowed by the music that was still playing on the speaker, nor by your loud moans, as you were no longer ashamed to show him how much you were loving every second of it.

‘’that’s it, love. scream for everyone to hear how good i'm fucking you right now.’’ alex hissed as he moved his head to the side so he could place his cheek against yours, his fist closed tighter against your hair and his other hand snuggled firmly into the skin on your waist, his movements were increasingly intense and you felt like you’re literally going to explode.

‘’holy fuck, ‘m so close, please…’’ you bit your lip as your eyeballs turned white, trying to hold on as much as you could, but it was impossible when turner was massacring you with his movements, making your legs literally wobbly to the point that you couldn't support your body on the bed, but you would never ask him to stop what he was doing.

‘’mhmm, cum for me, baby. cum on my cock while i fuck you just the way you like.’’ he ordered, placing a kiss on the corner of your mouth, feeling you clenching hard around him. he knew this was a low blow from you, but he loved the way you squeezed his cock and made him dizzy.

you joined the clenching movements with a few more rolls, now it was he who felt like he was going to explode, continuing with the movements to his limit, closing his eyes and letting a broken moan escape every now and then that was not heard due to the sound of his hips clashing against your ass that echoed throughout the room.

‘’i’m fucking close, p-please…’’ you cried, feeling a knot on your stomach.

‘’me too, darling. cum with me, c’mon.’’ he muttered, already feeling the spasms through his body.

the climax arrived for both of you at the same time, followed by racing hearts, muscles tensing more and involuntary tremors. you felt your nerve endings like little electrical circuits, dissipating shocks throughout your body as you felt him pulsing inside you, coating your walls with his hot seed.

alex had to try very hard to keep you both in the same position, wanting to prolong as much as possible the feeling of bodies vibrating in ecstasy, your insides seemed to be much more cozy with the small contractions you were still doing. he let out one last long moan followed by a deep breath before opening his eyes and coming back to reality.

‘’wow. that was fucking awesome.’’ you were the first to speak up, hearing him laugh into your neck, pulling his soft cock out of you, taking a look at his cum running down your thighs, dripping onto the bed sheets before you could lie on your side so you could regulate your breathing.

‘’i swear, you're going to kill me one day, y/n.’’ he replied, seeing you laugh amidst your flushed face and smudged lipstick. and you were still as beautiful as at the beginning of the night in that red dress and under impeccable makeup.

‘’come here.’’ you called him with you finger, seeing him drag his body a little to lie down next to you, letting his hand go around you waist as he pulled you closer, looking at you with a silly and passionate smile, fitting his face into the crook of your sweaty neck, loving the texture of your shivered skin against his face. ‘’do you like the gift? maybe i won't be able to walk properly tomorrow, but... it was from the bottom of my heart.’’

‘’i loved it, babe. it could not ‘ave been better.’’ he responded with a laugh, removing his face from your neck to look at you again, not holding back from wanting to kiss every inch of your tired and satisfied face, which had a lazy smile after such an intense sex. he held your face, squeezing your cheeks a little so that you could make a pout with your lips and he could kiss you there countless times. ‘’still owe you a gift though.’’

‘’no need to, honey. i’m totally satisfied.’’

‘’bullshit. you can't expect that the only thing i have to offer you is my cock.’’ you giggled, your face was still flushed and his thumb ghosted over your parted lips. you didn't demand anything from alex, but still, he insisted on giving you the whole world if he could.

‘’do you know what would be very good now?’’ you asked, your voice a little choked up as you were still feeling the pressure on your cheeks and his kisses on your lips. he chuckled, letting go of your face for a few seconds so you could speak normally.

“a round two?” he asked mischievously, seeing you laugh a little lazily.

“i was going to suggest a slice of cheesecake.” you replied, laughing even more when he pouted, dramatizing an expression of sadness. “but a second round is not out of my plans for tonight. and neither did a third.”

“oh, you're a thunderstorm.” he laughed, kissing you again amidst a caress and the thought that he loved you more than he could measure. “a slice of cheesecake now and as many rounds as you want later, what do you think?”

you smiled widely at him, knowing that was an offer you would never refuse as you kissed him again at the sound of yet another slow song echoing through the bedroom.

#alex turner smut #alex turner x reader #alex turner fanfic #alex turner #alex turner fluff #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x you #doctor says

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wntrs0ldier · 11 months ago

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AN OFFER II · 05

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 3,3k warnings: mafia, language, violence (graphic descriptions), minor character death, mature themes, dark themes, angst, smut, toxic behavior, blood and injury, abuse and sexual abuse, hurt/comfort,

Taking his eyes off you, Bucky turned to Sam. “Go get Clint,” he ordered, his voice — just like his stare — lacking a particular tone; it was emotionless, perhaps with a hint of cooling anger, the seed of which got there completely naturally. Then he looked at Steve, his jaw clenched again. “Get her out of here.”

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The exhibition, crowning the last few months of your work, was going surprisingly well for something you had initially occupied yourself with just to pass the time.

It all started with Bucky’s absence and now he was there — keeping his hand on your lower back, stroking it in a comforting manner, he made you forget about all the things that could go wrong. You watched some people admiring the artwork you’ve collected, exchanged some words, shook some hands, and Bucky didn't leave your side for a second.

At some point, Tracy appeared right next to you, touching your shoulder to get your attention. “There’s a call from Connie. She couldn’t reach your phone, so she called the gallery. I put her through to your office.”

Your friend, whom you had fortunately dissuaded from the idea of using her leave to attend the exhibition, was currently enjoying her free time on a real vacation. It certainly would have been nice to have her around, but it wasn't worth it; besides, you had solid support coming from not only your husband, but also Steve, Sam and Clint.

“Thanks,” you said, and when Tracy left, you turned to Bucky to hand him your glass with the wine you haven’t had the chance to finish. “I'll be back in a few minutes. An hour tops,” you informed, smirking.

The corner of Bucky’s mouth quirked up. “Sure. Got any knives I could juggle?” He raised his eyebrows. “You know, to entertain your guests.”

You sized him up, your eyes narrowed. “Do you really know how to juggle..?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged casually. “I can show you somewhere a little more private.”

