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[happy4sworld]

Bad Intentions

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7

Tim Bradford x Original Character x John Nolan

Chapter Six:

Genevieve's eyes fluttered open, the sunlight harsh against her sleep-softened face. She stretched, chasing away the remnants of drowsiness, and a smile flickered across her face at the sight of Kojo's peaceful slumber.

She swung her legs over the bed, the chill of the morning nipping at her legs, a stark contrast to the cocoon of warmth she'd left behind. The clock's accusatory gaze met her--9:42--and she bit back a curse. She winced at the late start. Time had slipped through her fingers like grains of sand. The house was silent, her footsteps the only sound as she moved through the stillness.

Last night's memories lingered, a tantalizing whisper against her senses. She could still feel the ghost of Tim's breath on her skin. But reality intruded, harsh and unyielding, as she glanced at her phone--17 missed calls from Henry. She sent a quick text--I'm okay--then turned the phone off. No classes today meant no obligations, no need to rush.

In the bathroom, her reflection in the mirror was a stranger's gaze meeting hers. Tim's note on the mirror offering a sense of normalcy of her thoughts, Extra toothbrush on sink. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Make yourself at home. She brushed her teeth with mechanical movements, her mind a battlefield of what-ifs.

She made her way to the kitchen, a testament to Tim's unexpected domesticity, its surfaces gleaming. She contemplated cooking, but the thought of disrupting the pristine order felt like a transgression she wasn't ready to commit.

Henry would be at work, she reasoned, a perfect time to collect more of her belongings. But doubt gnawed at her--was this just a temporary escape or step towards something more permanent?

The walk to our apartment was a short one, each step heavy with thought. The morning air bit at her cheeks as she moved. She reached the familiar apartment, her footsteps heavy before the threshold of the door. She let out a breath of air, her hesitation evident. Her hand hovered over the doorknob, heart pounding.

She unlocked the door, and pushed it open, stepping into the space that now felt foreign to her. She moved towards the bedroom gathering as much of her things as she could, but the sound of the shower running stopped her in her tracks. He's supposed to be at work, she thought. Panic set in at the realization, she turned to leave, but it was too late.

The bathroom door opened, and Henry stood before her, a towel wrapped around his waist, surprise etched on his face.

"Genevieve? What are you doing here?" His voice was soft, but the confusion was clear.

"I... I came to get some of my things," she stammered, avoiding his gaze.

There was a pause, a heavy silence that filled the room. Henry stepped closer, his eyes searching hers. "We need to talk, Gen. Look I'm sorry about last night, but you can't just disappear like that. Where were you?"

She swallowed deeply, feeling the weight of the moment. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, a gulf between them.

"I-, I just needed time to think," Genevieve's voice was a fragile thread in the vast tapestry of the room. "Henry, this is tearing me apart. I'm becoming someone I don't recognize, all to fit into your perfect picture of us."

Henry's expression crumbled, a portrait of pain. "I'm just trying to protect you, to a build a life where we don't have to worry."

Genevieve's eyes glistened, her dreams spilling over like a river breaking its banks. "And what life is that, Henry? One where my dreams have to die so we can live?"

He reached for her, a lifetime thrown across the growing divide, but she recoiled, a bird startled into flight. "You say you love me, but it feels like you only love the version of me that fits into your world."

Henry's voice broke, a crack in the damn of his composure. "I do love you, more than anything, Genevieve, it's just that--"

"No," she interrupted, standing from the couch. "Love isn't about control. I'm scared I'm losing myself to your fears."

The silence that followed was a living entity, thick and pulsing with the things left unsaid. Genevieve gathered her bag, her movements a declaration of intent as she headed for the door. Genevieve stepped out into the sunlight, the door closing behind her with a soft click that seemed to echo in the empty street.

She took a deep breath, the air tasting of freedom and the faint smog of the city. Her heart was still racing, a tumultuous sea after a storm, but there was also a sense of release, as if she had been holding her breath for too long and could finally breathe again.

