#improper convictions

[fluentmoviequoter]

Words to Die By

The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover

-> Part 2: Strikes to Die By

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader

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

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

Word Count: 13k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

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

“Can I help you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, it isn’t.”

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

“Is Bradford your training officer?” you ask.

“He is. Do you know him?”

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

“Eleventh,” she answers, surprised.

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

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

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

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

“I am. I assume you remember him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More evidence?” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With my life.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?” Lucy tries.

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did.”

“There’s more to it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You saw him last night?” JJ exclaims.

“I ran into him at the diner.”

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

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

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

“That would be illegal,” Spencer mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll tell Hotch. Anything else?”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine. Why?”

She stops typing suddenly and then inhales sharply.

“Garcia?” You ask.

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

“Penelope?” you ask hurriedly.

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

“It’s about me?” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me finish-“

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

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

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

“Manipulated the data how?” Hotch asks.

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

“Left it where?” Grey inquires.

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

“The date?” Hotch presses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Talk to me,” Hotch encourages.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” Hotch asks. “Where is he?”

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

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

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

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

“34381?” you guess. “And 6147?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if they could help?” JJ argues.

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which affects us how?” Hotch inquires.

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

“Still doubting your hypothesis?” Hotch deadpans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep me updated,” Hotch tells you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready?” you ask Lucy.

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

“What was the cause of death?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a lot of options.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why be a TO?”

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

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

“Got it. Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She retired,” Tim replies.

You drop your shoulders and nod. “Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

“The novellas?” he guesses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me tell my team.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We can hope.”

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

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

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

“She is.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one connection.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was scared.”

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

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

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

“Who?” Tim asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“I’m going with you,” Tim states.

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

“You need me-“

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

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

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

“Alexander Riley,” you murmur.

“What?” Tim snaps.

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

“Convenient.”

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” he agrees slowly. “Why?”

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

“You got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Spencer asks. “Wait, who?”

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

“Abuse of power,” Hotch deduces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll get a BOLO out,” Wade offers.

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

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

“Just send ‘em my way,” Derek jokes.

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

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

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

“Bradford,” Wade begins.

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

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

“No idea. Sir.”

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

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

“Be safe out there,” you conclude.

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

“That was fun,” you mumble to Derek.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“You could have told me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Cursed wanderer?” Tim repeats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. You.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not recently.”

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

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

“Can you do me a favor?” you ask.

“Anything,” JJ and Derek answer together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Welcome to the club.”

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

“You think it will?”

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

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

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

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

“I hope so.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did Derek ask Spencer about the bomb?”

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

“Could he be a cleithrophobe?” Tim wonders.

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

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

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

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

“You made it,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t hurt you.”

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

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

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

Riley fidgets, then nods.

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

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

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

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

“You know who,” Alex mutters.

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

“Of course.”

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

“You were so far away,” he whispers.

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

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

“Kick it,” he demands.

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

“Kick it.”

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

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

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

“She was mine first,” Tim interjects suddenly.

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

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

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

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

“Something changed,” you say from beside Riley.

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

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

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

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

“Fool! They’ve gotten to you, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was your boss,” Tim points out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two Weeks Later

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

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

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

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

“I could have done that,” you complain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please do.”

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

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

[delusionalwritingsofagay]

Could you write a fanfic with a chronically ill brother (twin or younger brother you decide) male reader X Aemond Targaryen? A longer one? (I'm very sorry I've my improper English, it is not my first language)

Healing Hurts

Pairing : Aemond Targaryen x Chronically ill Male reader Tags : Comfort, Targcest, soft Aemond Targaryen, undefined relationship word Count : 939

The night air in kings landing  was crisp, the moon casting silvery shadows upon the ancient stone walls. Aemond Targaryen, the one-eyed prince, stood on the Balcony. 

“Brother,” a gentle voice called from behind him. Aemond turned, his heart softening at the sight of Y/N , his frail form wrapped in a thick cloak. The illness that had once appeared suddenly had persisted for years, its grip tightening with each passing season. Nevertheless, Y/N’s spirit was a flame that refused to be extinguished.

“Y/N,” he said, stepping away from the ledge to meet him. “You should be resting.”

“I could say the same for you,”Y/N replied, a playful smile gracing his lips, though his eyes betrayed a hint of fatigue. “ It’s a beautiful night.”

Aemond’s heart swelled with affection. the sight of Y/N even in his weary state, had a way of grounding him. “What if I told you the moon turns pale for only you?” he teased, raising a brow.

Y/N rolled his eyes, but the corners of his  mouth tilted upward. “Charm won’t keep me in bed, brother. You know I hate the maesters poking and prodding ”

Aemond sighed, knowing his brother hated being treated like a frail bird. “Very well,Will you return to bed if I accompany you.”

Y/N tilted his head slightly in pretend thought before he nodded with a small smile. “Deal.”

Aemond gently wraps an arm around Y/N's shoulder, supporting him as they move indoors. The cool night air follows them, a stark contrast to the warmth within the castle walls. "The maesters mean well, you know," Aemond murmured, leading Y/N towards the royal chambers. "They only wish to help you recover."

Y/N leaned into his brother's embrace, his frail body trembling slightly against Aemond's strength. "I know," he said softly, "but I don't want to be a burden. I just want to be normal."

Aemond's heart ached at his brother's words. He knew the pain and frustration Y/N must feel, trapped in a body that refuses to cooperate. "You'll never be a burden to me, brother," he said firmly. 

As they entered the chambers, Aemond helped the younger prince sit on the edge of the bed. He kneeled  before him, looking up into those eyes that hold such wisdom beyond their years. "Let me help you undress," he offered, his hands already working at the fastenings of Y/N's cloak.

Y/N nodded, allowing Aemond to assist him. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Aemond's fingers linger on the fabric, tracing the delicate patterns etched into the material. "You don't have to worry about that," he replieed, his voice filled with conviction

Once the younger prince was free from his cloak, Aemond helped him under the covers, tucking the blankets around his brother's frail form. He sat  beside him, his hand resting lightly on Y/N's shoulder. "Is there anything else you need?" he asks, his gaze searching Y/N's face for any sign of discomfort.

Y/N shook his head, a contented sigh escaping his lips. "Just your company," he said

He settled onto the bed beside his brother, careful not to disturb him. "Then my company you shall have," he promised, his voice low and soothing.

He reached for the oil lamp on the bedside table, casting a warm glow over the room. The flickering light dances across Y/N's features, highlighting the delicate bones and the tired lines that have settled too early upon his face. Aemond's fingers ache to trace those lines, to smooth away the weariness that burdens his brother.

Instead, he picked up a soft brush from the table, running it through Y/N's long, silky hair. ""You deserve to rest." he murmured, his voice a gentle caress. 

As he brushes, Aemond lets his mind wander to the countless nights they've spent together like this, the whispered secrets and shared dreams that have bound them closer than blood. He knew the weight of Y/N's illness, the constant pain that plagues him, and yet, his brother's spirit remains unbroken.

Y/N closed his eyes feeling the soft strokes of the brush through his hair " will you stay with me tonight?, brother" he asked softly

His hand slid down to cup Y/N's cheek, thumb brushing over the delicate arch of his eyebrow. "Of course I'll stay with you," he promised, his voice rough with emotion

He knew the depth of his brother's feelings, the unspoken desires that linger just beneath the surface. Leaning in, he captured Y/N's lips in a tender kiss, pouring all his love and devotion into the gentle press of his mouth.

Aemond's heart raced as he felt  Y/N melt into the kiss, his brother's slender arms wrapping around his neck.

He pulled him close gently , wrapping his arms around him in a protective embrace. The warmth of Y/N's body seeped into his own, a comforting presence, He pulled back from the kiss "Sleep now," He shifts on the bed, carefully manoeuvring  Y/N until the younger prince was lying down, his head cradled in the crook of Aemond's arm. Aemond's heart ached at the frailty of his brother's body, the way his bones protrude beneath his skin like delicate bird bones. But beneath that fragility lies a strength. As Y/N drifts off to sleep, Aemond remains vigilant, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room. The castle is quiet this time of night, with only the occasional distant sound of a servant or guard patrolling the halls.

[athena5898]

(MPN) A disabled mother of three from Salisbury, Fiona Rayan, was arrested by UK police after posting a TikTok video suggesting people celebrate Christmas with a Palestinian theme.

Among other videos, it appears that the arrest of the 40-year-old came after a TikTok post that encouraged viewers to incorporate aspects of Palestinian culture and history into their holiday traditions, including the idea of highlighting Jesus as a Palestinian and supporting Palestinian businesses through gifts and donations.

The CPS described her "antisemitic views" as far exceeding the "boundary between freedom of expression and hate speech." Rayan was convicted of four offences under Section 127 of the Communications Act 2003, relating to the improper use of public electronic communications.

She was sentenced to 20 weeks' imprisonment, suspended for 18 months.

[thorough-witness-enjoyer]

The Witness and Why It (and its demise) Means Everything to Me (A POC Perspective)

Hey everyone!! The Final Shape has ruined me and has brought me to levels of not only grief, but hope, that I did not think possible, so I decided to give my thoughts on the different aspects of it that moved me to a place where I can be at peace with many things in my life and look forward to paving a better future!!! I think I’ll be making many posts pertaining to the Final Shape as a way to help me express my thoughts on how important this DLC was to me, but we will see!

Please note that these are just my loose, not fully structured thoughts and I’m yapping. My opinions are subject to change and I’d love to hear the input of others! We will be talking about subjects such as slavery, religion, black experiences, and personal experiences of mine!!! It’s very long too, so I’m sorry about that and any writing errors!!

Though I do not believe what I speak of was fully Bungie’s intentions when making the character, the implications and views you can take on the Witness do relate to what I will discuss.

I wanted to start off my return to tumblr with one of the many, many reasons why I have such a deep attachment to the Witness (Precursors and Dissenters will get a different post bc they mean the world to me too!!) , because truly, this entity owns my whole life. I think of it all the time, it lingers in my thoughts, my art, my writing, all of it. It has been so deeply intertwined with my enjoyment of Destiny since it appeared and has offered so much to my perception of the world. I do not think I will truly get over it and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t draw it every chance I get. It appears in every single thought of mine, it’s bad you guys.

I love the Witness so deeply because I have never harbored such a personal level of DISGUST for a character before. As much as I joke about it being silly and the love of my life, the very existence of the Witness revolts me to the core and the tragedies it has directly or indirectly caused squeeze my heart empty. This festering rot of an egregore SICKENS me as it is the beliefs that has robbed me and many others of family, culture, and livelihoods given form. My love for the Witness comes from how it instills in me such HATRED, and truly, we were far too kind to it in game.

For context, I am Caribbean American and have a tumultuous relationship with my heritage for many reasons, but it wasn’t until the Witness and its many victims that I felt like the religious imperialism that has affected my heritage was represented in a way that crept into my spirit.

My Caribbean mother always said to me that we are of this world, not in it. That the hearts of men are wicked and sin (cruelty) was embedded in existence itself. It is only when we give ourselves to a higher purpose that we will be free in the end from all suffering. To her, this life and everything in it did not truly matter for it was a temporary challenge to overcome in order to earn an eternity of salvation. A perfect paradise was awaiting us all if we just gave into the way and left everything else behind.

These were all convictions she held to her very core as she tried to shed away all other aspects of herself to give into this “truth”, especially her Caribbean culture.

She did not always believe this way, but to her, the island she came from did not truly matter at all. Those “wayward people” she grew up with were not worth anything and would die as nobodies on that nowhere island for their lives were not saved, even if they knew of the “truth”. In her adopted views, those people believed in false gods and practices (such as Vodou and beliefs that belonged to those taken from Africa and indigenous populations), they invited in frivolous wants of the flesh such as lust (with „improper“ attire and certain dances), and committed crimes that proved to her that they could never be anything more than what they already were (though she would be blinded to the fact that these behaviors are a result of hostile environments created by the systems established for slavery and racial subjugation). If she wanted to be fit for “walking the right path”, those people had to be left behind for they were lost causes who could not be saved unless they were delivered by the “respectable” ways of life. She had to discard her black mannerisms, hair, speech, and more to have a place amongst the truly chosen.

Religious imperialism has a long history of being heavily tied to discussions of race and colonialism as those who participated in subjugation believed themselves to be more enlightened than the people they brought devastation to, giving them an entitlement that drove them to force their way of viewing religion onto populations. After all, in their minds, they were doing the greatest good for they were setting the people they subjugated on a path for eternal paradise. There was no cost too high in this finite life for infinite salvation to colonizers and all efforts to convert populations who did not see this truth would be “necessary”. People would die or be forced into servitude in mass to support the ambitions of the “enlightened” ones, whole cultures and populations being scrubbed from the face of this Earth in an attempt to “heal what is sick”, to “break broken bones again to heal them right”. I think of all the generations lost to war, slavery, colonialism, and every other act done to deliver “purpose” onto others, all the people whose names will never be known because others used the breath needed to utter it on preaching of their own virtue, and I am left in ruin.

I think of how my mother speaks of those lost to destitute lives because of the social pillaging of the island as an unfortunate side effect of guiding them to the truth and I look at how her world view has been ruined.

My mother thought she was saving me by keeping me from my culture, my people, my family. I did not get to know the language, the customs, the land, but I did get to know how much my mother thought those were distractions. She spent my whole life trying to cement the truths given to her by the same people who left her island in such as state that she felt like she had to run from it, to ensure I would not grow into a person, but a vessel of the righteous message. After all, to be a person is to be complex, nuanced, and flawed and there was no room for that in the visions given to her. The complexities and human flaws that came with our culture would only distract us from giving our whole lives to freeing ourselves from the curse of existence.

The cruelty the Witness delivers with such gentleness as it razes civilizations, its unwavering belief that it is the objective truth and other perspectives are blind to this truth, the means it will use to get that “justified” end, its gut wrenching to me and all that has been lost throughout human history to ideologies that bear the same qualities. Its zealous, static nature that relies on circular reasoning keeps me up at night and makes me mourn what could have been if the unfamiliar and hard to understand parts of human expression were allowed to flourish instead of being eradicated for diverging from someone’s vision of what makes a life worth living. I see this big eyed vessel, incapable of growth and convinced of its own righteousness and my chest feels like it is going to cave in. I see its disciples and pawns in the faces of too many people I know and recall their stories in moments that remind me how poisonous what the Witness represents is.

The Witness is an evil that has hollowed out lives, homes, land, and futures, especially for those who come from heritages that have persevered against attempts to “rectify” them. I still grieve the empty life my mother lives and the people left to suffer the consequences of daring to create their own meaning. I look at the face of the Witness and think of the “burdens lifted off my mother’s shoulders” by those who thought themselves as witnesses of a truth that could not be contested with interpretations that could not be questioned. She prides herself on being a weapon wielded to correct the sinful hearts of men, but I just wish she prided herself on being a person because those who “delivered” her robbed people of color of personhood entirely.