“Oh, shut up,” you laughed, smacking his shoulder.

Bucky’s mouth stretched into a much wider smile as your laugh reached his ears. “I’ll be waiting here,” he promised. Still grinning, you cupped his face and kissed him, then went to the stairs.

Having hurried into your office, you got to the phone. “Connie?” you spoke with undisguised excitement.

“Hi, babe,” Connie giggled. “How’s the exhibition? How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, the exhibition is fine…” you sighed, resting your free hand on the desktop. “I have a lot of buyers, actually. It's better than I thought.”

“Is one of those buyers your filthy rich husband?” she asked, and if she was here, right beside you, she would probably pinch you teasingly.

A bright smile came to your lips. “He’s banned from doing that, and is here only for support.”

“That’s really great,” when you heard that, you also heard her smile fade away. “I'm sorry I can't be there for you.”

“Oh, come on, Connie. We talked about this. You deserve a rest, especially from those uptight bankers.”

Connie said something else, but you got distracted by the sound of the door opening. You looked over your shoulder, and to your surprise, saw Adrian.

“Y/N? Can you hear me?”

“Uh, Connie? I’ll call you back, okay?” Without waiting for your friend's answer, you hung up the phone. “Can I help you..?” you asked flatly, turning to Adrian.

“Have you made a decision? About Paris?”

Your eyebrows rose; you secretly hoped that Adrian would eventually use his common sense, and as a result, realize how ridiculous the idea was. “I told you already. I can’t come to Paris with you.”

In a moment of weakness it crossed your mind that, perhaps, you should agree for the sake of the gallery. But Bucky was right — you couldn't sell Adrian your time; not when he was pushing the limits that way, treating you like an object he could do whatever he liked with.

“You are making a mistake. Big mistake,” he stated slowly, and just as slowly covered the space between the door and the desk.

You understood that you were just a woman — a fragile, weak woman, left alone with an offended man; the only thing in that room more fragile than you was only Adrian's pride. And yet, when he approached you, you didn't even flinch, didn’t take your stern gaze off him.

“Are you sure, Y/N?” he questioned, giving you the last chance to change your mind. “Are you sure what you are doing? You are rejecting the opportunity of a lifetime. And it will cost you a lot. Can you afford it?”

He grabbed your forearm rapidly. Twisting it, turning your body, stiff and paralyzed with sudden panic, he pushed you, then pressed against the desk. The moment you collided with the hard surface, the air abruptly spilled out of your lungs, leaving you breathless, and the hit your chin took from crashing onto the desktop cut your bottom lip open; the rusty taste of blood settled on your tongue.

One of Adrian's hands, which had wrapped around your forearm earlier, moved to the nape of your neck and pressed your torso down to the glass surface; his legs pinned your thighs to the edge, at the same time opening them for easier access. His other hand struggled with the fabric of your dress until it finally gave in and chose to betray you with a deep rip on the side.

“Adrian,” you grated, your breath heavy as you unsuccessfully tried to fight back, “get the fuck off me.”

“Stand still, bitch,” he hissed, pressing your body even harder. You were losing your breath again, since your chest didn't have enough room. “And shut up.”

Struck by the sudden return of panic spreading at an alarming speed, you became numb when Adrian lifted your dress. His sickeningly cold and wet hands, touching your skin directly, without any additional layers protecting your body, turned your stomach sick.

Until that moment, you were clinging to the hope that you could get out of it, or that Adrian would come to his senses. But now, it didn't appear that either of those things were going to happen; Adrian was going to get his way, he was going to take something from you, to break you.

Despite the shock of realizing what your fate would be, you swept your hand over the desktop to scan the area. In the process, you knocked down the phone, which Adrian considered to be continued attempts to fight, and eventually found something that, judging by its shape, was a stapler — an useless tool. A moment later, your hand felt something thin and oblong. A pen. Without much thought, you clenched it tightly in your palm and, pushed by adrenaline, blindly slammed your weapon into whatever happened to be behind you. All you knew was that it went in deep.

Adrian let out a loud, inhuman noise. The pressure of his hold loosened enough that you were able to break free. You darted to the door, and when you opened it, you ran into Bucky standing on the other side, clashing with his body. With your heart beating painfully fast, you lifted your gaze to him — your eyes still carried terror and distress, but there was a little room for relief as well.

In Bucky's case, it was different. With his forehead creased and his lips parted in devastation at what he had in front of him, he examined you closely — the ripped dress, the broken shoulder strap, the cut lip. His mouth snapped shut in a hard line, his jaw clenched so tightly that you could easily see that familiar twitch below his cheekbone, his nostrils flared. And although just a moment ago his eyes expressed so much — helplessness, fear, disbelief, disappointment — in a split second they became cold, dead. They passed you, as if you weren’t there anymore, and switched to Adrian.

Adrian looked around in a frantic search for an escape route, but the only exit from the office was blocked by you and Bucky.

Having placed his hands on your arms, Bucky moved you carefully to the side, then made his way to Adrian. You immediately looked over your shoulder, and the rest of your body followed.

“Hey, man, let’s talk-”

Bucky rammed into Adrian, and the kick that reached his stomach was charged with force so powerful that the man crashed into the cabinet standing against the wall. There was glass splattered everywhere — it came from the cabinet door, and from broken bottles; a few pieces cut Adrian's skin harmlessly, although it would have been better for him if one had killed him instantly. Bucky didn't wait for his target's reaction; he got on top of him, and, heedless of protests, pleas or pathetic screams, punched him in his face. Again, and again, and again.

“Stop. Please, don’t-” Adrian managed to choke out. He tried to defend himself, but was unable to block Bucky's blows, driven by tremendous power and speed. “I can pay you! I can pay you a-”

To Bucky, his words meant nothing, his money worth nothing. What really mattered to him — what kept replaying in his head, boiling the blood in his veins, steering him to the only possible ending — was the fact that some man, no matter who he was or how much he had to offer, hurt his wife. He touched her. He touched in a way that made her too terrified to even cry.