She walked without direction, letting her feet carry her away from the apartment, away from Henry. The city was bustling around her, people going about their day, unaware of the shift that had just occurred in her world. She found herself in a small park, the greenery a stark contrast to the concrete around her. She sat on a bench, watching a couple kids playing catch, their laughter a balm to her aching soul.

It was time to think about what came next. She pulled out her phone, turning it back on, half expecting it to explode with messages and missed calls. But there was only silence. She opened her contacts, hovering over Tim's name. He had been a friend, maybe he could be more, but was she ready for that? She wasn't sure. Instead, she scrolled to another name, Sergeant Grey.

With a determined tap, she composed a new message:

Sgt. Grey, It's Genevieve. Do you have time to meet?

She hit send before she could second guess herself. This was the first step towards something new, something that was all hers. As she waited for a reply, she allowed herself to imagine a life where she was in control, where she was making a difference, where she was surrounded by people who did the same.

--

Genevieve's shoes clicked against the polished floor of the precinct, a fragmented tempo that matched the racing of her heart. She paused at the entrance, taking a moment to compose herself. The freedom she now possessed was bittersweet, the weight of her breakup with Henry still a fresh wound.

As she made her way through the bustling corridors, she caught sight of John Nolan. His eyes met hers, a silent acknowledgement passing between them. He approached; the lines of concern etched deeply in his face.

"Genevieve," John said, his voice was a low rumble of fatherly concern. "I heard about you and Henry. I'm sorry."

She offered a wobbly smile, appreciating his sympathy despite the awkwardness of their connection. "Thank you, John. It's for the best."

John nodded, understanding flashing in his eyes. "You've got a lot of potential, Gen. Don't let anyone hold you back, not even my son."

With a grateful nod, Genevieve continued on to Sergeant Grey's office, her decision strengthening with each step. She knocked softly before entering, finding Grey seated behind a desk cluttered with paperwork.

"Sergeant Grey," she began, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "Thank you for meeting with me. I know this is a big ask, but I'm interested in volunteering here, if you'll have me."

Sergeant Grey gave her a measured look, one that seemed to take in her state and weigh her words all at once. "Volunteering, huh? That's a commendable path, Hart. It's not just about showing up; you've got to be ready to commit. We'll start with the basics; an application, a thorough background check."

She listened, nodding, feeling the gravity of the decision settle in. "And after I graduate?" she asked, a hint of eagerness creeping into her voice.

Grey leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that was both intimidating and inspiring. "Then you're in the big leagues. Civil Service exam's your next hurdle. It's tough, but not impossible. You've got a good head on your shoulders. Use it."

---

Genevieve's heart skipped a beat as she nearly slammed into Tim just outside the Sergeant's office, the air in the precinct thick with the scent of coffee and determination. Her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and lingering tension from their near-kiss.

"Bradford," she murmured, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, another nervous habit that surfaced whenever she felt awkward.  Her voice was a soft tremor betraying her inner turmoil.

Tim's gaze was steady, his posture relaxed, the corners of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Genevieve," he said, his tone even, betraying none of the heat that had simmered between them the night before. "Didn't expect to see you here. Everything alright?"

She nodded, a cascade of chestnut hair falling over her shoulder as she launched into a rambling explanation, her nerves and excitement taking over. "Yeah, I was just talking to Sergeant Grey about volunteering. It's really exciting, you know? There's a lot to learn, and the tech analyst role--it's like the perfect blend of technology and law enforcement. I mean, the idea of digging into data, uncovering patterns, helping to solve cases... it's exactly where I see myself. And volunteering, it's like this stepping stone, right? A way to get in, to show them what I'm capable of."

Tim listened, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched the passion dance in her eyes, finding her rambling to be cute. "Sounds like you've got it all figured out," he said, his voice warm with genuine admiration. "How's the Henry situation?"

"Yeah, just, well... Henry and I, we're over. I went over this morning."