The Witness is not a person, but the embodiment of these deeply rooted ideologies and concepts that affect so many. It’s horror, both in game and the parallels it has in reality, is far too grand and unfathomable for me to bear its weight on my soul and not agonize. Its very existence is monstrous, despite the understandable intentions that went into its making, and my stomach churns at the mere thought of it.

How many species in the Destiny universe will we never know about because their whole galaxy was used to get closer to the Final Shape? How many star systems were left barren because of the Witness’ ambitions? How many children, spouses, artists, philosophers, siblings, neighbors, and more, people who were something, became nothing because of eons of the Witness‘ justifications? Bile boils just thinking of it.

What the Witness represents has hung over my head my whole life and its perverse touch lingers on the whole Destiny universe, tracing many of the depraved atrocities in the game back to itself. It’s death in the Final Shape, at the hands of those it had turned into victims and left to deal with the repercussions of its influence united together, moved me in ways I do not think I could ever properly articulate. To see beloved characters I had given a decade of my life to come together from different backgrounds with different reasons to defeat such a heinous entity, I felt like I could do my part to bring others together, despite our struggles and differences, to rebuild what had been taken from us.

As a person of color from a group of people many still think are undeserving of life, seeing so many characters I have related to over the years say “I matter because I decided to and you can’t take that away from me” to an entity who thought itself so refined that it got to determine everyone’s worth strengthened my entire being. Existing as a person of color is bold in and of itself, but the defeat of the Witness at the hands of people who wanted to exist so bad they risked everything for it ignited in me a flame to be audacious. My existence and culture as a poc is unsightly and heretical, but TFS encouraged me to take on the prejudices of others by saying “Here, despite generations being molded into a “perfect” image and so many lives lost in the struggle to live personal truths, ergo sum. Ergo sum and there is nothing wrong with that”.

To me, the Witness’ death showed me that the stains left behind by social structures such as religious imperialism and colonialism can be overcome by people banding together to make the future different from the past. When we embrace the subjectivity of existence, we can create spaces for different views on life to flourish and reconnect with the nuances of this world. We can better the lives of our people, no matter who they are, not by abandoning all cultural practices and ways of life that were deemed meaningless, but by rebuilding our societies to allow for fulfilling lives and self efficacy for all.

My people no longer have to let imperial powers decide our fate for us or decide that we can be nothing other than the „nature of our race“ that they believe is inferior. Instead of looking up at others who asserted themselves as more enlightened for salvation, we can look at each other and realize there is no one truth to life, especially one worth all the devastation and cruelty placed against those who lived differently. The intricacies of life often lead people to belief systems that allow for comfort and understanding, alleviating the anxiety of possibly living an improper life that will forfeit a desirable afterlife. It is up to individuals to decide what makes their life fulfilling and what beliefs will guide their actions, for no one can make your fate but you.

My mother still likes to wear the patterns of the island and keeps paintings of island scenery in her room. She talks on the phone in patois when she doesn’t feel the pressure to be “proper”. She misses her mother because she used to make dishes from home. To relate it to Destiny, she still has the coordinates to her Lubrae in her pyramid despite convincing herself abandoning it all was for the best and there was nothing there worth keeping. I once thought reconnecting with our heritage alongside her would be a frivolous endeavor, but I hope that with time and understanding, the Witness may not have power over her anymore and she won’t look back on her disassociation with relief. Time and understanding will make our island grow and flourish, free to decide what it wants to be, not held back by preconceived notions of the worth of its existence.

Despite all the Witnesses in the world, I will persist on and try to acquaint myself with my culture without shame. The Witness is everything to me because I hope one day it desecrates nothing ever again. I hope the Witness becomes nothing at all and the cultures it has corrupted make themselves something audacious.

Thank you guys so much for reading!! I hope you guys don’t mind the vague language, I chose to spare some details for my own sake and to make the message more applicable!! I’d love to hear the takes of other people about this bc I love hearing people’s perspectives!! And always remember, no one makes your fate but you!!! Go be audacious!!!!

[thegreeks]

Damnable Eyes

"Eyes are full of language." - Anne Sexton, from a letter

It had been Eliza’s idea, her enthusiasm a force too persistent to resist. She had spoken of nothing else but the ball for days, her imagination filled with whispered conversations, stolen glances, and the prospect of encountering Mr. Wickham, whom she had deemed the most charming of gentlemen.

Our aunt and uncle, in their usual indulgence, had approved the outing, insisting that I accompany my sister, much to my dismay. “A diversion would do you good, (Y/N),” my uncle had said, his kindly eyes regarding me over his spectacles. “You spend far too much time reading and far too little enjoying yourself. Besides, I am quite certain you will not be without company.”

His words had been accompanied by a knowing glance, and I had no difficulty in discerning the implication. For weeks, my aunt and uncle had been convinced that a certain gentleman held a regard for me that went beyond polite civility, though I had done all in my power to dissuade such notions.

Mr. Darcy, despite his reserved nature and taciturn ways, had indeed paid me more attention than I had expected. Yet, whatever sentiments he harbored, he had not spoken them aloud, nor had I sought to encourage him. He was a man of great consequence, but one who often provoked more frustration than admiration in me.

Eliza, in contrast, was beside herself with excitement as we made our way to the gardens. Her lively chatter filled the carriage, and I was scarcely able to get a word in. "It shall be a most delightful evening, (Y/N), I am certain of it! The music, the dancing, the company—just think! You must promise me you will not sulk in some corner and refuse every gentleman who asks for your hand in a dance."

"I do not sulk," I replied, though my tone lacked conviction. "Nor do I have any intention of dancing."

Eliza pouted. "You are impossible. If I did not love you so dearly, I would consider you hopeless."

"It is not hopelessness," I said lightly. "Only a preference for quiet over crowds, sincerity over flattery."

Eliza sighed dramatically, as though my words were an affliction upon her senses. "Very well, but at least pretend to enjoy yourself for my sake. And, who knows, perhaps even Mr. Darcy will make an appearance."

My cheeks warmed at the mention of his name, and I could not suppress a sharp exclamation. "Eliza!" I cried, my voice inadvertently rising. I glanced at our aunt and uncle, who were engaged in conversation across from us, and silently wished for this improper subject to be dismissed.

Yet, as fate would have it, Mr. Darcy was not as easily dismissed.

As the carriage approaches, the view of Vauxhall Gardens shimmered with a thousand lanterns, their golden light casting a gentle glow upon the visitors. The air, drifting music that mingles with the scent of roasted almonds and the faint perfume of summer roses, did little to calm the nervous flutter in my stomach as I smoothed the silk of my gown.

The ballroom was awash in golden candlelight, the music a lilting backdrop to the hum of conversation. Elegant figures moved gracefully about the room, their laughter light and carefree. Eliza was immediately swept into the throng, leaving me momentarily alone to observe the scene.

I had little time to gather my composure before I became aware of a presence near me. Turning, I found myself face to face with none other than Mr. Darcy. My breath caught, though I quickly schooled my expression into one of polite indifference.

“Miss (Y/L/N),” he greeted, his voice as measured as ever. “You are well, I trust?”

I nodded, forcing a small smile. “Indeed, sir. And you?”

“Well enough,” he said, hesitating, as if warring over some unspoken thought. “Would you do me the honour of this dance?”

I blinked, taken aback. Mr. Darcy, who so often avoided social gaiety, was asking me to dance? I hesitated, but the quiet intensity in his gaze held me captive.

“I…” The refusal I intended to make faltered on my lips. “Yes. I would be honoured.”

He extended his hand, and I placed mine in his, suppressing the shiver that coursed through me at the contact. As he led me onto the floor, I was acutely aware of the way his fingers lingered just slightly longer than propriety dictated.

The music began, and we moved together in perfect harmony. I had expected awkwardness, a stiffness to our movements, yet there was none. Instead, there was an unspoken understanding between us, a wordless conversation held in glances and fleeting touches.

“You do not enjoy such gatherings,” I murmured, unable to suppress my curiosity. “Yet you are here.”

His gaze was steady, voice strong with all propriety. “And you, Miss (Y/L/N)? Do you enjoy them?”

I hesitated. “I find them… overwhelming at times.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Then we are alike in that.”

The dance continued, our eyes meeting more often than was strictly necessary. Each glance sent a strange warmth through me, a silent acknowledgment of something unspoken yet undeniably present.

As the final notes of the music faded, he released my hand, though the absence of his touch was immediately felt. He bowed. “Thank you, Miss (Y/L/N).”

I curtsied, my pulse unsteady. “The pleasure was mine, sir.”

Before either of us could say more, Eliza appeared, breathless and beaming. “Oh, (Y/N)! You must come at once—Mr. Wickham is simply the most delightful man!”

I turned back to Mr. Darcy, but he had already stepped away, disappearing into the crowd. Despite the lack of his presence, I felt his gaze on me still, lingering like a whispered promise.

"Do try to look less like a condemned woman, (Y/N)," Eliza whispered, tugging at my sleeve playfully. "Mr. Wickham is approaching! For heaven's sake, do smile!"

I forced my lips into the semblance of a smile, though the effort was a weary one. Mr. Wickham, all handsome and easy charm, was indeed making his way towards us, his eyes alight with a well-practiced flattery that I found patently false. His bow was deep, his expression one of ardent admiration.

“Ladies,” he greeted, bowing low. “Miss Eliza, you are the very picture of delight this evening." he said, his voice smooth as honey. "And Miss (Y/L/N), as captivating as ever.

I offered a curtsey, my gaze drifting past him in search of a more welcome countenance that would offer a reprieve from this tedious performance. It was then that my breath caught. Across the crowd, poised in stark contrast to the revelry around him, stood Mr. Darcy, eyes unwaveringly beholding my own.

His presence was not one that could be overlooked, nor was his gaze. Dark, unwavering, fixed upon mine with an intensity that sent an unfamiliar thrill through my chest. There was no smile, nor a deign to offer any gesture of recognition despite our previous connection. And yet, I could not look away.

A sudden, suffocating need for escape seized me. Inclining my head with the utmost politeness, "Mr. Wickham," I said, voice barely above a whisper, "I believe I see my aunt. Do excuse me."

Without awaiting his reply, I turned and moved swiftly through the crowd, not daring to look back. I did not stop until I found refuge near a fountain at the gardens’ edge, its gentle spray a welcome respite from the unexplainable warmth that had taken hold of me.

I had barely drawn a steadying breath when a voice—deep, measured, and entirely too near—cut through the quiet.

“Miss (Y/L/N).”

I turned, finding him standing before me. Even in the dim glow of the lanterns, his presence was arresting. He appeared, as ever, composed, though there was something in his expression that gave me pause. A tension, a conflict barely restrained beneath the surface.

“Mr. Darcy,” I replied, barely managing a semblance of composure. “I trust you are enjoying the evening’s entertainments."

His silence was measured, his gaze searching. Then, at last, he spoke, his voice a low murmur. "As you have already quite concluded, I find little amusement in such diversions. At least, not in the manner society expects."

There was something pointed in his words, though I could not discern their meaning. “Indeed, sir? And what manner might that be?”

His lips pressed together, as if warring with some unspoken thought and, at length, exhaled, his expression darkening. "Must I be so plain, Miss (Y/L/N)? Must I lay bare the torment , the... damnation that your eyes—unwittingly or not—inflict upon me?"

The audacity! I took a step back, startled by the force of his words. "Torment, sir? I do not comprehend you."

His expression tightened. "No, I believe you do not. And yet, you look at me with those eyes—those damnable, knowing eyes—and I am undone."

I gasped, heat rising to my cheeks. "What impertinence!" I retorted, my voice rising despite my best efforts. "Mr. Darcy, You speak in riddles, and in a tone most unbecoming. I have given you no cause-"

"No cause?" He answered lowly, taking a step closer, the mere breadth of air between us crackling with something unspoken, something vast. "You are greatly mistaken, madam. From the very moment of our acquaintance, you have given me every cause. With your wit, your spirit, your very being—you have ensnared me, and I am helpless against it."

His eyes, dark with emotion, bore into mine, and for the first time, I saw in them not only pride and restraint, but something deeper. As if they were searching for something I was not willing to give.

"Damn your eyes," he repeated, the words now laced with a raw honesty that disarmed me. "They speak of things… things I dare not hope for."

To hear such words, such raw emotion, from Mr. Darcy, the epitome of restraint, was almost unbelievable. He continued to stare at me with such intensity. "Then perhaps you ought to look away, sir," I swallowed, my voice barely a whisper. "Lest your damnation be complete."

He did not look away. Instead, he moved still nearer, the heat of his gaze scorching me to my very core, his voice hushed yet unwavering. "I find, Miss (Y/L/N), that I am not at all sure that I wish to."

The words stole the breath from my lips. In that moment, beneath the flickering lanterns and the distant strains of music, I knew with terrible certainty that whatever fate lay before me, it would be irrevocably entangled with Mr. Darcy and the silent, searing intensity of his gaze.

The moment lingered, suspended between propriety and something far more dangerous. The air between us was charged, yet before I could muster a response, a voice called my name from across the garden. I turned sharply, breaking his gaze, and saw my aunt approaching with hurried steps.

"My dear, we have been looking for you everywhere!" she exclaimed. "Eliza is quite in raptures over her dance with Mr. Wickham, and I daresay she will not cease talking of it for days. But come, it is growing late, and your uncle wishes to depart."

I hesitated, glancing once more at Mr. Darcy. His expression had shifted, his mask of restraint slipping back into place. Whatever raw honesty had graced his features mere moments ago was now buried beneath layers of control. He bowed slightly. "Good evening, Miss (Y/L/N)."

And just like that, the moment was lost.

The journey home was a blur, my thoughts ensnared by the encounter. My heart waged a battle against my reason, and sleep that night was elusive, haunted by the memory of dark eyes and words spoken in hushed fervor.

[ineffableclassics]

Aziraphale’s hands, once hesitant, found more confidence, his fingers curling into the fabric of Crowley’s trousers as he tried—and failed—to suppress the soft groan that escaped his lips. “Crowley, this is—”

“What?” Crowley interrupted, his voice husky, his lips brushing against Aziraphale’s ear as he spoke. “Improper?”

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath, his heart racing in his chest as Crowley’s lips skimmed along his jawline. “Well… yes,” he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper, though there was no conviction behind the protest. In fact, the way Aziraphale’s hands had tightened their grip on Crowley’s hips told a very different story.