With each repeated punch, a little blood sprinkled out — Lancy spit and choked with it, coughing and screaming, but Bucky still didn't pay the slightest attention to it; he stopped feeling his own hand — the pain spread through his metacarpus at first, but that soon went numb — instead, he felt Adrian's bones break and crumble under his fist; he felt his nose snapping, his jaw cracking, his cheekbones collapsing. He felt only that; no shame, no regret, no remorse. Why should he, when none of these things were shown to you?

Bucky did what he had to do — he beat the life out of Adrian Lancy with his bare hands. But to Bucky, he was no Adrian, no young investor with a bright future. He was a scumbag that attacked his wife and before that, put her on a short leash.

Breathing hard and slowly, Bucky stood up. For another brief moment he stared at the lifeless body, feeling a little less disgust. Despite the fact that instead of his face, Adrian now had a bloody, still steaming hole, he no longer evoked such disgust in Bucky.

He turned around. Blood covered his hands, especially the right one; crimson specks now decorated his face and his white shirt. You didn't feel the slightest need to run away, and if any shiver ran through your body, it was a shiver of admiration, of delight.

You didn't know when exactly, but at some point Steve and Sam showed up; Steve stood right next to you, Sam stayed somewhere behind your back.

You've lost track of time; you haven't checked it once since you and Bucky separated. Staring stubbornly, and without any purpose, at the darkness outside the bedroom window, you stood frozen, numb, wearing his t-shirt, that wrapped around you like a safe embrace.

Your skin was still aching from the almost burning water and excessive rubbing — you tried to deeply wash off Adrian’s scent and touch, but you could’ve sworn you still felt him. His smell — unpleasantly strong, hitting your nostrils aggressively — lingered in the air, and his hands, cold, sweaty, driven by evil intentions, remained on your body. A repulsive tingling plagued the places where he touched you, making you sick.

The door opened carefully, letting in some warm light from the corridor. You turned away from the window; Bucky entered the room, and then, keeping his eyes on you, came closer with a cautious step. And this time he scrutinized your figure intently.

In contrast to his shirt, there was no trace of blood on his face or hands. He washed it away along with the memory of that man, so it wouldn't clutter his mind. Instead, he knew that he would never forget that he had failed you; that he should have protected you better.

Without any words, you started unbuttoning his shirt; your fingers worked quickly and smoothly — you, too, wanted as soon as possible to get away from everything that reminded you of the events of a few hours earlier. When you were done, and the shirt tails opened, showing Bucky's tensed stomach muscles, you cupped his face and pulled him in for a kiss. By instinct, he placed his hands on your hips and pressed his body against yours, his tongue slid into your mouth, and despite your lip stinging, you eagerly accepted it, meeting it with yours. You already knew the way you could wash Adrian off you.

Bucky bent his knees to lower himself a bit; he moved his hands under your ass to lift you, causing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He walked to the bed and sat down; Bucky, as well, was fully aware of what you needed.

He laid down, pulling you with him — without breaking away from his lips, relishing the taste of the man who had done something so thrilling for you, to the point of intoxication, you began rubbing against his crotch. Both of you breathed heavily into each other's mouths as your core, now wet and throbbing with desire, grinded on Bucky's bulge. But it wasn't enough — you needed him inside you, immediately.

You backed away just enough to be able to unzip his pants. He raised his hips, lifting you along with them, in order to slip his pants lower. At that moment, neither of you thought about taking the time to remove all your clothes; it was only about gratification, about forgetting, about pleasure.

You rose, wrapped your hand around his engorged cock and guided it to your entrance, then sank down on it slowly, a quiet, breathy moan leaving your lips. At first, Bucky looked at you with concentration, as if making sure you could handle it without his help, and when he got the proof, he relaxed slightly. Feeling your pussy swallow more and more of his cock, he groaned, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, but soon returned his gaze to you. He had to — there was nothing that could draw him away from the pleasure of watching you.

You grabbed the ends of the t-shirt you were wearing and stripped it off. Seeing your body almost in all its glory, feeling it on his own, Bucky pressed his lips together, the devotion and worship visible in his stare only deepened.

Now, it was you who had the control you so badly needed to regain; you needed to regain yourself, and that's what seemed to be the best way to do it. Bucky's dick was plunging into you with your every move, penetrating you, hitting that sweet spot just right, but it was you who was fucking him. The bliss overpowered you enough that, forgetting the previous damage, you sank your teeth into your bottom lip. Bucky kept looking at you — your face overtaken by delight, your body moving up and down, the way you were riding him flawlessly — and the view alone would have been enough to make him cum.

Lifting his torso off the mattress, Bucky sat up. Your back arched as you propped your hands somewhere behind, your hips rolling in circles. Bucky slid his tongue between your breasts up to your neck, leaving a wet trail on your skin. With his hand supporting the back of your head, his mouth traveled all over your face and jaw, dropping sloppy kisses.

Sensing some weakness creeping into the dynamic you had set up, Bucky returned on the mattress, taking you with him. And you let him, knowing it would be worth it.

“Take my hand,” he whispered between heavy gasps. You followed his request without a second thought; the hand that only a few hours before had brought death was now holding yours. His fingers, intertwined with yours, reminded you that he was here for you; fully consciously, voluntarily, not just to satisfy some animal needs.

Bucky's spare arm embraced your back, pressing you as tightly as possible to his body. His hips began to move fast but not violently, he was moaning softly, pumping his cock into your cunt. It was hard for you to concentrate on anything other than that delicious sensation of being filled like that — your brain was melting, making you nothing more than a body to fuck, but the same brain told you to look at Bucky. So you looked at his lips, parted, swollen, in that familiar deep shade of pink they had turned from biting, and finally decided to occupy them with yours, devouring his warm, plush mouth.

The space between you, if such a thing had any right to exist, was filled with Bucky's loud breaths and grunts, your soft whines and his name — the sweet promise that you belonged to him only.

Bucky went still, letting out an interrupted whimper. A single, strong shiver ran through his body, his seed filled you up. When his mind regained a small percentage of sobriety, he continued thrusting into you. You straightened up to the sitting position, but still held tightly to Bucky’s hand. The tension building in your stomach released — orgasm shook your body, sending it into strong spasms, throwing your head back, squeezing only a heavy exhale out of your lungs.