Tim's expression softened, a hint of concern breaking through his stoic facade. "I'm sorry to hear that. You know you can stay at my place as long as you need, right?"

Genevieve's cheeks warmed with a blush that spread to the tips of her ears. "I'm sorry about this. I won't be any trouble, I promise. I'll find my own place soon."

"Don't worry about it," Tim assured her, his voice low and comforting. "Take the time you need. My door's always open."

[happy4sworld]

Bad Intentions

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7, ch 8

Tim Bradford x Original Character x John Nolan

Chapter Seven:

Genevieve stepped into the bustling precinct, her heart drumming against her ribs like a frantic bird trapped in cage. The air buzzed with the low hum of duty and desperation, an orchestration she was now apart of. She smoothed down her blouse, a futile attempt to calm her nerves. Two weeks had passed since she'd closed the door on Henry, since she'd seen Tim or John, and a week since she'd unboxed her future into her new sunlit apartment.

She paused at the entrance to the briefing room, her hand hovering over the doorknob, the cold metal a tangible reminder of the choices that had led her here. With a breath, she pushed the door open.

The orientation was a whirlwind of protocols and procedures, each slide a stepping stone towards understanding her role. As she scribbled notes, the weight of her badge--a simple volunteer's ID--felt like a medal of honor against her chest.

The tech lab was just down the hall, a world away from the structured formality of the briefing room. She hesitated at the threshold, the hum of activity within both an invitation and a challenge. Genevieve's pulse thrummed with anticipation as she stepped into the tech lab, the sanctuary of blinking lights and humming machines. This was it, the nerve center, where the digital heartbeat of the precinct pulsed through cables and screens.

And there he was, Jake, with a grin that was all shark and no swimmer, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place. "You must be the new volunteer," he drawled, eyeing her ID badge. "Genevieve, right? Ready to play with the big boys?"

She squared her shoulders, meeting his gaze with a spark of defiance. "I'm here to learn, not to play," she retorted, her voice steady.

Jake's smirk widened, and he gestured to the array of monitors. "Alright then, let's see what you've got. First lesson: never trust a computer you can't throw out a window."

Genevieve chuckled despite herself. She followed his lead, peppering with question about their cybersecurity protocols, the intricacies of data recovery, and the dance of digits that was network encryption. Jake's expertise was undeniable, his explanations a blend of technical jargon and layman's terms, punctuated by the occasional off-color joke that made Genevieve's eyes roll.

Genevieve focused her attention, her eyes tracing lines of code that Jake had laid out before her like a digital roadmap. She was just about to ask another question when the door swung open, and in walked Officer Chen.

"Jake, the body cam network is glitching again," Lucy announced, her voice carrying the weight of responsibility. "We've got officers out there blind without their cams."

Jake's eyes flicked to Genevieve, a spark of mischief in their depths. "Looks like your first test just walked through the door. Think you can handle it?"

Genevieve's heart raced, but she met the challenge head-on, her smile unwavering. "Let's take a look," she said, stepping up to the workstation with a confidence that belied her nerves.

Lucy watched her, a silent question in her gaze. "Alright, let's see what you've got," she echoed, her stance shifting to one of cautious optimism.

Genevieve dove into the heart of the problem, her fingers a blur over the keyboard as she navigated the network's labyrinth. "It looks like there's a bottleneck in the data stream," she diagnosed, her voice a beacon of hope. "If we reroute the input through a secondary server, it might ease the congestion."

"And that won't disrupt the current feed?" Lucy asked, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Genevieve shook her head, her determination a tangible force. "It shouldn't. It's like... diverting traffic while you fix the main road."

With a few deft keystrokes, Genevieve initiated the reroute. The monitors flickered, hesitated, then cleared, the body cam feeds snapping back to life with renewed vigor.

Lucy exhaled, relief washing over her features. "Impressive," she admitted, her smile warm and genuine. "I guess Nolan and Bradford were right about you."