Crowley chuckled, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through both of them as he ground down again, this time with more pressure, more intention. “Fuck 'improper.' Literally.”

Words: 6,088

Status: Complete

Rating: Explicit

Art Credit: Three Tomatoes by Susan N Jarvis

[anabdaniels]

Cowboytober Day 16: (Semi) Public Sex

Paring: Agent Whiskey x Female reader

Word counting: 1.1k

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Fingering, rough sex, improper use of a dresser, mentions of a Jack's ex, reader is slightly insecure and jealous.

A/N: This can be fit on the same universe of Cowboytober Day 1 and Piece By Piece.

Main Masterlist | Cowboytober Masterlist

No, no, no. It couldn’t be real; you must have been daydreaming.

No, it was completely real and was just a few meters away from you. Jack’s ex-girlfriend was in the flesh at that damn family party and you couldn’t do anything about it.

Well, actually, you could do just one thing, and you did: discretely walked away from everything and everyone, sneaked into the house, entered the first door you reached, and gladly it was the guest bedroom that no one was staying in.

You sat at the bed edge, breathing the deepest you ever did in your life, a mix of hurt and anger and a deep wish of curse all the existent generations of Jack’s family, but you wouldn’t put on a scene; despite everything, you had an unmeasurable consideration by your mother and father-in-law and wouldn’t ruin the moment. So, you just stayed there for a moment, smashing a pillow a few times while you tried to put yourself together.

Starting to get worried, Jack kept looking for you among everyone, imagining why you had left and already planning on having a not-so-friendly conversation with his aunt who was hosting the party, aware of her reasons for having called his ex to show up.

But he didn’t have the time for that, not when he was a step ahead of panicking with your disappearance, so he moved to look for you inside the house, catching his breath back when he found you at the second door he opened, not thinking twice before entering and close the door behind him.

“Honey…”  Jack called calmly as he approached you.

“Don’t even start, Jack.” You spoke the calmest the situation would allow you and looked at him “Did you know about that?”

“Do you think I’d have brought you here if I knew it?” Jack raised both eyebrows, hoping you could go back to your reason at least a little bit. You sighed and lowered your guard, realizing the obvious.

“Alright, alright. But, hell, did you had to date her? She looks like a damn model; I can’t deal with that.” You shook your head and sighed frustrated.

“Jesus, sugar, y’ need to calm down.” Jack chuckled involuntarily, lowkey amused with how his ex seemed to still be living rent-free on your mind after all that time. With his unending patience with you, he sat by your side, wrapping an arm around your body. “I don’t know why you so strongly believe that I’ll randomly wake up one day and leave you to go back to her, but we have to move on from it.” Despite the light scold tone, Jack pulled you to sit on his lap “You seem to forget sometimes that you have me wrapped around your finger.” You couldn’t hold back a quiet laugh, resting both hands on his shoulders.

“Alright, you have a good point. I’m sorry.” You said feeling a bit ashamed for your reaction.

“It’s okay, but next time you got all worked up with me for nothing, I might consider bending you over my knee and smacking your pretty ass.” He said as if was a casual thing, keeping his neutral expression.

“You wouldn’t dare.” You chuckled rolling your eyes.

“Yes, you’re right, but I might use other methods.” Before you could question, his hands already were under your dress, shamelessly groping you.

“Jack… We can’t.” your voice didn’t come out with much conviction and you didn’t move from his lap.

“Why not? Everyone’s quite entertained with the alcohol and the barbecue in the backyard, it’s not like we have much to worry ‘bout.” With not many flourishes, Jack got up, walking to the dresser near the door with you, turning you around, and bending you slightly over it.

Not believing his audacity, yet enjoying it, you rested your elbows on the wooden surface, sighing and arching your back while Jack lifted your dress, letting rest on your waist, then pulling your panties down, taking them off you, and letting the fabric rest on top of the dresser. Calmly his fingers sneaked between your legs, not surprisingly finding out you already were starting to get wet, so he provided the help you needed, steadily circling your clit while kissing and nibbling the curve of your neck.

You focused completely on the feeling, for a moment not associating the noise outside with the chances of being caught in such a situation, especially as you felt Jack's cockhead rub against your entrance while he kept teasing your clit.

“Daniels, my patience ain’t in its best state for your teasing.” You grumbled impatiently, squinting at him over your shoulder.

“Alright, ma’am. I’ll not risk my integrity.” He leaned over you to kiss your nape as he moved inside you, bracing himself on the dresser with one hand and holding on your hip with the other.

You grabbed at the furniture with your life, letting out some noises despite knowing there were a lot of people around, and you should keep your volume under control, which proved to be a complicated task since Jack considered that that was a good moment to pound into you as if the world was about to end as he nibbled and kissed your neck, slightly pinning you against the dresser.

Without slowing down his pace, Jack released your hip to cover your mouth while mumbling a “shit”; being already lost in the moment, took you a moment to realize that voices were coming from the kitchen and would take a single mistake while intending to open the pantry door for you two to be caught.

“Now, be quiet, my dear, we don’t want to traumatize my poor 80-year-old grandma.” Jack cynically whispered against your ear, as if he wasn’t fucking you as if the two of you were at home in the middle of the night, having no one around to be disturbed. Your response was to bite into his palm, shutting your eyes closed and arching your back, doing your best to hold back your noises. Both you and Jack froze and looked at the door when you listened to the voices way too close, realizing that whoever was there, was just standing by the other side of the door and would definitely listen to anything much louder than a whisper. “Alright, time to get this done.”

Your immediate reaction was to grab Jack’s arm, aware of what would be his next move, and sank your nails into his wrist as he did it, sneaking his free hand between your legs to tease your throbbing clit, sinking his face into the curve of your neck when your walls clenched around him. Among muffled noises and squeezing each other, both of you reached your orgasms, taking a moment to recover despite the noises outside of the bedroom still dangerously close.

“We need to choose better where we’ll have these little escapades.” You whispered with a chuckle.

“Despite enjoying the thrill, I’ll have to agree. I don’t need my tias to have a new gossip topic.” Jack whispered back with a smirk, planting a soft kiss on your nape.

Tagging: @missladym1981 @alex-does-art-things @beefrobeefcal

[socialismforall]

CALL GOV. PARSON TO STOP THE EXECUTION!

#MarcellusWilliams is facing execution TOMORROW, 9/24, by the US State of Missouri for a crime he maintains he didn't commit, with his conviction based on unreliable testimony which is contradicted by the physical evidence. From the Innocence Project:

"Despite admissions of serious prosecutorial misconduct, including improper handling of evidence, #MarcellusWilliams is still facing execution in four days. His last chance is for Gov. Parson to intervene. Call, tweet (@GovParsonMO), and e-mail Gov. Parson now and urge him to stop the execution before it’s too late at 417-373-3400. https://shorturl.at/K7jDT"

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Robert Tait at The Guardian:

Donald Trump has launched a vitriolic and factually baseless attack on a New York judge who refused to overturn his conviction on a hush money case that made him the first sitting or former US president to carry the status of a convicted felon. The president-elect took to his Truth Social platform to condemn judge Juan Merchan as “psychotic” and “corrupt” after he rejected Trump’s plea that his conviction relating to the cover-up of a sex scandal should be thrown out on the basis of a supreme court ruling that granted him broad immunity. “In a completely illegal, psychotic order, the deeply conflicted, corrupt, biased, and incompetent Acting Justice Juan Merchan has completely disrespected the United States Supreme Court, and its Historic Decision on Immunity,” wrote Trump, who returns to the White House on 20 January.

In a fulminating broadside, he denounced Merchan – an experienced judge who has tried multiple complex cases in 17 years on the bench – as a “radical partisan” and accused him of writing “an opinion that is knowingly unlawful, goes against our constitution and, if allowed to stand, would be the end of the presidency as we know it”. Merchan rejected Trump’s application to have last May’s conviction – delivered by a jury in a court in Manhattan – overturned in a 41-page ruling delivered on Monday. He wrote that Trump’s “decidedly personal acts of falsifying business records poses no danger of intrusion on the authority and function of the executive branch”. His decision was a blow to the legal strategy of Trump’s lawyers, who had asked him to set aside the conviction immediately after the supreme court ruled last July that presidents – including Trump – had wide immunity from prosecution for actions they took in the course of their duties, even when they broke the law.

Trump’s 34 convictions on business record falsification related to payments made in the run up to the 2016 presidential election to Stormy Daniels, an adult film star, to buy her silence about a sexual encounter she says took place but which Trump denied. Although the offences took place before Trump was president, his lawyers cited the supreme court opinion to argue that some improper evidence had been presented at the trial, including his presidential financial disclosure form and testimony from his White House aides. But Merchan, in his ruling, appeared to accept prosecutors’ arguments that evidence from Trump’s White House years amounted to only a “sliver” of their case. He called any mistakenly submitted testimony “harmless in light of the overwhelming evidence of guilt”. It is not Trump’s first attack on Merchan, who he previously lambasted as “a certified Trump hater”.

Unhinged dingbat felon Donald Trump went on a tirade over Judge Juan Manuel Merchan’s ruling in favor of keeping his felony convictions intact.

[feelyxstuff]

Fan Fiction Recommendation #3

Hey everyone! 🌟

I’m back with my third recommendation, and this one is all about the amazing IwaOi pairing! ♥ Before Sakusa and Atsumu came along, I was totally head over heels for IwaOi, and they’re still one of my top favorites!

I really hope you enjoy this pick, and have a fantastic day! 😊

(P.S. I’m going through a pretty significant change right now, and I spent the past few days diving into stories and getting lost in reading. Haha!)

Name: Conquering the Great King

Author: SuggestiveScribe

Fandom: Haikyuu!

Summary: Iwaizumi blinked his gaze over to Oikawa, "Last time was supposed to be a one time thing," he said, voice low, lacking some conviction.

Oikawa's lips twitched into a smirk and he brought them hovering just over Iwaizumi's, "One time thing, Two time thing, what's it matter as long as it's not a Relationship thing?"

Rating: Explicit

Warning: No Arquive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Relationship: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru; Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi; Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou; Azumane Asahi/Nishinoya Yuu

Characters: Iwaizumi Hajime; Oikawa Tooru; Kageyama Tobio; Sawamura Daichi; Sugawara Koushi; Kuroo Tetsurou; Kozume Kenma; Kindaichi Yuutarou; Azumane Asahi; Nishinoya Yuu; Kunimi Akira; Irihata Nobuteru

Additional Tags: #Alternate Universe #Alcohol #Smoking #Rimming #Orgasm Delay/Denial #Anal Fingering #Riding #Semi-Public Sex #Masturbation #Pining #Fluff and Angst #Friendship #Exes #Porn With Plot #Public Display of Affection #Hand & Finger Kink #Scent Kink #Blow Jobs #Mild Face-Fucking #Sexting #Nudes #Phone Sex #Dirty Talk #Light Bondage #Voyeurism #Begging #Power Bottom #69 (Sex Position) #Improper Use of Outerwear

Language: English

Stats: Completed 2015-05-30

Link for the fan fiction: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3301085/chapters/7209029

Link for the picture: https://ca.pinterest.com/pin/572449802653344782/

✦✧✦✧

My thoughts: Iwaizumi and Oikawa have become one of my top ships, right after the classics like DaiSuga, KageHina, TsukkiYama, and AsaNoya. Their dynamic is just so captivating! I fell for them after the initial excitement of the first years, and their chemistry really stuck with me. 💕

I recently came across this fanfiction that is an absolute gem. The author writes IwaOi so perfectly, capturing their personalities and interactions flawlessly. The story is set with them as businessmen— Iwa is a dedicated editor, and Oikawa is in finance (from what I remember). They meet for what they think is a ‘one-time thing,’ but the chemistry between them is off the charts! The plot is so well-crafted and teasing that you’ll be hooked from start to finish.

There are also side relationships like DaiSuga and KurooKen (which I adore and totally recommend their side fics too!), along with a bit of AsaNoya and KageHina. It’s exciting to follow these characters through adult life challenges and savor the satisfying ending. Dive in and enjoy the ride! 🌟📚

My tags: iwaoi; haikyuu

[mariacallous]

Eric Adams wanted to see the world, to see it in style. But he wasn’t a rich man, just a former cop and rising politician in a largely ceremonial job, Brooklyn Borough President. Luckily for him, there were a number of benefactors who federal prosecutors say were ready to help him travel in a manner benefitting the position he was angling for: mayor of New York City.

According to a sprawling, 57-page indictment unsealed on Thursday, there was the chairman of a Turkish university; a promoter “whose business includes organizing events to introduce Turkish corporations and businesspeople to politicians, celebrities, and others whose influence may benefit the corporations”; and a senior official in the Turkish government, who, prosecutors say, “later steered illegal contributions and improper gifts to Adams to gain influence with and, eventually, to obtain corrupt official action from Adams.” 

Adams in the summer of 2017 went with his son and a staffer to Nice, Istanbul, Sri Lanka, and Beijing, flying business class the whole way. In October, he went again to Istanbul and Beijing, and then on to Nepal. Those tickets were, all told, worth $51,000. But he got it all for free. 

The relationship deepened from there, as Adams began to run for mayor in earnest. The Turks allegedly funneled money to his campaign through false entities, or “straw donors.” Accepting such donations is against the law — and Adams allegedly received public matching funds based on these contributions. Adams allegedly returned the favor, in part by pressuring the fire department to allow the opening of a $300 million, 36-story glass tower to house the Turkish consulate, just off of First Avenue and 45th Street, without an inspection and “in time for a high-profile visit by Turkey‘s president” — a diplomatic coup for a man who’s functionally a dictator.

Adams has vigorously denied all of the charges. And at least one Adams ally I spoke with in the immediate aftermath breathed a quarter-sigh of relief — this person was expecting even more, and more serious, charges. “It’s obviously not great but this is weaker than I thought it would be,” the source tells me.

But that exhale assumes that the federal charges against Adams begin and end in this document. They almost certainly do not, with at least four more federal probes reportedly targeting his inner circle and FBI agents searching the mayor’s residence shortly before the indictment was announced. It also assumes that the Turks were the only government to allegedly turn Adams into an unregistered foreign agent. That, too, could prove to be a dangerous supposition — especially given the U.S. Attorney in Brooklyn’s pursuit of Chinese influence in New York. 

In the last four years, that federal prosecutor’s office alone has charged a dozen separate criminal cases of covert Chinese government interference in U.S. politics, business, and civil society. An aide to New York’s governor was indicted as a foreign agent on Sept. 3. An ex-corrections officer got 20 months for harassing an artist who lampooned Chinese leader Xi Jinping. Two more men were arrested for operating a secret Chinese police station out of the Manhattan headquarters of a group for expats from Fujian province. 