Bucky looked up at you; he admired your jawline, your arched neck, the blue gemstone of the chain he gave you hanging in the middle of your collarbones, the single drop of sweat running down between your breasts. You were the most beautiful creation he had a chance to experience.

You gazed at him too, tears shimmered in your eyes, one of them dropped unexpectedly on Bucky's chest.

He furrowed, and, gripped by a burning panic and worry looming over, sat up; one of his hands was instantly on your cheek, the other brushed a few strands of hair away from your face. “It’s okay,” Bucky said softly. Sniffling, you nodded, the tears still streaming down your cheeks. “It’s okay…” he repeated more to himself, his eyes studying your face nervously, helplessly. With his thumb, he quickly wiped off another teardrop that escaped from your eye, then leaned closer and kissed away a new one, the salty taste smeared on his lips.

“Nothing-” you sobbed, then took a deep, shuddering breath. “Nothing like this has ever happened to me,” you choke out. Bucky's jaw clenched, his eyes filled with sadness. Nothing like this has ever happened to you, and now that you were his wife, it did. On his watch. He was convinced that the blame lay with him, but he didn't admit it out loud — he wasn't going to make a victim of himself, all that mattered was you. “I shouldn't have let him-”

“No,” Bucky interrupted you strongly. He looked you in the eye. “It's not your fault, Y/N. You hear me?”

In response, you only sniffled again, dropping your gaze. “You told me something like this could happen. And I didn't listen.”

“Hey,” he said to get your attention, his voice gentle, but you didn't have the courage to bring your eyes back to his. Yet, with his hands on your cheeks, he made you look up at him. “Don’t do that. That fucker had no right to touch you even with his finger. That’s not on you.”

You weren't sure about that — your mind wasn't in a place that would allow you to believe Bucky's assurances. The wounds were still too fresh, the memories too vivid. However, one thing you were sure of; you had washed Adrian off of you. Bucky's scent clung to your skin, but your body was also marked with his sweat, his spit, his cum.

You started crying all over again — you needed this kind of purification. Bucky got that, so he wrapped his arms around you and pressed to his chest. “You’re safe now,” he whispered, stroking your hair.

a/n: feel free to share your thoughts, they are more than welcomed 🥰

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throneofsapphics · 11 months ago

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old faces, part eight

Rowaelin x f!Reader

Summary: you and Rowan meet again after seven years, and deal with the fall-out of a secret.

Warnings: mentions of death, drinking

Word Count: ~5.6k

A/N: i’m not too sure about this one, but here it is!

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The sun shifted, light hitting you directly in the eyes. You groaned, throwing your arm over your head. Disentangling yourself from your sheets … not your sheets, the one on your bed at the castle.

Lurching forward in bed, a pounding headache set in, and not alcohol induced this time.

The hungry look in Aelin’s eyes. Rowan’s hands on your face, your hips, in your hair. Aelin’s hand running over your shoulder, down your arm. Soft lips, canines grazing over your neck, whispers in your ear …

You slammed your palm into your forehead, like you might shake the memory out - or reverse it.

Was it a bad idea? Probably.

Did you want it to happen again? Yes.

Should it? No.

You debated all of the possible reactions to last night’s events.

Pretend it didn’t happen? That wouldn’t work.

Hide out in the staghorns for the rest of your days? First, Ceri. Second, they might be concerned and come looking.

Tell them it shouldn’t happen again? The most ‘mature’ reaction, but the most terrifying one to you. The next few weeks would be busy, and with a little luck you could limit encounters, and have time to find the courage to say what you needed to.

“Don’t run away in the morning.”

Like you’d run all those years ago. Was that what he meant? You’d run to keep yourself safe. But now … you’re struggling to grapple with a reason why that shouldn’t change. Everything was different now, and that meant you should react differently. Gods, it felt like your life was full of ‘shoulds.’ Everything you should, should have, and should not. If you could kill a word and bury it deep under, that would be the target.

Pounding on the bedroom door. You’d been distracted enough you hadn’t sensed or scented anyone coming - but it was Ceri and Evangeline, and sure enough the door swung right open. The older girl had an apologetic look on her face as Ceri nearly sprinted in, jumping right up on your bed, flopping down on her back.

You sent her what you hoped was a reassuring smile, and she only grinned back, telling the two of you she’d see you at breakfast. A nice way of informing her she was expected.

“How was your night,” you prompted your daughter, and was treated to a full recounting of events. It took your mind off of the end to your night - or the beginning of your morning, and her joy was infectious. Listening attentively, you found yourself drawn into her story.

“We jumped over a massive fire, taller than you!”

“That’s impressive.”

She nodded, “it was all magic.”

“It was,” you added, smoothing out some of her hair.

A few hours later, another pounding on the door - not the bedroom one this time. Swinging it open, it was him. Instantly, your face turned bright red. His mouth quirked at one corner.

“Aelin’s still asleep,” he looked past you to see Ceri, grinning at him but not moving. An orange fluff ball was on her lap. Fleetfoot ran past him, running over to greet the two.

“I’m glad they get along,” you said, as Halle jumped down, and the two went past them, probably to try and find someone to slip them bits of meat. Whenever you were here, so was Halle. Even if they tried, they couldn’t keep her away.

Rowan was also treated to a full recounting of the previous night's events, something you tried hard to pay attention to - very intentionally not looking at him. Had he come to make sure you hadn’t run away? At least that meant they still wanted you here.

Rowan was a bit surprised you were still there in the morning. He’d not expected, necessarily, but was fully prepared for you to disappear. Just like before. That wasn’t fair of him, not at all, but it didn’t stop the unwanted thought from popping in. You could barely look at either of them, as expected.

Still, nothing seemed awkward throughout the breakfast - if you could call it that, the sun was already bright overhead. Aelin looked like, and had, just rolled out of bed. He debated what time to come knock on your door, but turns out someone beat him to it. Apparently she’d woken you up around nine, when the majority of the castle was still sleeping off the night before. You’d smiled fondly at her as she told everyone, before ruffling her hair.