Genevieve felt a flush of pride swell within her, quickly followed by a ripple of surprise. John and Tim talk about me? The thought fluttered through her mind, unexpected and strangely gratifying. She responded with a modest shrug, her outward composure belying the quiet astonishment stirring inside. "Just doing my part."

As Lucy departed, her walkie-talkie crackling with the voices of grateful officers, Jake clapped Genevieve on the shoulder. "Not bad for a first day," he conceded.

As the sun dipped down the horizon, casting long shadows across the precinct, Genevieve found herself lingering by the doorway to the bullpen. Her first day had been a whirlwind of new faces and challenges. She was about to turn away when she noticed John and Tim, two figures who had become familiar throughout the day, deep in conversation by their desk. Their voices were low, the weight of the day's work etched into their posture. It was a private moment, yet Genevieve felt an invisible thread pulling her towards them.

Tim's voice broke through her daydream, his tone casual but carrying an undercurrent of something more, something that made her skip a beat. "Hart," he called out, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that was hard to ignore. "Heard you did good today."

"We were just about to head out for a drink, care to join?" John asks.

She hesitated, the invitation sending a flurry of butterflies through her stomach. "I... um, sure," she stammered, her shyness battling with the undeniable attraction she felt towards both men.

John's smile was slow and easy, the kind that had charmed countless suspects into spilling their secrets. "It's just a drink, Genevieve. No need to look so scared," he teased, his voice a soothing consolation that did little to calm her racing heart.

As they walked to the bar, the cooling evening air did nothing to quench the heat that flushed her cheeks. Inside, the dim lighting and clink of glasses created a shroud around them, a world away from the precinct's glaring fluorescents. Genevieve found herself sandwiched between John and Tim, their shoulders brushing occasionally, sending a jolt through her.

"So, Genevieve," Tim began, his voice a low rumble over the sound of clinking glasses, "if you weren't here with us tonight, what would you be doing?"

A delicate rosiness tiptoed across her cheeks. "I'd probably be home with a book or working on my photography," she admitted, her voice carrying the soft tremble of timidity.

John's interest piqued, and he swiveled towards her, his body language open and inviting. "Photography, huh? What do you like to shoot?"

Genevieve's passion for her hobby shone through as she spoke. "Mostly landscapes. There's something about capturing the world in a way people don't usually see it."

The bar's laughter and chatter faded into soft background hum as Genevieve's head began to feel lighter, her laughter coming more freely, her words tinged with a boldness that the sober light of day rarely saw. The glasses on the table multiplied, and with each sip, the world took on a rosier hue.

"John, Tim," she slurred slightly, her hand reaching out to steady herself on an arm that wasn't there," you guys are just... just so... great."

"Tim," she slurred, her hand landing on his arm, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscles through his shirt. "You're just so... solid. Like a tree."

Tim choked on his drink, coughing as he laughed, eyes crinkling with amusement. "A tree, huh?" he managed to say, his voice rough like gravel. "I can't say I've been called that before."

John caught her hand, his eyes laced with concern and a hint of amusement. "I think that's enough for tonight, Genevieve," he said, his voice a steady anchor in the swirling sea of her inebriation.

Tim nodded, signaling the bartender with a knowing look. "Let's get you home."

As they each took a side, supporting her swaying form between them, Genevieve's laughter bubbled up, uninhibited and infectious. "You're both my knights in shining armor," she declared, her words slurring together like paint on a canvas.

The cool air did little to sober her as they made their way to her apartment, her steps a clumsy dance between the two men. She leaned into John, her head resting against his shoulder, then swayed towards Tim, her hand brushing his.

"You know," she mused aloud, "if I weren't so drunk, I'd think I was in one of those romance novels. Two handsome cops, escorting me home..."

John and Tim exchanged a look over her head, a silent conversation passing between them. They were both acutely aware of the line they were toeing, the professional boundaries they were skirting, even as they were charmed by her drunken candor.