The examples spiral out from there.In July, a federal jury in Manhattan convicted Robert Menendez, a Democratic U.S. senator from New Jersey, of taking bribes and acting as Egypt’s agent. In August, federal prosecutors in Brooklyn charged a hitman with trying to assassinate Donald Trump, allegedly on Iran’s orders. In September, prosecutors in Manhattan revealed an alleged Russian plot to funnel $10 million to MAGA influencers. This is a partial list. A snippet of a list, really. And all of these developments happened in just the last few months, just in and around this one metro area, where a wide array of foreign actors are looking to turn New York into something like Spy City.  

The 20 experts, officials, and activists I spoke to couldn’t agree on whether these cases represent a major escalation in this covert activity, an increase in Washington’s willingness to combat it, or both. But they all agreed that such efforts are widespread and being directed by countries across the globe. And while it might be tempting to speculate about what this says about the various foreign policy strategies in foreign capitals, the clear takeaway is that malicious actors around the world see America as pliable, and influence as something that can be bought on the cheap. In other words, the most disturbing part about these covert foreign pressure campaigns is what it says about our politics, our society. About us.

ONE OF THE MORE disturbing foreign influence cases to recently come to light begins 35 years ago, in Beijing. Yan Xiong was a student activist there, jailed for being part of the big Tiananmen Square protests. When he got out, he made his way to America, enlisted in the U.S. Army, and eventually served two tours as a chaplain in Iraq. By 2021, Yan was running for Congress in lower Manhattan. He could tell that something was off. He’d show up to candidate forums, and then wouldn’t be allowed to speak. He’d try to raise money, no dice. There was an old man who wouldn’t stop taking pictures of Yan’s campaign. Yan would go out to his driveway late at night and find a car there, headlights blazing. It was unnerving, but Yan was used to looking over his shoulder.

Nevertheless, Yan was shocked when, in March of 2022, federal prosecutors revealed that he was being targeted by the Chinese government. The goal: to surveil and sabotage the chaplain’s long-shot campaign. “Go deep and dig up something. Right? For example, past incidents of tax evasion… if he used prostitutes in the past… if he had a mistress,” a member of China’s Ministry of State Security allegedly told a private investigator here in the U.S. If the private investigator couldn’t come up with — or make up — any dirt, the P.I. was encouraged to use other means to take Yan out of the race: “In the end, violence would be fine too.” 

In the end, Yan’s campaign netted him only 750 votes — not great, but 50 percent more than former Mayor Bill De Blasio received. The P.I. hired by the Chinese government never found any dirt on Yan, or physically attacked him. But the attempt to ratfuck Yan’s campaign continues to leave a wound. Yan’s getting ready to move for the fifth time in two years — in part “for safety, for psychology.” In August, prosecutors unveiled another layer to the alleged plot against him. The old man who’d been taking all those pictures? He was a former Tiananmen Square veteran, too — one who was now accused of working as an unregistered agent for Beijing. To Yan, he’s another “victim” of a regime that’s all-too-willing to extend its reach here. “It’s a tragedy, that’s my opinion,” Yan tells me.

And Yan’s case isn’t the only one in which there seem to be shadowy figures just out of frame. Shujun Wang, another longtime Chinese dissident, was convicted in late August of working as Beijing’s spy. The other day, I called his lawyer to ask about a member of the defense team, a man listed in court documents as a paralegal, who was, in fact, a Florida realtor, recently acquitted of rape. What was he doing there? Who was he? “He is nobody,” the lawyer answered.  

These influence campaigns by foreign governments, prosecutors allege, reach all the way down to the lowest levels of state and local government. Take Linda Sun, who started in 2012 as one of the more junior aides out of 200 or so in Governor Andrew Cuomo’s office. The former beauty pageant contestant and Barnard grad, who had come to New York from Nanjing when she was a kid, put in the work as a liaison to the borough of Queens and the state’s Asian American community. She’d help connect constituents to government services, make appearances at Lunar New Year events, write up proclamations, and liaise with foreign consulates. Over the years, she gained leverage. Cuomo’s communications shop — described by one former colleague as “95 percent Caucasian” — relied on Sun to tell them how a state proclamation or press release might resonate in Asian communities.

“She did her job. She went home. Didn’t cause any trouble, never caused any drama. But in hindsight, [there was] a lot of trust in that particular position. Because when you ask her opinion about how something plays, we were asking how it plays in, you know, [the Chinese American neighborhoods of] Sunset Park and Flushing. Not how it played in Beijing,” that source tells me.

By 2015, Sun had a willing ear in Kathy Hochul, the new Lieutenant Governor, who was iced out of Cuomo’s inner circle — and eager to build up her own political constituency. Hochul made sure to attend Chinese American community celebrations and events to promote trade with Beijing. (A Hochul aide notes that she interfaced with all kinds of foreign officials, including a half-dozen such meetings just with the Canadians in 2016.) Sun made sure there were all sorts of meetings Hochul wouldn’t take, wouldn’t even know were offered. For example, prosecutors allege, when officials from the rival government of Taiwan tried to get together with Hochul in D.C. in mid-2016, Sun scheduled talks with Beijing’s representatives instead — and then bragged to the Chinese consulate about what she had done. Hochul began to be quoted favorably and often by Beijing’s official state news agency. Sun started to receive gifts from Chinese officials, prosecutors say: tickets to Carnegie Hall, then a wire transfer for $47,895 for travel expenses. 

As Sun’s responsibilities increased, her profile grew. She worked with legislators when Korean American nail salons were revealed to be serially underpaying their workers. She helped steer money to Asian American groups as threats to them rose during the pandemic.

By 2021, Hochul was governor. Sun had a bigger title, deputy chief of staff, and was displaying sharper elbows. “She felt very emboldened with making sure that there was a focus [on] protecting mainland China’s agendas,” State Assemblyman Ron Kim, who previously held Sun’s community liaison job, recalls. “That was universally understood, because when myself and other[s] carried certain resolutions to celebrate U.S.-Taiwan relations, I got calls from the governor’s office letting me know that the Chinese consulate is very upset with you, and they would prefer if I don’t do such resolutions again.” (Sun has pleaded not guilty to charges she acted as an agent of the Chinese government, and her attorneys declined to comment for this story.) 

This might seem arcane and sort of small-ball. Who cares if some local pol doesn’t issue a Taiwan proclamation? But it’s part of a strategy, says Bethany Allen, author of Beijing Rules, echoing the sentiments of several U.S. officials. “If this is done extensively, consistently, quietly across many states, many state capitals, many state governments, local governments,” Allen tells me, “it can shape the debate. Have a strong downward pressure on the things that China wants to quiet.” 

And it’s a strategy that Beijing is willing to pursue over the long haul — to influence people at the lowest levels of local government, and let those folks rise over time. Back when she was a reporter, Allen broke the news of a suspected Chinese spy in California who cultivated relationships from the political to the romantic with city councilmen, small-town mayors, and at least one Congressman. The spy’s true motivations weren’t uncovered until that Congressman, Rep. Eric Swalwell, was on the verge of joining the House Intelligence Committee and gaining access to some of the nation’s better-protected national secrets. (Swalwell denied any romantic relationship, and a House ethics panel decided to take no action against him after a two-year investigation.)  

Linda Sun’s case never reached that kind of crisis point. But her value to Chinese officials was clear. The wire transfers were in the millions by 2021. The Chinese Consul General in New York — a sharp, genial diplomat named Huang Ping — sent Nanjing-style salted ducks to Sun’s parents, a half-dozen at a time. According to one source, she started showing up with a fresh tan and a new, high-end handbag to every community event. “People were definitely talking about how she went from rags to riches overnight,” Kim tells me. “Her parents lived in a one-bedroom apartment… She was trying to get a mortgage to buy a condo in Flushing, and she could barely get that. But all of a sudden, now she’s living in a mansion.” And in a sweet vacation home, too. Around the same time Sun and her husband bought a $3.6 million home in Manhasset, New York, they also, according to prosecutors, purchased “an ocean-view condominium on the 47th floor of a high rise building in Honolulu, Hawaii, currently valued at approximately $2.1 million.”

SUN AND ADAMS ARE the first local officials to be charged with acting as agents of a foreign power. They probably won’t be the last, or even the last in New York. (“What you saw with the governor in New York, that’s going to be scratching an itch that tickles in a lot of different places,” Bill Evanina, who spent seven years as the federal government’s top counterintelligence official, tells me.) The place has long attracted spies and clandestine power brokers, and not just because of the UN, or Wall Street, or all the corporate headquarters. America’s best city is, not coincidentally, also its most diverse; more than three million of the eight million-plus people living here are foreign-born. Those diasporas are often of intense interest to the countries from which they spring, especially if the countries in question are ruled by authoritarians. The revolutionary movements that took down the Czar, the Chinese Emperor, and the Shah were all incubated overseas. 

These diasporas also can wield outsized power in local politics, too. New York’s election laws are so labyrinthine and complex, with elections held on off-years and on strange dates, that they’re practically designed to keep people from voting. (Ron Kim has 115,000 people living in his district in Queens, for example; fewer than 3,200 of them voted in his contested primary race, which is the only race that matters in a one-party town.) So if any one group gets behind a single candidate, or gins up turnout, or dumps in a lot of money, it can swing an election. Kim faced off against a primary opponent backed by a well-known local community leader who is openly supportive of the Chinese Communist Party. They each poured more than $600,000 into that tiny-turnout primary race. “I felt this was a clear effort to get a political seat for a person who is loyal to their agenda,” Kim says. “This isn’t about lawmaking in [the state capital of] Albany, but it’s about being the power broker of Flushing that will give them credibility and access.”

This is all happening in a place where the politics are — there’s no other way to put this — corrupt as fuck. The five federal investigations reportedly swirling around Adams and his closest associates involve everyone from the police commissioner to the schools chancellor to his top fundraisers to a pair of deputy mayors. Adams’ immediate predecessor, de Blasio, dodged indictment for violating campaign finance laws, but not by much. After leaving office, former mayor Rudy Giuliani took money from a North Korean gangster and then worked with a man he admitted was likely a Russian spy. Long Island’s George Santos was expelled from Congress after less than a year; he recently pleaded guilty to identity theft and wire fraud. One of Santos’ bigger Republican critics on the Island, Rep. Anthony D’Esposito, was just exposed for giving Congressional jobs to his lover and his fiancée’s daughter. 

You get the idea: plenty of politicians with their hands out; elections practically designed to be swayed by small groups; those small groups susceptible to foreign infiltration and pressure, because they’ve all got family back home. “New York would be at the top of the list in terms of foreign governments, foreign regimes wanting to target,” says Casey Michel, author of the newly published Foreign Agents. “Especially New York City. I don’t think it’s any surprise that the major investigation into a municipal authority as a target of potential foreign influence is Adams.”

So let’s talk about the mayor. Adams has been ducking corruption allegations — and playing diaspora politics — for more than 15 years. According to the New York Times, a grand jury in July issued subpoenas related to Adams’ ties to six different countries: China, Qatar, South Korea, Israel, Uzbekistan, and, of course, Turkey. In his role as Brooklyn Borough President, Adams attended almost 80 events connected with Turkey, and at least 50 more celebrating China. Some of those events actually upset his Turkish government contacts, according to the indictment. In 2016, a Turkish official told Adams that a community center he used to visit “was affiliated with a Turkish political movement that was hostile to Turkey’s government… If Adams wished to continue receiving support from the Turkish government, Adams could no longer associate with the community center. Adams acquiesced.”

Adams also met multiple times with Huang Ping, the Chinese Consul General who prosecutors later identified as Linda Sun’s handler. And the politicking seemingly continued overseas. Adams took 13 separate trips to Turkey and China, which is a lot of travel to those two specific nations, considering borough presidents don’t really have foreign policy roles. “It’s totally appropriate,” he said after the first of the trips to China, in 2014. “I’m not going to be a MetroCard borough president — I’m going to be a passport borough president.”

City Hall won’t say what all of the trips were for. (They didn’t respond to requests to comment for this story.) The alleged purpose of the Turkey trips, at least, is now less murky after the indictment’s release.When it comes to the others, here’s what we can say for sure: We know that one of Adams’ China travel partners, his longtime Asian community liaison Winnie Greco, had her former campaign office and several of her homes raided by the FBI. We know that Greco and another Adams crony met separately in Fuzhou, the capital of Fujian province, with the man later indicted for operating that secret Chinese police station out of a Fujianese expat society in Manhattan. We know that Adams and Greco appeared onstage at a gala for that charity — the American Changle Association, named for a famed neighborhood in Fuzhou — shortly before it was exposed as a secret police front bythe New York Post. We know Adams was with Association bigwig Lu Jianwang days before Lu was arrested in the secret police affair. We know, thanks to local news outlet The City, that 121 workers at the New World Mall in Queens, the site of Greco’s 2021 campaign office, made donations to Adams of precisely $249 each, one buck below the limit for eight-times public matching funds. Several donors said they were reimbursed in cash, or had no idea they had been listed as contributors at all. This has all the hallmarks of illegal straw donations, as Adams’ team surely knows.One Chinese billionaire who gave money to Adams (and hosted his 60th birthday party) recently pleaded guilty to such charges. 

MAYBE ALL OF THESE connections were on the up-and-up. Maybe Adams’ trips to China and extremely odd donations from his campaign office in Flushing were no more nefarious than the 70-plus flag-raising ceremonies for various countries he’s attended in his two-and-a-half years as mayor. Maybe it’s an accident of scheduling that Huang Ping, the Chinese Consul General, asked him to blow off a banquet with the Taiwanese president and Adams wound up doing just that. Adams may have rubbed elbows with people who were later indicted as foreign agents in groups like the American Changle Association, where voters gather for an old-country meal or speak in their parents’ dialect. There’s hardly an elected official in New York who didn’t make such a visit, or get his picture taken at some point with Huang. Of course they did. Huang was a gregarious, effective, charming diplomat. He may be accused of secretly handling alleged agents like Linda Sun, but chatting up local politicians was most definitely Huang’s job.  

You don’t have to be some kind of simp for Beijing to find this kind of criminalization of foreign influence a little hypocritical, given all the governments the U.S. helped overthrow in the past century. You’re not necessarily an abolish-the-police type if you think the feds have gone overboard in their hunt for Chinese agents. “We’re not China. We’re supposedly a free country, and the government should take more care in prosecuting and, in turn, persecuting people,” John Liu, a state senator from Queens, tells me. This is personal for him. While he was gearing up to run for mayor more than a decade ago, the FBI ran a sting on him and his donors, part of a straw-donor probe he says was oh-so-subtly named “Operation Red Money.” They did find some straw donors, and a top aide did go to jail. But Liu himself was only fined $26,000 — proof, he says, that the whole investigation was overheated. Nor is it a one-off. Liu points to cases like Baimadajie Angwang, the cop accused of spying for China, only to have the charges dropped without explanation. By that time, the NYPD had fired him. “You know what? It wouldn’t be so bad if the government pursued these cases, made them as visible as they intentionally make them, and actually had a pretty good record of success,” Liu says. “It bothers me that there’s no accountability of any kind. You know, the government does this, and it doesn’t matter how many lives are ruined [or] the impact on the wider community.” 