He found himself scanning the table. Their friends, and court, all in one place. Generally it resulted in some level of chaos, but he didn’t mind it. In four days, guests would start flooding in, and he relished in the temporary peace.

Five months ago, they’d first brought up the ball to you. In the time that passed, you’d started your work as an advisor, and it had been invaluable. Although once word fluctuated to the librarians, they’d stolen plenty of your time with help for research.

Too much of it, once they’d noticed the absolute exhaustion, Aelin had a little chat with them. Well, Ceri had brought it up first. Never giving any hint that you’d neglected her somehow - Rowan knew you wouldn’t - just that you weren’t sleeping as much, that you’d stay up half the night with books. Your daughter had always been skilled at sneaking around, and she’d only gotten better.

“Ceri told me you spoke to the librarians,” you said casually, glancing up from the papers you were studying. “You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.”

Aelin snorted, “they’d run you down to the bone if you let them.”

You would be ‘on-call’ during the week of meetings, but not ‘required’ to attend them, like the rest of the court advisors.

It happened this year several countries outside of Erilea would attend. That was confirmed before your arrival in Orynth, but Ceri’s appearance - and your own, would add an extra layer of interest. Anyone with two eyes could see who Ceri was related to, and he wouldn’t deny her anyway.

He’s certain people know of her by now, but seeing and knowing are two very different things. He hated it, but it would be good to note who asked too many questions, and everyone in the castle already knew what to listen out for, and that was one item on the list.

Now that Beltane was over, there were several days of different kinds of preparations to do. Ones that were much less enjoyable.

Ceri was staying for another few nights, but after breakfast you managed to slip away, with Fenrys, before he or Aelin could catch up to you.

“Tell me what happened last night,” Fenrys demanded as you walked through the door.

“We’re supposed to be working,” you tried to deflect, failing miserably.

“I can’t do that until I figure out why you’re so …”

“So what?” you hissed

“Skittish.” Fenrys raised his brows, arms crossing over his chest, daring you to disagree. Unfortunately, you couldn’t. With an overdramatic groan, you collapsed back onto the couch. “That bad?” He took the seat across from you.

“No,” you closed your eyes. This might be easier to say if you don’t look at him. “Aelin and Rowan kissed me,” it came out barely above a whisper.

“And how do you feel about it?” He asked, and you peeked your eyes open. His expression was carefully neutral, giving away nothing.

“Conflicted,” you answered honestly.

“Was it not enjoyable?” A bit of amusement slipped into his tone. If you told him that - it would be a lie, and it would get back to them - he wouldn’t be able to resist making fun of them for it. Maybe if that happened … they’d be inclined to come prove you wrong.

No. no. no.

“That’s not it,” your hand ran over your face. “It just can’t happen again.”

“Why?”

“You’re nosy today.”

He snorted, “it’s my default.”

“Fair enough.”

“You weren’t supposed to agree,” his eyes rolled before his expression slipped back into neutrality. Unfortunately, he didn’t give up. “Why?”

He stayed silent during the long moments you attempted to put words to it. “It’ll make things … messy. Complicated.”

“Simple is boring.”

“It’s easy. Maybe that’s what I want.”

“The fact that you said ‘maybe,’ proves that wrong.”

“What about Ceri? This is probably strange enough for her already”

“She’s a kid.”

“Exactly.”

“So she’ll adapt. Are you scared she’ll ask if you’re special friends again?” You laughed, it wasn’t that funny, in fact the idea of it was horrifying, but it was enough to make you loosen up.

Once you’d calmed down, Fenrys kept opening his mouth. “It’s obvious you all want each other. Why would you deny yourself?

That damn word again. Are you going to deny her? Are you going to deny him? Your toxic thoughts chose a fantastic time to resurge. Maybe you were nothing more than a way to pass time, a temporary reprieve to their boredom. Something to get out of their system. The mere thought left you feeling dirty, made your skin crawl. You didn’t know if you were capable of seeing them in that light.

“Maybe I'm a masochist,” you finally responded.

“I don’t know what to do,” she told Lys, collapsing back onto the couch. Twelve hours ago, you’d been here with her.

“That’s a new one,” Lysandra grinned. “About the kiss?” Aelin scowled, and flipped her off. She hadn’t told her, hadn’t told anyone, but somehow the shifter figured it out and promised to keep it a secret.

“No,” she gritted her teeth. Although she was a bit lost on that one, something she could figure out with Rowan. One task at a time, she reminded herself. One gods-damned thing at a time.

First, get you a dress.

Second, figure out when she can kiss you again. They hadn’t expected you to fall right in with them, although it would’ve been nice. But, the last thing she wanted was to scare you off - and that meant patience.

Rubbing at her temples, she refocused herself. “On how to get her to go dress shopping.”

“What’s stopping her?” Aelin kept her mouth shut.

Definitely not something she’d be spreading around, she’d been trusted with that precious kernel of information. The main reason was to not betray her trust. But, even if you’d given your permission for her to share, she’d be reluctant to. A precious gift. One she’d want to keep to herself. Then again, Aelin had pissed several people off in the past for withholding information. What could she tell Lysandra without giving too much away? No matter what she said, it would imply something, and she refused to lie to her friend. Thankfully, before she could come up with an answer, Lysandra nodded in understanding.

“Should we ambush her? Take her out to one of the shops?”

“Catching her by surprise is our best shot,” Aelin paused, “but she’d hate being taken out into public like that.” She grinned at Lysandra, her plan already formed. Emerald green eyes twinkled in response.

You intended on having a slow morning. All of the work you wanted to accomplish for the week was done, and for once you had zero plans. Recently, keeping yourself busy seemed like the only reasonable way to keep your sanity. Two days ago you’d kissed them. They’d kissed you.

Maybe having zero plans was a bad idea.

Aelin’s thumb grazing over your lips. Rowan’s fingers sliding into your hair.

A loud meow snagged you out of the memories, and you mumbled a ‘thanks’ to Halle. At least nobody could witness you speaking to your cat, currently winding herself in between your legs. You leant down, scratching between her ears.

“What is it?” Yellow eyes stared up at you, before she darted towards the cabinet. “I know Ceri snuck you one this morning.”