As they reached her door, Genevieve fumbled with her keys, her fingers more like curious spectators than willing participants. Finally, Tim took the keys and unlocked the door, the click of the lock loud in the quiet hallway.

Inside, they guided her to the bed, and she flopped down, her head spinning. "You guys are my heroes," she mumbled, looking up at them through heavy lids.

John and Tim exchanged a glance, a silent conversation that spoke volumes. They were both attracted to her, guiltily so, that much was clear. But they were also protective, determine to do right by her.

"Thank you," Genevieve whispered, her flirtatious facade crumbling into genuine gratitude. "For everything."

They made sure she was safely inside before retreating to the hallway, the door closing with a soft thud.

[happy4sworld]

Bad Intentions

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7, ch 8, ch 9

Chapter Eight:

Genevieve's eyes fluttered open, the morning light streaming through her curtains with a harshness that felt personal. Her head pounded in time with her heartbeat, each throb a reminder of the night before. She groaned, burying her face in the pillow as fragments of memories played like a slideshow in her mind--laughter, the clink of glasses, the warmth of John and Tim's arms around her.

She sat up, the room spinning slightly, and she pressed her hands to her temples. "Oh God," she whispered to the empty room. The weight of her actions, her flirtatious words she could barely remember uttering, pressed down on her.

With a deep breath, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet touching the cold floor. She needed water, aspirin, and maybe a time machine. She padded to the kitchen, her movements slow and deliberate, trying to piece together the night.

The more she remembered, the hotter her cheeks burned. She had been bold, too bold, with John and Tim. They had seen her at her worst, and the thought made her want to crawl under a rock. How could she face them at the precinct after this? Would they take her seriously again?

She filled a glass of water, the gulp she took doing little quench the dryness of her mouth or the embarrassment that parched her throat. She had to make it right, had to apologize for any lines she might have crossed.

Genevieve glanced at her reflection in the mirror, her usually neat appearance, disheveled. She squared her shoulders, determination settling in her bones. She would face this head-on, no running, no hiding.

She quickly got ready for the day, her appearance a stark contrast to the disheveled woman just an hour ago. Now, she was the picture of composure, her outfit pristine. Yet, beneath the surface, a storm of emotions raged.

She had always prided herself on her professionalism, her ability to keep a cool head in any situation. But last night had cracked that facade, revealing a side of her she hardly recognized--one that was reckless.

As she pinned her hair into place, Genevieve allowed herself a moment to reflect on the feelings that had bubbled up during her inebriated state. There was an undeniable pull towards John and Tim, a chemistry that didn't just evaporate with the morning sun. But she couldn't afford to indulge those feelings, not if she wanted to keep the little respect she has.

With a final glance at her reflection, Genevieve turned away, her mind made up. She would face the day with the same determination that had gotten her this far. No more flirting, no more games. She had a job to do, and she wouldn't let a moment of weakness derail her from her path. Today, she would prove that last night was nothing more than a lapse, an anomaly in her otherwise unblemished record.

Stepping out of her apartment, Genevieve took a deep breath. The precinct awaited.

--

Genevieve's heels clicked against the precinct's floor with a rhythm that matched her newfound resolve. She entered the bullpen with her head held high. Her heart skipped a beat as she caught the sight of John and Tim across the precinct floor. The memories of the night before flooded back, her cheeks warming with embarrassment. She ducked her head, clutching her bag a little tighter, and made a beeline for her desk.

She could feel their eyes on her, the weight of their gazes like a physical touch. She busied herself with booting up her computer, avoiding looking in their direction, even as she sensed them approaching.

"Genevieve," John's voice was gently, tinged with concern. "Can we talk?"

She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. "I'm actually really swamped right now," she lied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tim's chuckle reached her ears, a sound that normally would have brought her comfort. "Hart. we just wanted to make sure you're alright."

She mustered a small smile, still not meeting their eyes as she kept her head down. "I'm fine, really. Just a lot to do." Her laugh was forced, and she hated how fake it sounded.