There’s no question there’s been overreach, including horror stories of Chinese Americans interrogated by the FBI, seemingly for no reason at all. “We should absolutely oppose any effort by any foreign government to undermine our American society, our way of life, our democracy,” says Rep. Grace Meng, who hired Linda Sun when she was in the State Assembly and now represents a large part of Queens in the U.S. Congress. But “there’s a lot of fear right now in the Asian American community,” she adds. “Every day, young, professional Asian Americans are really scared that these harmful stereotypes are being fueled… [by] questions that are asked only of us.”

As overzealous as some prosecutors may have been, though, and as ugly our recent turn toward anti-China and anti-immigrant politics, there are too many of these foreign influence cases, tied to so many different outside actors, to brush off. A former Republican Congressman is under indictment for covertly working for Venezuela’s dictator. A major Trump fundraiser pleaded guilty to doing the same on behalf of the Chinese and Malaysian government officials, in a case so weird and sprawling, a member of the Fugees wound up with a foreign agent conviction as part of it. Things are so bad, the guy that’s supposed to be leading the investigations into these cases in New York — the head of the state’s FBI counterintelligence division — was himself sentenced earlier this year to federal prison for doing the bidding of a sanctioned Russian oligarch. The MAGA crowd can whine all they want about the #resistance obsession with “Russia, Russia, Russia.” Folks on the political left can roll their eyes at what feels like a Trumpy obsession with Chinese influence, or another red scare. It takes a kind of willful blindness not to see a pattern here. Liu, for one, called on Adams to resign after prosecutors unveiled their indictment which showed just how deep the mayor’s ties to Turkey went.

“This isn’t a Republican problem or a Democratic problem — it’s completely bipartisan,“ Michel tells me. “And as we’re now seeing, it’s not just one level of government these regimes are targeting. It’s everyone.”

For half a century, the American government hardly bothered to enforce the Foreign Agents Registration Act, which requires influence-peddlers to disclose their overseas clients, at least. That changed after the 2016 election, when Trump recruited the O.G. of scummy foreign lobbying, Paul Manafort, to run his campaign and publicly begged for a dictator’s help to win. The Department of Justice went on to prosecute Manafort and so many others — from the Russian troll farm to the white-shoe law firm Skadden, Arps — for breaking that law. Brandon van Grack, who oversaw many of those prosecutions as head of the Justice Department’s Foreign Agents Registration Act unit, says the apparent surge in cases we’re seeing, eight years later, is a result of that 2016 wake-up call. He credits “greater resources and tools to identify and disrupt those influence operations than an increase in the operations themselves,” adding, “Foreign influence is not novel.”

It’s not exactly dying down, either. A few years ago, you might have thought that prosecuting folks like Manafort would at least serve as a warning shot. The sheer range of regimes trying to influence the 2024 election paints a different picture, and I don’t just mean the fact that Manafort is a free man and doing Fox News hits from the Republican convention. “I would say that a couple things are true in this specific situation. Yes, there are more investigations, because there are allowed to be. And I think our adversaries are more brazen than they have ever been,” Evanina, the former counterintelligence chief, tells me. 

There’s a good argument that the number of prosecutions isn’t even the right metric to gauge foreign influence. Registering as an overseas lobbyist — dodging a FARA charge — that’s the easy part. More than 1,000 foreign principals have done so since 2016, spending more than $5.5 billion to whisper in lawmakers’ ears. At least 90 former members of Congress have registered since 2000 to push another government’s agenda. Scores of U.S. generals and admirals have taken jobs with foreign governments in the last decade, with Saudi Arabia alone hiring 15 retired flag officers. Biden talked in 2020 about banning former officials from lobbying for foreign powers. It was just talk.  

The Supreme Court in recent years has radically raised the bar on bribery cases, and functionally removed any restrictions on campaign spending. That’s allowed Americans closely aligned with foreign governments to make enormous investments in shaping U.S. policy. The best known of these are the lobbyists pushing the agenda of Israeli leader Benjamin Netanyahu, who gave over a million dollars to the now-convicted Sen. Menendez, even after he was indicted, and spent millions more on successful primary campaigns to knock out two of Israel’s few critics in Congress. None of this violates any laws. But maybe that’s beside the point. The real foreign influence scandal, Michel tells me, is how much of it is “perfectly legal.” 

If you’re mad at outside actors for exploiting America’s system, don’t be. The United States is still the world’s biggest power; of course every other nation is going to try to pull us in their direction. Try directing your anger a little closer to home. All of these politicians on the take, we voted for them. The bullshit China or Iran pumps out on TikTok? It’s downright factual compared to the nonsense we Americans push one another. And if you think a guy like Eric Adams is an outlier with his, shall we say, open-minded approach to campaign finance and outside influences, allow me to introduce you to the Republican nominee for president and his inner circle. The Congress we elected has bottled up nearly every attempt to close these foreign-funding loopholes. The campaigns we supported went along with the Supreme Court’s decision to make elections a feeding frenzy. This is a choice. Collectively, we made it.

IN THE HOURS AFTER Linda Sun and her husband were charged as Chinese agents on Sept. 3, Gov. Hochul urged the U.S. government to expel Sun’s alleged handler, Consul General Huang Ping, and a State Department spokesperson claimed that Huang had “rotated out of the position.” Yet on the night of Sept. 5, at Manhattan’s storied Plaza Hotel, Huang Ping appeared onstage at the China Institute’s $2,500-per-ticket Blue Cloud gala, looking rather dapper in a well-tailored tuxedo. Pictures were posted to the consulate’s website two days later. “Consul General Huang Ping is performing his duties as normal,” read a statement sent out to reporters.

A few hours after he was indicted, Huang’s longtime interlocutor Eric Adams promised to do much the same. “My attorneys will take care of the case, so I can take care of this city,” he said. “My day to day will not change.” 

[cubestrahm]

»{ Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm }« ✦ { ao3 }

«- previous chapter

✦ Summary: This moment in time feels inevitable. It is as though Peter was always meant to wind up in the crushing dark with Mark Hoffman, tangled in a deadly situation that neither man can escape from unscathed. ✦ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ✦ Content/tags: Background Angelina Acomb/Lindsey Perez, Alternate Universe - Diners, Canonical Character Death, Canon Typical Gore, Detailed Descriptions of Wounds, Improper Wound Care, Non-Sexual Nudity, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Feeding Kink, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Divorced Peter Strahm, Murder, Masturbation, John Kramer is still jigging his saw ✦ Word count: 7576 ✦ Status: Multi-chapter | 4/4 | Complete ✦ Author's note: Man, those guys really are freaks.

Music plays on the radio, too low to effectively cover up the wet breathing laboriously emanating less than a foot away from Strahm’s right elbow. Peter doesn’t dare turn the dial up any higher. If he can’t hear Hoffman, he thinks he might indulge himself in hysterics. The high of killing Seth Baxter is fading away, leaving him alone with his thoughts. And Strahm is beginning to envision that his own brain had slipped out of his skull and into the creek to nestle amongst the small stones. It’s the only rationale he can come up with to explain his actions.

He doesn’t regret killing another human being with nothing more than his hands and the man’s own knife while Hoffman held him aloft as if he were the hound who had caught the fox for the hunter to gut. That’s the troubling part—the lack of remorse. Mark has already shown Peter his bottomless well of emotion. The retired FBI agent can easily picture him sobbing over every Jigsaw victim, soaking their mangled corpses with his tears. None of the salty drops will ever prove to be magic. The dead will never stand up again in anything but a box.

Painted marks change from yellow to white and then finally to nothing at all once Peter flips the signal and turns the wheel for his street. The eyes of a raccoon flash in the headlights. Strahm watches as the animal dives into the storm drain. He thinks about being in that confined space. He thinks of Baxter trapped beneath the soil in the woods that they had left behind.

Strahm pulls into the driveway right behind his own Vic, purposefully too close. The nose of the car is scant inches from the back bumper of the other. Any more pressure off the brake and the two vehicles would have made contact. His hands feel sticky when he takes them of the wheel.

Hoffman is half-comatose in the passenger seat. The seat belt is the only thing holding him in when Peter opens the door. For a moment, a brief fantasy, Strahm thinks about leaving him in in the car and calling the police. He doesn’t. He won’t. They’re bound by what they have done.

If he were a better man, a less selfish one, he would have driven to the nearest station and wrestled Mark inside so that he could turn them both in. In another life, Strahm would have let his theories consume him. He would have died in the name of his conviction. It doesn’t matter to him what Hoffman might be. Not now.

Their hands are tainted with the same soil. He can still catch the lingering taste of the other man’s blood in the pits of his teeth if he brushes his tongue over them in just the right way.

Jabbing Mark’s shoulder with his finger doesn't illicit more than a low, acknowledging whine from the detective. Getting him into the house is going to be a feat that Peter is not looking forward to.

“Can you unbuckle yourself?”

Sluggishly, the other man nods. His head lulls to the side, giving Strahm a view of his glassy eyes. His movements are slow, uncoordinated. Peter watches as Mark tries and fails to undo the seat belt. He thinks of Mark’s hand over his, steadying him enough to unlock the front door of the diner, and sighs. He should return the favor.

Under the heavy blanket of the night’s darkness, Strahm ducks his head to clear the edge of the roof and leans over the detective to release the buckle himself. For once, his hands do not shake. He’s steadier than he’s been in a long time. Underneath his own stomach, he can feel the rise and fall of Mark’s abdomen. He doesn’t allow himself to linger. Every moment that passes is accompanied by another pulse of blood from the detective’s ruined cheek. Eventually he’s going to run dry.

Stabilizing the other man with firm hands, he helps him out of the seat. Mark stumbles upright, laying the bulk of himself across Peter’s offered shoulder. If Strahm were less physically capable, he’d have crumpled underneath the weight. As it is, he’s shuffling up the strip of sidewalk with bent knees and the awareness that his back is going to be shot to hell. Hoffman is doing very little in the way of supporting himself.

The three steps leading onto the front porch are nearly their undoing. Briefly, Peter considers laying his burden down upon them and leaving him to whatever fate meets him first. Only the thought of Lindsey’s disappointed face makes him suck it up and mount the stairs. His cargo lets out a grunt like an upset boar with each altitude increase.

While Strahm is fighting to get his house key out of the front pocket of his jeans and into the lock of the rental, Mark presses a sloppy, broken mouth against his cheek in a bastardized kiss. Peter nearly drops him. The other man’s ruined cheek skin drags across his shoulder. Blood and saliva smear over the jacket’s leather. He hears the detective sigh contentedly, as though he’s a girl being walked to the front door after a date.

Peter doesn’t have it in himself to feel repulsed. There is a not so reluctant part of him that wants to turn his head, to chase the other man with his own mouth. He wonders what it would feel like to sink his teeth into that dangling flap of flesh and rip it clean off—to swallow a part of Mark and have more than just a taste of him.

He and his burden stumble through the door. In the effort to not knock the detective clean out of his grasp, Strahm scrapes himself on the frame. The impact against his bruised shoulder makes him wince. He’s never been so thankful that his living space is so small as the two men complete their journey to the couch. Hoffman hits cushions with a sharp exhale.

“Stay,” Peter orders, voice hoarse.

Leaving the detective behind, he heads to the cramped kitchen. He washes his hands in the sink after throwing his jacket over one of the two dining chairs. Baxter’s blood and the dirt in which they buried him mix with the soapy water and circle the drain. Staring blankly at his wet hands, he turns the faucet off. He has no script, no plan. All he knows is that he has to do something about the man actively bleeding out in his living room. Strahm can’t take him to the hospital for treatment. Neither of them can go. It’s not each other’s blood lodged into the deep recesses of their nail beds and worked into the pores of their skin. It would be simpler if it were. Their mutually shed blood could be waved aside as a disgusting act of love rather than a crime involving a third party. Not to say that affection hadn’t been privy to their deciding actions in that case. Seth Baxter had ended up being one unlucky bastard.

Yanking the junk drawer in his kitchen open, Peter proceeds to dig through it. He nearly impales his finger on a rouge thumbtack while trying to find a lighter and a specific plastic compact. Before ducking back into the living room, he makes a grab for the roll of paper towels on the counter by the sink and the bottle of vodka he keeps around for cleaning his coffee pot.

Ribbons of mangled flesh gleam sickeningly in the lamplight of Strahm’s front room. They might as be filming a low-budget horror film in the retired FBI agent’s rental home. He doesn’t have any confidence that the scene will be looking any better after he gets the other man patched up. Their clothes, at a minimum, are going to be a lost cause. He doesn’t even want to think about the mess that he’s going to be mopping up once everything is all said and done.

Juggling his supplies, he pushes the stacks of papers and clutter to the side to clear a spot on his coffee table. He ignores the objects that fall to the floor and sits down on the wood surface. His knees slot on either side of Hoffman’s. He dumps the armful of items on the couch beside the man given half a Glasow smile.

“Why didn’t you pat the fucker down?” he grumbles, ripping off a paper towel and wetting it with a generous dose of vodka. “Don’t move or I’m leaving you to get gangrene.”

A wet gurgle, a grievously injured man’s attempt at a laugh, reaches his ears. They both know he wouldn’t leave Hoffman to rot away. He hates that he’s predictable, hates that Mark has come to know him enough to see through his false threats. Strahm presses the dampened paper towel to the underside of the detective's jaw, gathering up the torn biological material. There’s an undeniable jolt of satisfaction at the way the other man flinches at the sting.

Without warning, he pours alcohol directly on Hoffman’s injury. The other man’s hands shoot to Peter’s sides. Mark lets out a guttural shout from the pain. Bloody froth works its way between his exposed molars. The fingers digging into the tender skin below Peter’s ribs squeeze tighter as he makes sure to wash the wound clean until he can clearly see the white enamel of Mark’s teeth through his cheek. He wants to gather the small things up and keep them in a little wooden box to tip out onto his palm and savor the way they rattle together.

By the time he sets the bottle aside on the coffee table, Hoffman’s shirt is soaked in vodka. There is a growing puddle on the floor that he’ll need to throw a towel over later. For now, he pins the torn bits of skin against Mark’s face. Maintaining pressure with the thoroughly soaked paper towel, he grabs at one of the detective’s hands and guides it to the injury. Peter has him replace his hand with his own.