Dried pieces of fish. Would stink up the house permanently, if you hadn’t a small box to contain the … stench. She wouldn’t stop staring, and you caved. A little bit of magic floated it, just high enough for her to lean up, snatch it, and dart off somewhere else.

Less than a year in Orynth, and it already felt like home. At first, it felt a bit like a betrayal to Antica - to the friends there who’d become family, but … someone could have multiple, you supposed. Part of you might always belong there, but another part was growing its roots in this city, and Ceri was flourishing. That always helped. Your ‘advisor’ role helped too, bringing a different kind of purpose and motivation. Maybe you weren’t ‘vital’ or ‘essential’ to the country, but you felt like you were helping - and that was enough.

A pulse from the wards showed visitors coming. The feel of their magic told you who, and your cheeks preemptively flushed. Glancing at the clock, Aelin was up early, for her. And dragged Lysandra with her. You didn’t have a good feeling about this.

The door creaked, and then swung open. Maybe you shouldn’t have told them if it isn’t warded, locked, or before eight in the morning, they could come right in. Still in the kitchen, you sighed and started making tea for them. Then, you’d figure out whatever Aelin’s plan is, and try to keep yourself from blushing every time you looked at her. Halle re-appeared, winding herself around your ankles.

Aelin wasn’t surprised you didn’t come meet them at the door. After all, you’d told all of them that if the wards didn’t keep them out, they could come right in. They’d all taken advantage of it one time or another - Fenrys, most of all.

“You’re up early,” you commented - water set to boil on the stove. Aelin, on instinct, quickened the process for you, flames heating it up. A flash of surprise, you glanced at the pot, before shooting her a smile. “Thank you,” you murmured.

“We’ve got things to do today,” she grinned, catching your eye.

You looked at her skeptically, before asking Lysandra, “should I be worried?”

Lysandra shrugged, and she jabbed her elbow into her ribs. At least you looked amused, rather than concerned. She waited to broach the topic until you were all seated.

Halle had hopped into your lap, and you sighed - but didn’t try to remove her. There was a barely detectable smell of fish coming from somewhere.

“Do you have a dress yet?” She already knew the answer.

“I don’t,” one hand stroked Halle's fur, but the cat was still tense - staring right at Aelin, as if she could read her mind. Maybe it was too early, because it felt vaguely like the cat was warning her. “Ines hasn’t stopped harping on about it, one of her cousins is a seamstress.”

“Who?” Aelin tilted her head, and you named the exact person she had in mind.

“She told me last night she already gave her my measurements,” you groaned, “and I agreed to meet her tomorrow afternoon.” Aelin’s heart dropped to her stomach.

“That’s wonderful,” Lysandra cut in, and your eyes darted between the two of them, bottom lip rolling between your teeth.

“It’ll be just me, here. If you’re not busy, I could use a friend or two with a good fashion sense.”

Friend.

“We volunteer,” Lysandra replied, “what time?”

“She’ll be here around two.”

Meetings for the morning, some of the final preparations, wrapped up at half past one. They’d be a bit late, but could still make it.

“Perfect timing.” Aelin noticed the cat finally settled.

The kindest way to put it, was you were a wreck the next morning. In fact, you drank several cups of tea designed to keep you calm, and it worked somewhat. Baking carob cookies helped too.

At least you knew the seamstress, Lya, from nights out. Unfortunately, she detected some of your nerves.

“I promise I’ll try not to jab you,” she grinned.

Laughing, you asked, “how much will I owe you?”

“I’d be willing to trade instead.” That worked fine for you.

Aelin and Lysandra showed up a quarter of an hour after her, and you were grateful they’d come. Their presence added excitement, instead of dread. They spoke eagerly to Lya, already familiar with her, about different colors, textures, designs, and you tried your best to keep on top of it.

Gold. That was the color you ended up deciding on, and a small gleam appeared in Aelin’s eyes at it. Sleeveless, gauzy and flowing, and a v neckline - bordering on the hint of modesty.

An hour later, you’d made it through unharmed. You ended up trading three amulets, and a ward to alert of anyone approaching. She tried to insist the ward itself was enough, but you’d refused. If you were exchanging actual cash value, it probably would even out. But, without knowing, she’d made you feel comfortable during it, calming any nerves, and that was worth much more to you.

Neither Aelin nor Lysandra commented, but they stayed with you until after the seamstress left. Just in time for Ceri to come home, her three friends in tow. The same friends she’d convinced to attend the local school with her, for the three days a week she went.

“They really are inseparable,” Lysandra commented as you watched them through the window, running right up the path. Ceri paused twenty paces away, and her eyes lit up, she knew who was here. Maybe she remembered Lya was coming today - and you always baked when guests came over.

The door swung open, and after a few quick hellos they breezed right into the kitchen where the sweets were.

“And I thought you were excited to see me,” Aelin called after them. Laughter, and then the sound of a box opening. It took a few months, but they always made themselves at home now - and you loved it.

Minutes later, they sprinted out into the back garden - going to check on the chickens. Lysandra made an excuse to leave, and it was just you and Aelin.

“More tea?” You asked, heading towards the kitchen. You needed something to do, because looking at her kept bringing back memories, and being alone with her was dangerous.

Aelin stood, and caught your wrist as you passed, calloused fingers closing around your skin. Knowing you’d probably regret it, you let her invade your space. Jasmine and lemon verbena. Her eyes met yours, before slowly scanning down your face - pausing on your lips, where your teeth bit almost painfully.

You were frozen in time and place, stuck and lost as her thumb tugged it free, before slipping between your lips. Your skin heated, heart quickening as you swirled your tongue around it. The smallest touch from her should not be doing this to you.

Hearing the back door open, you both separated, Aelin with a particularly feline grin.

It was Terrasen’s first time hosting, and Aelin was glad to see everyone gathering under different circumstances. Several people who’d been in Orynth during the battle were coming. Dorian, Manon, Chaol, Yrene, Ansel, Sartaq and Nesryn, a few of Rowan's cousins, and more.

The entourages from Adarlan, and the Witch Kingdom arrived first.

In the end, they had to tell Ceri Manon was coming, likely with Abraxos, and coached her several times on what not to say. For example; ‘Rowan tells me bedtime stories about you.’

Gods, part of Aelin hoped Ceri did say it - if only to see Manon’s reaction.

Still, her mind wandered to you. To that night. She’d only had that brief time alone with you, that moment when your eyes met hers, and she saw lust start to glaze over. The feeling of your tongue against her skin, the sound of your heart pounding, she wanted more. You were quickly becoming a sweet addiction.

They weren’t announcing you were Rowan’s ex-lover, but anyone with two brain cells would put the pieces together. Instead, you were an advisor to their Court, and Ceri’s mother.

It was probably one of the last things on everyone else's minds, but it was circling around in yours enough to cause a headache. Several headaches.

“I can do this,” you muttered, in front of the mirror. There wasn’t any other option.

“Do what?” Ceri asked, and you spun around to see her, lurking just outside of the door. She waited for you to answer.

“Meet all of these new people,” you answered honestly.

“I’m excited,” she grabbed your hand, tugging you away. “I’ll get to meet Manon,” she peered up at you, “do you think she’ll let me see Abraxos?”

“You’ll have to ask nicely,” you squeezed her hand. “And maybe wait until you know her a bit better, Wyverns aren’t pets.”

Ceri agreed, and you headed out. All you had to do was make it through dinner, and then you could overthink everything alone.

She’d been to Terrasen before - since the battle, but visiting with several others would be interesting. From the air, she’d spotted the memorial to her … to her thirteen. Although she didn’t come here often, each time she did it almost felt like she could feel their presence - could hear Asterin; “Live, Manon. Live.” With some difficulty, she let the memory slip from her mind. It never got easier with time.

Manon didn’t know what to make of Rowan’s child. The girl was perfectly polite, but kept sending her looks throughout the entire meal. Nothing rude, more like curious.

She didn’t seem afraid of anyone. Her mother, on the other hand … you’d been introduced at the beginning as an advisor to their court. A few others seemed to vaguely recognize your name.

“The child's mother,” she asked Dorian later on - keeping an ear open for anyone crawling around. “Who is she?”

“A specialist.”

Manon scowled, at the small smirk growing on his face. He was enjoying knowing something she didn’t. The King didn’t say anything further, waiting for her to keep asking.

“A specialist in what?” She hissed.

Shrugging his shoulder, he only responded when she shot him another glare. “Wards, enchanted objects, those types of things.” Mildly interesting, and she noted it for later. “Ceri couldn’t stop looking at you,” he commented.

“I’m aware.”

Manon couldn’t tell from where, but she felt eyes on her. Launching to her feet, she began to search around the room, and felt Dorian’s magic doing the same.

Then - soft paws, and a meow. An orange cat, bright yellow eyes, was staring at her. Not a shifter, and her body relaxed somewhat.

“Where did you come from?” she crouched down, holding her hand palm up. It, Manon tilted her head, she trotted over, her head rubbing against her hand. Too well taken care of to be a stray, but she supposed there were always mice to find.

She scented them first, then three knocks on the door. Dorian called them to come in, and Chaol, Yrene, and a good portion of Terrasen’s court followed.

Aelin stopped as she saw the cat, eyes widening in surprise.

“Halle,” she called, and the creature looked up.

“You have a cat?” Dorian asked, “how does Fleetfoot feel?”

“Fleetfoot loves her,” Aelin huffed, “and she’s not my cat.”

Sure enough, the cat spotted Yrene and bounded towards her - like greeting an old friend. “Or my cat,” Yrene said, but still bent down to scratch between its ears. “How did you end up all the way out here?” Another meow, and a purr.

“Yrene,” Chaol cleared his throat.

She glanced up at him, to find most of the room staring at her. “She’s part Baast cat, I didn’t know any lived outside of the Torre. “Or that they mixed with other kinds.”

“It’s almost like she knows you,” Aelin looked between them.

“Well, they’re certainly not normal cats. To offend one is to insult them all, it's best to stay on their good side.”

“She’s y/n’s cat,” Rowan finally said. With a swish of a fluffy tail, the creature trotted off through the still open door. Ceri’s mother is getting more interesting. “I should warn you,” he fixed his gaze on her, “Ceri’s recently -”

“It’s not recent,” Aelin interjected - and she ignored him,

“Become obsessed with Wyverns - and dragons.”

“And?” Manon pushed.

Aelin stalked over, and flopped down on the couch next to her. “We’re apologizing, in advance, for when she tries to badger you with questions.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t already,” Lysandra added, taking a seat across from them.

The subject changed after that, and a bottle of wine was brought. Manon supposed if she was stuck talking to anyone, this group wasn’t the worst option.

They couldn’t force you to, but had offered for you to come meet their friends, aware you’d probably decline. Aelin might consider them friends, but to you - you’d see rulers of different countries, a lot of which most people in Terrasen would never be in the same room as.

As expected, you turned down the offer and although she understood, Aelin couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed, even as she tried to imagine herself in your situation. Rowan came up with the idea to warn Manon, instead of having Ceri catch her off guard. It was a smart decision, but it would’ve been nice to see the Witch Queen surprised.

Gods, Aelin wanted you here - even felt like you’d belong. Aelin was waiting to see if you would be brought up, if someone would ask questions.

“Your friend,” Yrene asked carefully - not sure who to address, “y/n, she’s from Antica?”

“She lived there for a while,” Rowan answered.

“I thought she looked familiar.”

“Familiar?”

Yrene paused, her mouth tightening for the briefest moment - debating what to say. “Antica is busy - but I still remember faces.” Chaol’s hand covered her own, her friend smiling.

You didn’t come up again for the rest of the night.

Mind whirling, you tapped your foot incessantly against the carpet. Ceri was nearly asleep, Rowan finishing up a story. Likely, he had somewhere to be after this, and with a touch of luck he’d say a quick goodnight and walk right out the door.

Instead, he stopped, eyes tracking your movements. Your foot stilled.

“Nervous?” He asked, and took a seat next to you, still a healthy distance away. Shields of wind went up around the room, keeping nosy ears from listening.