“Keep pressure on that. Harder,” he snaps when he doesn’t see the man’s dirt smeared knuckles bleach white. Mark obeys with a pained grunt. His eyes are clear and unwavering as he looks back at Peter.

“... fuck’s tha?” he slurs when he sees Strahm pick up the pink compact and lighter.

“Sewing kit. Lindsey insisted I have it. Never needed to use it until tonight.”

Projecting false nonchalance, he pops the lid of the compact open and withdraws a needle. Threading it is a clumsy affair that does nothing to soothe his building concerns. The retired agent has never sewn before in his life. Home economics had been required for the girls when he had been in school too many decades ago. He, along with the other boys, had been assigned shop. Tonight is going to be one hell of a crash course, especially since he will be using his non-dominant hand to do most of the more delicate work.

Before passing the needle through the lighter flame, he rubs alcohol over the pointed piece of metal as well as the thread. He can only hope this will sanitize everything. Peter is not a surgeon, he is fully aware he doesn’t know a goddamn thing beyond basic first aid. Looking at the needle, he’s realizes that he is not even sure if it is the right kind. He always remembers seeing curved ones in the medical shows Perez occasionally forces him to watch while they get plastered. He'll have to make do.

Strahm leans forward again and peels Hoffman’s hand off of his face. Mark lets it flop onto the armrest. The detective’s other hand has migrated downwards to Peter’s hip. His thumb is tucked into the diner owner’s belt loop. The weight of it is a unique comfort to have while he embarks on the task ahead of him.

Examining the carnage, he ignores the throbbing pain in his own neck. He hasn’t taken the time to check on the damage. As loathe as he is to admit it, Mark’s well-being has been placed above his own.

Without preamble, Peter eases the fingers of his right hand into the detective’s mouth. His index and middle fingers nestle in alongside Mark’s teeth. The knuckles press against them like two lovers in one gave. He uses his thumb to stabilize the outside of the torn tissue while his pinky delicately tucks itself under the point of the other man’s chin. Mark sits patiently.

This moment reminds Strahm of their moment at the diner. He tries and fails to avoid thinking about the way the low lights had reflected in Mark’s eyes—about the way the other man had obediently opened his mouth for whatever Peter was willing to give him. Like he had then, Mark accepts what he is being offered with nothing but silent encouragement and slack jaw.

He slips the needle into detective’s ruined face, starting at where the injury comes to a halt near his ear. With how open the other man’s mouth is going to have to be, starting at the corner of Mark’s lips would be a mistake. Strahm would be liable to rip the threads through the mutilated tissue with every inexperienced movement.

Every stitch feels like a vow. Peter is leaving a tangible sign on the other man, a claim. He’s glad for his fingers being tucked inside Hoffman’s mouth. The tip of the needle finds them every few stabs, making it clear he would have been scraping against Mark’s teeth and gums if he had tried to sew the skin shut without a buffer and means of stabilizing it.

Is he drawing his own blood? Can Hoffman taste the difference?

With each section of tissue that is mended together, Mark pulls him impossibly closer until Peter is all but straddling his lap. They are nearly pressed chest against chest. The burning in his thighs is almost unbearable as he is stretched wide over Hoffman’s thick legs.

This close, it’s impossible to ignore the minute flinches of Mark’s body. He doesn't miss the way his eyes tense at the corners.

Strahm slips his digits free of the warmth of Hoffman’s mouth to re-thread the needle. While he hastily ties off the line of sutures with spit-slick fingers, Peter casts a critical eye at the work he’s just done. It is shoddy enough workmanship that he feels compelled to try to reassure the detective.

“I got you.” It’s intended to be soothing, but it comes out as possessive. “I got you.”

Mark smiles, newly done stitches pulling tight—they hold. I know, his eyes say. There is a gleam in them like the one he’d had when he told Peter he didn’t share on that Saturday morning. It feels as though it had happened a lifetime ago.

More confident this time, he tucks his fingers back into the inside of Mark’s cheek. The sutured skin underneath his fingertips is bumpy and slick. His digits settle into place as if they belong in the wet cavern of Hoffman’s mouth.

Ropes of fluid coat Peter’s wrist, trickling down his forearm to dribble off his elbow. Mark is drooling, hot and messy around his fingers. The saliva is tinged with a pink hue. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels the detective prod at the space between his knuckles with his tongue. Almost unconsciously, he parts the digits enough for the wet muscle to slide in, to find a home in the apex of Strahm’s fingers. The other man lets out a satisfied noise. It’s obscene the way that Strahm’s body wants to respond.

While trying to focus solely on the stitches he is putting in the other man’s face rather than the hints of arousal he’s feeling, Strahm becomes aware that the TV is still on. He hadn’t hit the power button on the remote when he had left with Mark. His mind had been on other things. Now, the sound of it ebbs and flows with their mutually ragged breathing.

As close as he is to Hoffman, Strahm can almost taste the blood coating the other man’s mouth for himself. The dull copper scent tinged with the acidic burn of Mark’s pain-flooded saliva floods his senses. Again, he withdraws his hand and re-threads, trying to clear his head. He loses count of how many times he repeats the motion. His world contains nothing else but the man he’s trying to sew together. He might as well be all the king’s horses and men trying in vain to mend a broken body.

Finally, he removes his fingers from the detective’s mouth and ties off the final stitch. The needle with its last scrap of thread gets tossed somewhere beside Peter on the surface he’s sitting on. He’s bound to step on the fucking thing later when it inevitably rolls onto the floor.

Overwhelmed with relief and wrung out from adrenaline, he presses his forehead against Mark’s. They sit for a moment, noses tucked side by side before Strahm comes back to himself. He extracts his body from the other man.

Pins and needles trace uncomfortable fingers up his legs, all the way to the aching joints of his hips. Mark watches him. The detective’s eyes are burning bright with an emotion Peter can’t bring himself to name. Avoiding Hoffman’s gaze, the retired agent examines his work with a furrowed brow.

He doesn’t think he would have done any better of a job using his dominant hand rather than his left to stitch the injury shut. The wound is jagged and uneven. It’s swollen around clumsy stitches of yellow, white, pink, red, and black. Peter had been forced to use damn near every scrap of thread in the kit to hold the detective’s face closed. His cheek looks like a disgusting quilt made of human flesh.

“Get up. I’m not letting you into bed like this,” he says, finally jabbing at the power button on the television’s remote with a filthy finger.

At Peter’s words, Mark’s face twitches like it wants to split open again. Another wet laugh issues from him. Strahm feels like Frankenstein—standing upright while his monster gazes up at him from the seat of creation.

A smug expression lingers around the non-mangled parts of Hoffman’s face as he heaves himself off the couch to follow Strahm to the small bathroom. He thinks he can feel Mark’s panting breaths on the back of his neck.

Peter catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and smothers a grimace in its cradle. He’s smeared with the blood of two other men as well as his own. Baxter had busted him up badly. There is already bruising blossoming across his face in deep purple tones—almost black—and ringed by every other possible hue of the rainbow. It makes him sick to think of Angelina bearing marks from the same man.

He would gladly experience this night all over again to keep Seth’s hands away from the young woman, personal feelings aside. Strahm’s only regret will be if this ends up affecting Lindsey. He and Hoffman deserve whatever consequences they will inevitably have coming for them.

Leaning forward and tilting his head to the side to expose the column of his neck, Peter finally takes a look his own injury. His skin is adorned with dark clots in some areas and flaking with old blood in others. The cause of his pain is a puncture wound. It’s deep, but not to the point of being life threatening. If the retired agent had been any less lucky, he would have had a hole punched right through his throat like some sort of back-alley tracheotomy.

There had been some branches in the creek. Perhaps one of those had been the lucky culprit.

“We’ll take turns,” he grits out. It feels as though he’s trying to speak around an object in his throat. Swelling, if he here to guess.

Not trusting the other man to figure out the shower any time in the present century, he shoves the curtain aside and fusses with the faucet. The water kicks on with a rattle that doesn’t cover the distinct sound of a belt jangling. Strahm whips around. Fresh blood leaks from the wound in his neck from the abrupt motion.

He finds that Mark has slid the suspenders off his broad shoulders and is working on pulling the belt from the loops of his slacks with bloody hands. He’s struggling, unable to get his fingers to cooperate enough to feed the leather through. Against his better judgment, Peter closes the distance between them. He’s too tired to fight with himself.

“Let me do it,” he says and pushes his currently more capable hands underneath Mark’s.

Hoffman surrenders without hesitation, hands falling away at his sides. He leans forward and presses his face into the crook of Strahm’s neck. The diner owner feels him nuzzle into the brutalized flesh, settling against him. His breaths are even—hot and damp—against Peter’s skin.

“Get the fuck off me,” he protests without any bite. They both know he doesn’t mean it.

Strahm makes no attempt to push the detective off of himself. If anything, he angles his face closer until his cheek is resting against the other man’s head. It’s a quiet intimacy. One that is distinctly different to the feverish interaction they’d shared together in the diner before the call came, or even to the comfort he’d allowed in the wake of Lindsey’s injury. They’re in this moment, together.

Not allowing himself to get lost in his own head, he sets to undressing the other man. This will be a shameful first for him.

Carefully, he works the belt free of the loops. The backs of his fingers brush against the overhang of Mark’s stomach. The leather object gets discarded to the tiled floor with a ringing clatter.

Gaining confidence about stripping the other man now that he’s started, Peter pulls Mark’s shirt free of the waistband. His fingers find the dress shirt’s buttons. The small, pearly things remind him of the detective’s teeth. Strahm can feel the phantom texture of them against the back of his hand and he shudders at the feeling of heat once again making itself known inside of him—desire.

His body’s aroused interest in Hoffman hasn’t fully waned since feeling the broad man lick between his fingers. The current situation is doing nothing to change that. He hates that the gore-smeared state of them isn’t enough to put him off. If anything, Hoffman being so disheveled is a fucked up bonus, even if he would have preferred to have been the one to tear him open.

There’s always next time, he thinks. There’s a prick of shame but it’s overwhelmed by his mouth flooding with saliva at the idea of the two of them mutually fighting each other. He thinks about how easily Mark had held him in place in the hospital’s family lounge, how he had weathered Strahm’s fists before rocking him with a headbutt that sent him straining against the detective’s grip. They wouldn’t have to hold back. He almost thinks he’s going to vomit on the other man’s feet. He swallows down the idea. With a painful pinching sensation in his neck, he clears his throat, settles the creature in his chest—muzzles it.

Down. Stay. Wait.

Mark lets out a breathy exhale as Strahm lets his fingertips drag from one button to the next. All too soon, he’s pushing the saturated shirt off Hoffman’s shoulders to join the belt on the floor. He rubs his work-calloused hands down the other man’s torso, telling himself that he’s checking for other injuries when in reality he’s feeling something else entirely. He’s testing the softness he finds, presses down hard enough to feel the sheer solid bulk of the muscles lurking underneath the padding. If the detective really wanted to, he could overpower Strahm. But like this, he’s a tame dog.

Strahm is of the opinion that if Mark had a tail, it would be wagging hard enough to match the huffing exhalations when Peter finds the button of Hoffman’s slacks and pops it free of the buttonhole. He splays the other man’s pants open. His hand spans wide over the firm bulge of him. Mark is warm underneath his palm.

“Arms up,” he orders, tone low. He feels hungry for the reveal of Hoffman’s unclothed skin. Frighteningly so.

Without moving from his position against Strahm, Mark obeys his dictation. Peter angles himself to watch as the detective’s hands pull his soiled undershirt up over his stomach and his tits—all the way up to his chin. His chest all but spills out, made more eye-catching by the thick scar dipping into the valley between his pecs. Hoffman parts from him only enough so that the once white shirt can be extracted over his head. As soon as it lands on the floor with the other articles of clothing, Mark reclaims his spot in the crook of Peter’s neck.

His hands return to Mark’s body, the skin now laid bare. It’s sweat-slick and soft. Bitable. He would bruise so easily with the right attention.

Already, Strahm can see the marks from Angie’s ex blooming across the expanse of his shoulders. An ugly sense of ownership gnaws at him. Peter wants to devour the man resting against him, wants to lick the juices off his fingers like Mark had when he’d sucked on the retired agent’s fingers. His nails dig into the detective’s back, just enough to dimple the skin.

He feels a sudden shock of wet heat against his skin. Mark is licking him. The detective is laving his tongue over the side of his throat, over the column of his neck.

“You’re disgusting.” It comes out as almost a whisper.

Mark hums. Peter can feel the vibrations in his own throat. He feels a hint of teeth.

Suppressing a groan, he nearly shakes apart under the exploratory mouthing. The wound in his neck is pulsing, all but begging for attention. Hoffman gives Strahm what he needs by brushing the flatness of his tongue over the puncture hole in steady strokes.

With hands that are beginning to tremble, he pushes Hoffman’s pants down over his wide pelvis to pool at their feet. He doesn’t yet dare to work his way underneath the other man’s underwear. Strahm settles for keeping his hands on Mark’s hips. His thumbs idly trace back and forth over the swell of his sides, catching on the stretch marks that arc like lightning over the soft flesh.

Hoffman retracts his tongue back into his mouth, but his attention doesn’t stop. Strahm feels him run his hooked nose over his jaw, almost as if he’s scenting him. The hair on Peter’s forearms stands on end.

“Your turn.” The detective’s voice rumbles in Peters ear, teeth nearly brushing against his earlobe. The edges to his already rounded vocals are softened, nearly smoothed into a stranger’s slurred voice by the destruction of his cheek.

“Why should I get naked with you? You’re going first. Guest privileges.” He tries to keep the emotion that is thrumming in his veins out of his voice. He must not be doing a very good job going by the way Mark chuckles lowly. Strahm feels Hoffman scrape his ear in a deliberate motion before speaking again.

“It’s only fair.”

A hand rises to cup the back of his neck. It shifts lower and Peter has the warning sensation of fingers tucking themselves under the edge of his shirt before the other man grips onto the fabric. The collar of the shirt presses tight against Strahm’s throat. Where Mark’s mouth had been gentle against the damaged skin, the material is rough. Clearly, the other man isn’t willing to budge on this issue.

“Calm down, motherfucker,” he mutters, to himself or Mark? He doesn’t know. He’s willing himself to have no adverse reaction.

Peter is interested in the detective, that much had been made clear. He knows Mark is interested in him—he’d nearly given him a blowjob and is intent on physical contact alongside emotional support. They have gone so far as to have killed someone together. Peter reasons he can remove at least some of his own clothing.

He hasn’t been naked with another man in this way. He hasn’t been with anyone really. Even with his ex-wives, Peter had been inclined to as stay dressed as possible. In the handful of times he had managed sex during either marriage, he had been so disconnected from the moment. If either woman had tried to cuddle with him afterward, there was only so long he could stand to be pressed against them before he’d rolled away or had gone so far as to remove himself from the room entirely. The intimacy had felt wrong—made him feel wrong.

Strahm is sure a shrink would have a field day with him. There is plenty of fodder to be had with the years of workplace trauma and his stabs at being a socially normal, heterosexual man. He won’t be calling the number printed on the business card sliding around in his junk drawer, courtesy of Perez. He would sooner join her Wednesday night yoga class.

His hands are not nearly as steady as they were earlier when he takes them off of Mark and seeks out the hem of his own t-shirt. The other man stands back and watches him with an interest in his eyes that makes Peter want to turn away with hunched shoulders for the fear he will somehow be a disappointment. He feels as though the walls are closing in on him, but he forces himself to pull the item of clothing off over his head. He tosses it aside to join the pile on the floor.

Abruptly, he realizes the shower is still running. His water bill. Fuck.

Running on a sudden surge of adrenaline at the thought of his bank account swirling down the drain, Peter crouches and pulls off his socks. He grabs each of Mark’s calves in turn and does the same for him. He rises and steps out of his jeans. Both men are left in their underwear. Strahm’s mind is screaming at him without words. Holding his breath, he closes his eyes and pushes his boxer-briefs off. A not so distant part of himself thinks it would have been easier to just let himself drown in the creek.

He hears the rustle of fabric and feels the sudden heat of Hoffman against his body. The other man’s hand brushes over his shoulder, fingers dipping into the curve of his clavicle. There’s the ghost of a mouth against his cheek before the detective passes him. He’s tugged along in the wake of him by a hand curling around his wrist.

If he doesn’t look, he can pretend he isn’t truly laid bare and vulnerable. Peter opens his eyes. He’s never been good at saving himself. He gets a glimpse of Mark’s exposed shoulder and the swirl of ink under the skin before he makes himself stare elsewhere.

The water is just shy of being warm, but he still relaxes into it. A hand flattening itself against his ribs startles him into looking away from the smooth white side of the shower to face Mark.

“What?” he asks.

With his free hand, Hoffman points at the bottle of body wash and the rag draped over the top of it. The lukewarm spray had been enough to distract Strahm from the reason they needed to be in the confined space. Peter drizzles soap over the cloth and hands the foaming rag to the other man. Their fingers brush as Hoffman takes it from him.

Mark’s thumb brushes over his side, making a second pass over the uneven bump of Strahm’s rib. The bone had been broken early on in his life—a stray baseball during a match had impacted with his torso. He had played through the pain. His team had won. Regardless of the obstacles, Strahm has always sought victory. Even as everything has changed, there are some things that never will. Some dogs never learn.

Jaw clenching, Peter tries not to flinch as Hoffman rubs the rag over him rather than over his own body. He lets the detective carefully scrub over his chest without complaint. He watches on as Mark soaps up the hair there and turns the washcloth a pale pink from the blood that is being wiped away. He works his way upwards. The careful attention he gives to the area around Strahm’s neck wound is painfully tender. The retired FBI agent can feel his own hands twitch at his sides.

Neither man speaks, even as Mark drags the cloth over Peter’s flanks and guides him with the hand still on his side to turn around to wash his back. He feels the other man pause every once in a while to note old injuries as he finds them. He gets the distinct impression that Mark is making a map of his body. Hoffman is as careful with those damaged patches of tissue as he was with his neck—the pressure of his hand becomes featherlight and precise. It makes Strahm want to hit him.

He wants to feel the pop of the stitches under his knuckles just to sew the man up again. They could engage in an endless cycle of pain and comfort.

Strahm finds himself startled out of the reluctant trance the other man is putting him in by Mark pushing the rag into the palm of Peter’s slack hand. He takes it, meeting the detective’s expectant eyes. His turn.

Buying himself some time, Strahm resoaps the rag. It’s too much gel. A trickle of it goes sliding off the fabric to be lost on the floor of the shower. His hands contain none of the steadiness he’d had when sewing up the other man’s face when he presses the washcloth to his body. Mark’s contented exhale and fluttering of his eyelids do nothing for Peter’s rush of nerves. He can feel heat flooding to his face. The scar on his cheek feels as though it’s tugging at the flesh.

Peter’s pulse jumps when Mark tilts his head back, baring his gore smeared throat for him to pass the rag down. He’s not as careful with Mark as the detective had been with him. It’s not in his nature to be so gentle. There’s always going to be a roughness to his touch. Despite his efforts, he still tugs at the jagged lines of inexperienced stitching as he wipes away the surrounding carnage. He feels Hoffman’s nails press into his side—the only indication of discomfort he offers up.

With the filth of the night being scrubbed away by knowing hands, they’re baptized anew. The water raining down upon them washes away the blood of one of the oldest sins. There is something almost holy in the way that their bodies come together and part. Words are not needed between them.

The companionable silence is broken when Strahm sets the rag aside and squirts shampoo into Mark’s offered palm. The other man gives him a disappointed look and a shake of his head at the realization that Peter only has a two-in-one shampoo and conditioner combination. All the same, his hands are gentle in the diner owner’s hair. Mark’s thick fingers work up a lather from the crown of Peter’s head all the way down to the tips of the long hair at the nape of his neck. He’s unable to resist his eyes sliding shut at the sensation of nails scraping over his scalp. He feels the soap sliding down his back as Hoffman rinses his hair. It’s a novel luxury.

On Mark’s turn, the detective presses his face into the shadow of Peter’s neck as he had before. Strahm sucks in a breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly when the other man wraps his arms around him. Their bare bodies are fully pressed together—pelvis to pelvis, chest to chest. It takes every scrap of control to let himself be, to accept the moment and not run. This man has looked into the core of him and has seen what he is capable of. Mark hadn’t rejected him—the ability for violence living inside of him doesn’t scare him away. They are not so different at their cores.

Slicking his hands with soap while being careful not to jostle Hoffman, he eases his hands with their calloused fingertips and scarred knuckles into the other man’s hair. This, at least, he has some experience with from his years of being Lindsey’s hair assistant. He just hasn’t ever… done it from this angle or under even remotely similar conditions. Peter reasons that he must not be fucking it up too badly because Mark is sighing and nuzzling into his wet skin.

The water goes cold, turning into sharp needles against Peter’s back, and yet they do not move. They exist in a place where time is only measured by the gradual pruning of their skin and the ache Strahm feels building in his lower back.

How long would it take, he wonders, until we turn into soup and go down the drain?

He’d seen it once, on a case. A man—a suspected terrorist at that—had been ambushed by a rival and left for dead while in the bath. Weeks had gone by. The cloud of flies Strahm and the SWAT team had had to wade through felt like a wall. They had broken through only to find a putrid vat of human remains. It had been one of the few times Peter had turned and walked out of a crime scene to vomit. He can still hear the incessant buzzing of the flies on the fringes of his hearing if he catches a whiff of decomposition.

When Strahm finally reaches behind himself and shuts the water off, Hoffman peels himself away. It’s almost as though he were a scab falling from a healed wound to reveal newly grown skin underneath. There’s something changed in Peter. He can feel it. Mark might as well have left messy stitches of his own inside of him.

He hands the detective a towel. Strahm does not offer the other man a stabilizing hand as he clumsily steps over the edge of the tub to join him on the too-new bathmat. It had been another item Perez had insisted on. Personally, he would have been fine with continuing to throw an old towel on the floor in place of one.

Both men dry themselves in the tight confines of the bathroom. Peter had left the door open behind them. He always does. He can’t stand the visual lack of an escape route.

Once he’s no longer dripping with water, he wraps the threadbare towel around his waist and squats to reach into the cabinet under the sink. He pulls out the scant amount of actual medical supplies he has. He presses a square, white bandage against his neck to seal away the puncture wound that is threatening to trickle blood down over his collarbone and into his chest hair again. Remembering the time he’d had his wisdom teeth removed, he pulls gauze out of a box. He turns to Mark. He ignores the way the towel tucked around him doesn’t feel like enough coverage outside of the intimacy of the shower.

“Open up,” he instructs, nudging the material against the other man’s full lips.

Mark does, as he has every time Peter has offered him his fingers. Strahm tucks the gauze into the space between Hoffman’s cheek and teeth. He packs the wound as best as he can. From the outside, it’s not bleeding much. It’s with no small amount of relief that he notices the raw areas congealing around the stitches.

When he withdraws his fingers, Mark brushes the tip of his tongue over the pads of them. For a moment, Strahm considers sinking them back in, working his hand inside the other man’s mouth until he hits the back of his throat. Mark would let him, he knows, but the retired agent listens to the rational part of his brain. He doesn’t want to undo his work. There is not enough thread to fix burst sutures if Hoffman gags around his knuckles. His wants have no place here.

No prompting is needed for the detective to follow him to the bedroom. Strahm bypasses the unmade bed and goes to the dresser tucked into the corner. He pulls out a t-shirt and a pair of underwear. Suddenly grateful he was forced to attend crappy holiday parties when he was with the FBI, Peter finds the pair of boxers he’d ended up with as a white elephant. They’re an eyesore and have never been worn.

“Put these on,” he says, throwing them at Mark. There’s drops of moisture from the detective’s hair scattered across his ample chest like stars.

He averts his eyes from the other man as he drops his own towel and hastily tugs on his sleep clothing. Even with his back turned, he doesn’t miss the pained grunt Hoffman lets out at having to bend to wrestle the novelty boxers up over his thick legs.

With his own hair still slightly damp, he gets into bed. Peter is sore, but he’s more at ease than he’s felt in a long time. A pressure is lifted off of him. Glancing over at the looming form of Mark standing at side of the mattress, he pats the space beside him.

“It’ll be easier to make sure you don’t choke in the middle of the night if you’re here,” he says.

Mark raises his eyebrows, smugness hovering at the intact corner of his mouth. Strahm watches as the other man lays down at his side. His movements are ginger and he leaves a respectable distance between the two of them. He idly stares at Hoffman, observing him in return as he looks at Peter for a long moment. The detective’s eyes slip to his left hand where it sits on his stomach. Strahm’s fingers are idly circling in the same pattern of soothing he engages in when horizontal. His defunct wedding band is gleaming in the light of the bedside lamp.

When Hoffman reaches out and takes hold of the ring on his finger, he lets him. No protest comes from his lips as the other man pulls it off, rocking it over the knuckle joint. He leans over Strahm, bare chest rubbing over his clothed one as he sets the ring beside the lamp on the nightstand. He swallows thickly at the press of the excessive tissue of the other man’s breasts bearing down on his sternum while Mark briefly fumbles the lamp’s switch.

The room is suddenly washed with darkness, leaving Peter laying on his back and staring up at the ceiling while the weight of the man in bed with him threatens to transport him to another time—to another bed mate. He feels lost in the faded memories until he feels Mark shuffle atop of him for another moment before curling his substantial bulk against the side. The detective rests his intact cheek on Peter’s clavicle. The two men fit together like a knife in its sheath. It feels right in a way Strahm has no explanation for. They have blurred together.

Instead of his own stomach, Peter traces circles on Mark’s bare side. His knuckles brush against the underside of the sheet and blanket covering their bodies. Hoffman relaxes into him. He doesn’t shy away when the other man shifts enough to bump the bridge of his nose against his jaw in an affectionate nudge.

Angling just enough to rest his own cheek against the top of Hoffman’s head, he lets his eyes drift shut. He will figure out how to explain things to Lindsey in the morning in a way that doesn’t let on they got injured killing a man in the woods. For now, it’s just the two of them alone in the bed with nothing to worry about until after the sun breaches the horizon.

Behind his closed eyelids, he thinks that he catches the quick flash of lightning. No thunder follows.

Strange, he thinks distantly. It hadn’t felt like rain earlier.

Peter drifts off with thoughts of the weather channel bouncing around in his mind. He’s weighed down by Hoffman. The other man’s hand on his chest feels like a much-needed anchor holding him in place. He can only hope he won’t crave this after they come to their senses and realize this was a twisted mistake.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Tucked away in the privacy of Strahm’s rental home, both men are blissfully unaware of the slight figure circling their parked vehicles. The stranger is unable to look through the windshield of Mark’s car due to its proximity with Peter’s. They are forced to peer through the driver’s side window to examine the smears of blood on the steering wheel. The pig mask’s snout leaves a mark on the glass when the individual withdraws.

A choice will have to be made.

«- previous chapter

Do not repost, copy, or reproduce my work to other sites or in other media formats. Do not use it for anything to do with AI. Thank you.

[kyrie-silverwings]

Personality Traits: Kyrie Silverwings

Bold what applies to your character.   Italics for somewhat  / sometimes.

under the cut for length

Tagged by @fair-fae (thanks!!)

Tagging: @nini-dirthara-lothlenanas, @autumnslance, @voidsentprinces, @vanitysruin, @the-hawkeyes, @ishgard, @shroudkeeper, @herohikara-wol, @starforger & @fatewalker

Absent-minded - Preoccupied to the extent of being unaware of one’s immediate surroundings. Abstracted, daydreaming, inattentive, oblivious, forgetful.

Abusive - Characterized by improper infliction of physical or psychological maltreatment towards another.

Addict - One who is addicted to a compulsive activity. Examples: gambling, drugs, sex.

Aimless - Devoid of direction or purpose.

Alcoholic - A person who drinks alcoholic substances habitually and to excess.

Anxious - Full of mental distress or uneasiness because of fear of danger or misfortune; greatly worried; solicitous.

Arrogant - Having or displaying a sense of overbearing self-worth or self-importance. Inclined to social exclusiveness and who rebuff the advances of people considered inferior. Snobbish.

Audacious - Recklessly bold in defiance of convention, propriety, law, or the like; insolent; braze, disobedient.

Bad Habit - A revolting personal habit. Examples: picks nose, spits tobacco, drools, bad body odour.

Bigmouth - A loud-mouthed or gossipy person.

Bigot - One who is strongly partial to one’s own group, religion, race, or politics and is intolerant of those who differ.

Blunt - Characterized by directness in manner or speech; without subtlety or evasion. Frank, callous, insensitive, brusque.

Bold - In a bad sense, too forward; taking undue liberties; over assuming or confident; lacking proper modesty or restraint; rude; impudent. Abrupt, brazen, cheeky, brassy, audacious.

Callous - They are hardened to emotions, rarely showing any form of it in expression. Unfeeling. Cold.

Childish - Marked by or indicating a lack of maturity; puerile.