“A bit,” you admitted - fixing your eyes on the wall. It wasn’t nearly as nice to look at as the male next to you.

“Look at me,” Rowan said rather gently.

You couldn’t. A few seconds passed.

“Look at me.” His words were more forceful, more demanding this time. “For fucks sake,” you heard him mutter, and his fingers closed around your jaw, turning your head. The grip didn’t hurt, but it was firm. He almost looked … worried.

“Rowan, I'm fine.”

Two fingers tapped together, he caught it. “Don’t lie to me.”

Shrugging out of his grip, you stood, one hand through your hair. “Fine. I’m a fucking wreck, is that better?” Squeezing your eyes shut, you forced the memories out, back into the past - where they needed to stay.

Grabbing your arm, he tugged you back down to sit. “Stay at the castle after.”

It wasn’t a question, and something you’d already agreed to do. The look in his eyes … as if he was saying it for his own reassurance.

Your throat bobbed, “I will.”

Rowan’s hand slid down your arm, stopping to squeeze your hand. “Good.”

The next morning, over breakfast, Ceri finally cracked.

“I’ve heard all about you,” she told Manon. In the rush of everyone getting seated, they hadn’t noticed she was directly across from the Witch.

Rowan braced himself.

“Really?” Manon paused, putting her fork back down and giving her full attention. Aelin may have killed all of the Gods, but he still prayed.

She hummed, “I want to be a Wyvern-rider,” he could tell she was holding her tongue - avoiding saying and a witch. She’d been very upset when they had to tell her Witches were born, not made.

“I can take you on Abraxos.” The entire table went silent.

“Absolutely -” Aelin started, he was still in shock that she'd even offered. He glanced at you, on Ceri’s right. Your shoulders had tensed, but you weren’t protesting.

“Yes please, that would be amazing,” eyes identical to his own lit up in pure joy and excitement.

Manon’s mouth briefly curled up at one corner, “then it’s settled.”

His eyes slid to you, again, at how your mouth had tightened. Rowan watched as Manon met your gaze, and you held her stare for a few moments, before nodding almost imperceptibly, before nudging your head towards him.

Wanting him to agree as well. Very briefly, you looked at him.

Ceri had tracked the silent conversation, and now stared at him with pleading eyes. Shit.

He looked at Manon instead - more like glowered, enough Aelin stomped on his foot.

A silent stare said; anything happens to her and I'll destroy you.

Manon rolled her eyes, but her mouth indented at the corner. Was he really about to trust her to take her daughter on a wyvern?

With you already agreeing, and Ceri likely to throw a fit if he disagreed, the decision was already made for him.

The next morning, at dawn, a small crowd gathered as Ceri trailed Manon, approaching Abraxos. You were on edge, and this was insane, but a dream came true for your daughter. Maybe it wasn’t entirely fair you left the final decision on Rowan, but in your defense Manon looked at you first.

You’d always been good at reading people, and animals, and this was the safest way possible. Plus, a hawk would be trailing them - wind prepared to slow her down if anything happened.

Abraxos seemed to like her, and Manon explained everything, answering all of her questions. Honestly it seemed to surprise everyone around you as well. It was all she’d talked about last night, and it took some convincing to get her to actually go to sleep.

You could’ve sworn little screams of joy were heard over the city as they did a loop around the castle and surrounding areas, a white tailed hawk trailing after them.

Ten minutes, but possibly the longest ten minutes of your life.

You fidgeted with your gown. Gold and elegant, Lya had really outdone herself. It was nothing like the last one, and you were grateful for it. Even then, part of you still wished your parents were here with you.

“There’s going to be several guards watching over Ceri, all night,” Fenrys said, appearing behind you in the mirror. He’d told you this before - probably dozens of times by now, like he needed to beat it into your head that you were allowed to enjoy yourself. Still, you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to tell another person about the last ball you went to.

“Aren’t you supposed to be down there?”

“I have a few minutes,” he glanced at the clock. “Don’t forget you have to be there too.”

“You won’t let me.”

After unnecessarily moving a pin around in your hair, you let Fenrys loop his arm through yours. “Remember to have fun. Remember you don’t belong to anyone.”

“Obviously,” you nudged him. “What are you trying to say?”

Voices started filling the hall, and he shot you a sly grin before merging both of you into the crowd.

Ceri glowed. She wasn’t introduced as a ‘princess,’ but a member of the royal household. You were well aware that several parts of the world still shunned children born out of wedlock - especially in Royal families, and seeing her up there made you proud. Proud of how high she held her head, of the confidence radiating from her.

Although her existence was already known, murmurs still rose in the crowd - just from a few people. A few sharp looks from Terrasen’s court and the Witches, cut those right off.

The ball was beautiful. Joy, laughter, feasting, and dancing. Gods, just after a few hours you thought your feet might fall off. But as Aelin and Rowan swept across the dance floor, it brought a strange feeling. It wasn’t jealousy sneaking into you, but a realization.

There would never be a place for you there, with them, not with how perfectly they fit together. As far as you were concerned, whatever that night was - physical attraction drove it. Nothing more. It couldn’t be more, even if you wanted it to. Giving in to that same desire … it wouldn’t end well. If you grew attached like that, it would rip your heart out once they realized you didn’t fit, and that would come eventually.

You can’t speak for them, a little voice whispered in your mind. Likely part of you trying to convince yourself it could work. But, it wasn’t like you to wait around in denial.

‘You don’t belong to anyone,’

When a witch strode up to you with confidence, asking if you wanted to dance, you said yes without a second thought, sore feet forgotten. When she asked if you’d like to get some fresh air, you agreed.

In a private corner of a garden, her hand slid around your waist, the other sliding into your hair, you let yourself lean into the moment and forget.

The light hit your dress at all of the right moments, drawing his attention to you. Gold. He knew Aelin must’ve been behind it. You were absolutely beautiful, and each person you danced with seemed charmed. He hadn’t made his way over to you, but he planned on it at some point throughout the night.

Just as he thought he had an opportunity, your last dance finished, Rowan saw you smile at her, watched the witch lead you from the ballroom, and couldn’t do a damn thing.

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