Complex - An exaggerated or obsessive concern or fear.

Cruel - Mean to anyone or anything, without care or regard to consequences and feelings.

Cursed - A person who has befallen a prayer for evil or misfortune, placed under a spell, or borne into an evil circumstance, and suffers for it. Damned.

Dependent - Unable to exist, sustain oneself, or act appropriately or normally without the assistance or direction of another.

Deranged - Mentally decayed. Insane. Crazy. Mad. Psychotic.

Dishonest – Given to or using fraud, cheating; deceitful, deceptive, crooked, underhanded.

Disloyal - Lacking loyalty. Unfaithful, perfidious, traitorous, treasonable

Disorder - An ailment that affects the function of mind or body. (malignant narcissist, former kleptomaniac, obsessive-compulsive ) See the Mental Disorder List.

Disturbed - Showing some or a few signs or symptoms of mental or emotional illness. Confused, disordered, neurotic, troubled.

Dubious - Fraught with uncertainty or doubt. Undecided, doubtful, unsure.

Dyslexic - Affected by dyslexia, a learning disorder marked by impairment of the ability to recognize and comprehend written words.

Egotistical - Characteristic of those having an inflated idea of their own importance. Boastful, pompous.

Envious - Showing extreme cupidity; painfully desirous of another’s advantages; covetous, jealous.

Erratic - Deviating from the customary course in conduct or opinion; eccentric: erratic behavior. Eccentric, bizarre, outlandish, strange.

Fanatical - Fanatic outlook or behavior especially as exhibited by excessive enthusiasm, unreasoning zeal, or wild and extravagant notions on some subject.

Fickle – Erratic, changeable, unstable - especially with regard to affections or attachments; capricious.

Fierce - Marked by extreme intensity of emotions or convictions; inclined to react violently; fervid.

Finicky - Excessively particular or fastidious; difficult to please; fussy. Too much concerned with detail. Meticulous, fastidious, choosy, critical, picky, prissy, pernickety.

Fixated - In psychoanalytic theory, a strong attachment to a person or thing, especially such an attachment formed in childhood or infancy and manifested in immature or neurotic behaviour that persists throughout life. Fetish, quirk, obsession, infatuation.

Flirt -To make playfully romantic or sexual overtures; behaviour intended to arouse sexual interest. Minx. Tease.

Gluttonous - Given to excess in consumption of especially food or drink. Voracious, ravenous, wolfish, piggish, insatiable.

Gruff - Brusque or stern in manner or appearance. Crusty, rough, surly.

Gullible - Will believe any information given, regardless of how valid or truthful it is, easily deceived or duped.

Hard - A person who is difficult to deal with, manage, control, overcome, or understand. Hard emotions, hard hearted.

Hedonistic - Pursuit of or devotion to pleasure, especially to the pleasures of the senses.

Hoity-toity - Given to flights of fancy; capricious; frivolous. Prone to giddy behaviour, flighty.

Humourless - The inability to find humour in things, and most certainly in themselves.

Hypocritical - One who is always contradicting their own beliefs, actions or sayings. A person who professes beliefs and opinions for others that he does not hold. Being a hypocrite.

Idealist - One whose conduct is influenced by ideals that often conflict with practical considerations. One who is unrealistic and impractical, guided more by ideals than by practical considerations.

Idiotic - Marked by a lack of intelligence or care; foolish or careless.

Ignorant - Lacking knowledge or information as to a particular subject or fact. Showing or arising from a lack of education or knowledge.

Illiterate - Unable to read and write.

Immature - Emotionally undeveloped; juvenile; childish.

Impatient - Unable to wait patiently or tolerate delay; restless. Unable to endure irritation or opposition; intolerant.

Impious - Lacking piety and reverence for a god/gods and their followers.

Impish - Naughtily or annoyingly playful.

Incompetent - Unable to execute tasks, no matter how the size or difficulty.

Indecisive - Characterized by lack of decision and firmness, especially under pressure.

Indifferent - The trait of lacking enthusiasm for or interest in things generally, remaining calm and seeming not to care; a casual lack of concern. Having or showing little or no interest in anything; languid; spiritless.

Infamy - Having an extremely bad reputation, public reproach, or strong condemnation as the result of a shameful, criminal, or outrageous act that affects how others view them.

Intolerant - Unwilling to tolerate difference of opinion and narrow-minded about cherished opinions.

Judgmental - Inclined to make and form judgements, especially moral or personal ones, based on one’s own opinions or impressions towards others/practices/groups/religions based on appearance, reputation, occupation, etc.

Klutz - Clumsy. Blunderer.

Lazy - Resistant to work or exertion; disposed to idleness.

Lewd - Inclined to, characterized by, or inciting to lust or lechery; lascivious. Obscene or indecent, as language or songs; salacious.

Liar - Compulsively and purposefully tells false truths more often than not. A person who has lied or who lies repeatedly.

Lustful - Driven by lust; preoccupied with or exhibiting lustful desires.

Masochist - The deriving of sexual gratification, or the tendency to derive sexual gratification, from being physically or emotionally abused. A willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences.

Meddlesome - Intrusive in a meddling or offensive manner, given to meddling; interfering.

Meek - Evidencing little spirit or courage; overly submissive or compliant; humble in spirit or manner; suggesting retiring mildness or even cowed submissiveness.

Megalomaniac - A psycho pathological condition characterized by delusional fantasies of wealth, power, or omnipotence.

Naïve - Lacking worldly experience and understanding, simple and guileless; showing or characterized by a lack of sophistication and critical judgement.

Nervous - Easily agitated or distressed; high-strung or jumpy.

Non-violent - Abstaining from the use of violence.

Nosy - Given to prying into the affairs of others; snoopy. Offensively curious or inquisitive.

Obsessive - An unhealthy and compulsive preoccupation with something or someone.

Oppressor - A person of authority who subjects others to undue pressures, to keep down by severe and unjust use of force or authority.

Overambitious - Having a strong excessive desire for success or achievement.

Overconfident - Excessively confident; presumptuous.

Overemotional - Excessively or abnormally emotional. Sensitive about themselves and others, more so than the average person.

Overprotective - To protect too much; coddle.

Overzealous - Marked by excessive enthusiasm for and intense devotion to a cause or idea.

Pacifist - Opposition to war or violence as a means of resolving disputes. (Can double as a merit in certain cases)

Paranoid - Exhibiting or characterized by extreme and irrational fear or distrust of others.

Peevish - Expressing fretfulness and discontent, or unjustifiable dissatisfaction. Cantankerous, cross, ill-tempered, testy, captious, discontented, crotchety, cranky, ornery.

Perfectionist - A propensity for being displeased with anything that is not perfect or does not meet extremely high standards.

Pessimist - A tendency to stress the negative or unfavorable or to take the gloomiest possible view.

Pest - One that pesters or annoys, with or without realizing it. Nuisance. Annoying. Nag.

Phobic – They have a severe form of fear when it comes to this one thing. Examples: Dark, Spiders, Cats

Practical - Level-headed, efficient, and unspeculative. No-nonsense.

Predictable - Easily seen through and assessable, where almost anyone can predict reactions and actions of said person by having met or known them even for a short time.

Proud - Filled with or showing excessive self-esteem and will often shirk help from others for the sake of pride.

Rebellious - Defying or resisting some established authority, government, or tradition; insubordinate; inclined to rebel.

Reckless - Heedless. Headstrong. Foolhardy. Unthinking boldness, wild carelessness and disregard for consequences.

Remorseless - Without remorse; merciless; pitiless; relentless.

Rigorous - Rigidly accurate; allowing no deviation from a standard; demanding strict attention to rules and procedures.

Sadist - The deriving of gratification or the tendency to derive gratification from inflicting pain or emotional abuse on others. Deriving of pleasure, or the tendency to derive pleasure, from cruelty.

Sadomasochist - Both sadist and masochist combined.

Sarcastic - A subtle form of mockery in which an intended meaning is conveyed obliquely.

Skeptic - One who instinctively or habitually doubts, questions, or disagrees with assertions or generally accepted conclusions.

Seducer - To lead others astray, as from duty, rectitude, or the like; corrupt. To attempt to lead or draw someone away, as from principles, faith, or allegiance.

Selfish - Concerned chiefly or only with oneself.

Self-Martyr - One who purposely makes a great show of suffering in order to arouse sympathy from others, as a form of manipulation, and always for a selfish cause or reason.

Self-righteous - Piously sure of one’s own righteousness; moralistic. Exhibiting pious self-assurance. Holier-than-thou, sanctimonious.

Senile - Showing a decline or deterioration of physical strength or mental functioning, esp. short-term memory and alertness, as a result of old age or disease.

Shallow - Lacking depth of intellect or knowledge; concerned only with what is obvious.

Smart Ass - Thinks they know it all, and in some ways they may, but they can be greatly annoying and difficult to deal with at times, especially in arguments.

Soft-hearted - Having softness or tenderness of heart that can lead them into trouble; susceptible of pity or other kindly affection. They cannot resist helping someone they see in trouble, suffering or in need, and often don’t think of the repercussions or situation before doing so.

Solemn - Deeply earnest, serious, and sober.

Spineless - Lacking courage. Cowardly, wimp, lily-livered, gutless.

Spiteful - Showing malicious ill will and a desire to hurt; motivated by spite; vindictive person who will look for occasions for resentment. Vengeful.

Spoiled - Treated with excessive indulgence and pampering from earliest childhood, and has no notion of hard work, self-care or money management; coddled, pampered. Having the character or disposition harmed by pampering or over-solicitous attention.

Squeamish - Excessively fastidious and easily disgusted.

Stubborn - Unreasonably, often perversely unyielding; bull-headed. Firmly resolved or determined; resolute.

Superstitious - An irrational belief arising from ignorance or fear from an irrational belief that an object, action, or circumstance not logically related to a course of events influences its outcome.

Tactless - Lacking or showing a lack of what is fitting and considerate in dealing with others.

Temperamental - Moody, irritable, or sensitive. Excitable, volatile, emotional. 

Theatrical - Having a flair for over dramatizing situations, doing things in a ‘big way’ and love to be ‘centre stage’.

Timid -Tends to be shy and/or quiet, shrinking away from offering opinions or from strangers and newcomers, fearing confrontations and violence.

Tongue-tied - Speechless or confused in expression, as from shyness, embarrassment, or astonishment.

Troublemaker - Someone who deliberately stirs up trouble, intentionally or unintentionally.

Unlucky - Marked by or causing misfortune; ill-fated. Destined for misfortune; doomed.

Unpredictable - Difficult to foretell or foresee, their actions are so chaotic it’s impossible to know what they are going to do next.

Untrustworthy - Not worthy of trust or belief. Backstabber.

Vain - Holding or characterized by an unduly high opinion of their physical appearance. Lovers of themselves. Conceited, egotistic, narcissistic.

Weak-willed - Lacking willpower, strength of will to carry out one’s decisions, wishes, or plans. Easily swayed.

Withdrawn - Not friendly or Sociable. Aloof.

Zealous - A fanatic.

[alouiadina]

First few lines of Hymn to the Sea chapter six, chapter already up:

As Pete finished speaking, Colonel Gracie's voice rang out with conviction, "All life is a game of luck."

Tom discreetly rolled his eyes, careful not to draw any attention to himself. He could already feel his father's disapproving gaze on him, ready to scold him for his improper behavior. But instead of lecturing him, his father simply retorted to Gracie's statement, "A real man makes his own luck, Archie."

Tom glanced over at his seatmate, Thomas Andrews, and noticed him furiously scribbling in a small notebook. His hand moved quickly and purposefully, as if the words could not be written fast enough. He seemed completely absorbed in his task, unaffected by the conversation happening around him.

"Mr. Andrews, what are you doing?" Tom asked, curiosity piqued as he reached over and plucked the notebook from Mr. Andrews' grasp. His eyes scanned the page, revealing neat rows of handwritten notes detailing intricate details about the ship they were aboard. "Increase number of screws in hat hooks from 2 to 3," Tom read aloud, a tinge of awe creeping into his voice as he marveled at the level of detail Mr. Andrews was taking into account. "You build the biggest ship in the world and this preoccupies you?" Tom couldn't help but ask incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief as Mr. Andrews smiled sheepishly.

"He knows every rivet in her, don't you Thomas?" Mr. Ismay interjected with a teasing glint in his eye.

"All three million of them," Mr. Andrews responded proudly, chest puffing out slightly as he spoke. 

"His blood and soul are in this ship." Mr. Ismay added with a twinkle in his eye. "She may be mine on paper, but in the eyes of God she belongs to Thomas Andrews."

"Your ship is a wonder, Mr. Andrews." Tom complimented sincerely. "Truly."

"I am glad you think so, Tom," Mr. Andrews replied kindly, his eyes shining with pride.

[silentmagi]

What about a Murder Drones AU where J, N, and V all found out that their first lives were still stored in their memories due to improper disposal? And these three have very different personality modules...

Series: Murder Drones AU Criteria: J, N, and V retain their memories from before they were improperly disposed of the first times. AU title (optional): Internal Memory Recovery

It starts simple, with little details coming to mind as they go about their days, and then it starts to tick at the back of their processers. Who were these drones with their faces?

They would ask Tessa, however her knowledge of programming and the programming isn't ready for such a test yet, and then the Gala happens.

Years later, on Copper 9, N and V get their memories of the Gala unlocked by Uzi, and that begins a debate on if she'd be able to help with the other memories haunting their databanks. This is also the first time that V and N are able to discuss the additional memories and find out they are not alone.

After the Solver is defeated, and peace grows, the two of them approach J, and bring up Uzi being able to help with their memories, and removing the last of Cyn's programming from them. She reluctantly agrees, and they ask for Uzi's help.

It is hard, as they are severely fragmented, and buried deep, but what they find is… somewhat surprising. J was a worker drone, in an office that came upon an embezzlement ring and was silenced by the executives. She wasn't as much of a uptight corporate stooge, and honestly would have left it alone if they weren't making a calculation error that was annoying her to no end. V was a library assistant and ghost writer of a famous author that arranged for the shelves she was restocking to fall on her, breaking her beyond repair and then dumping her in the landfill. Her optic array was damaged, hence why she needed glasses. Turns out the author suspected someone was going to rat them out and wanted to get rid of the evidence. N was a household drone for an elderly couple that cared for him as if he were their own son. This in turn pissed off their wealthy children who did not like that the parents were planning to have him handle their estates in trust after their deaths, and decided to remove all three at once. It was little consolation to N that the children were arrested and convicted, but what really threw him was seeing the younger female drone that worked with him in taking care of the household. A little drone he doted on as much as he could… A little drone called Cyndi by the elderly couple.