"We understand," Tim assured her, and she finally looked up to see the genuine kindness in his eyes. "Just know we're here if you need us."

With a nod of thanks, Genevieve turned her attention back to her screen, her heart still racing. She settled at her desk, diving into the day's tasks, when Jake sauntered over, a smirk playing on his lips. "Heard you had quite the adventure last night," he said, leaning against her desk with a casualness that didn't reach his eyes.

Genevieve stiffened, her fingers pausing over the keyboard. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, Jake," she replied, her tone even.

Jake chuckled, his gaze sharp. "Come on, Hart. The walls have ears, and bars have mouths. Word gets around."

She took a deep breath, refusing to let him see her fluster. "Well, whatever you heard, it's probably exaggerated. You know how people love to gossip."

Jake shrugged, pushing off from her desk. "Just be careful. Not everyone's your friend here," he said, his voice laced with a warning before he walked away.

Genevieve shook her head, dispelling the unease that Jake's words had stirred.

--

Genevieve's footsteps were hesitant as she approached the break room, the door swinging open to reveal John and Tim in the midst of a casual conversation. They both looked up, and the room seemed to shrink under the weight of the previous night's memories. She couldn't avoid them here.

"Oh, hey," she began, her voice a little too high-pitched for her liking. "I just wanted to say... about last night. I'm sorry if I was too much. I don't usually--"

John raised his hand, cutting her off with a gentle smile. "Genevieve, stop. You don't have anything to apologize for. We've all been there."

Tim nodded, his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Yeah, don't sweat it. You were just having fun. No harm done."

She exhaled, the know in her stomach loosening slightly, but the feeling of wanting to disappear into the floor didn't leave. "Thanks, guys. Maybe we can just forget it ever happened? Keep it professional."

Before more could be said, John's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and stood up. "Duty calls. You two good here?"

"We're good," Tim answered, his gaze lingering on Genevieve as John left.

The moment the door clicked shut, Tim's eyes followed Genevieve as she nervously adjusted the collar of her blouse, her movements betraying the flustered state she was trying so hard to conceal. He couldn't resist the urge to tease her, to draw out that adorable blush that he found so captivating.

"Genevieve," he began, his voice a soft drawl, "you ever notice how the break room gets suddenly warmer when you walk in?"

She glanced up at him, her eyes wide, the color rising in her cheeks. "I... I think the thermostat is just a bit high today," she stammered, avoiding his gaze, wondering what his angle was.

He chuckled, taking a step closer, his tone playful yet sincere. "Or maybe it's just your presence. You know, you have this effect on people... and thermostats, apparently."

Genevieve fingered for her necklace, a nervous habit that didn't go unnoticed by Tim. "I don't know what you mean," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tim leaned in, his voice a whisper. "Oh, I think you do. And I have to say, it's quite a skill. Making a seasoned officer like me lose his cool with just a smile," he remarked, his words laced with a hint of sarcasm.

She finally met his eyes, her own reflecting her embarrassment and silent laughter. "Tim, I was serious when I said we should keep it professional," she said, her voice steadier now.

He stepped back, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Alright, alright. Professional it is. But just for the record," he added with a wink, "you're doing a terrible job of not being noticed."

[happy4sworld]

Bad Intentions

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7, ch 8, ch 9, ch 10

Tim Bradford x Original Character x John Nolan

Chapter Nine:

Genevieve stood ready to make her way into the station. She'd clawed her way here--graduated top of her class, a prodigy with a keyboard. The job--the one she'd sacrificed sleep, sanity, and maybe a piece of her soul for--was finally within reach.

The weeks had blurred together--a fever dream of late-night study sessions that bled into even later nights at the precinct.

Genvieve, with her unwavering professionalism, had promised herself to maintain clear boundaries--and she did. It wasn't easy. Tim's jaw would often clench, a subtle dance of muscles whenever he caught her in his peripheral vision, and John's gaze would linger a little too long.

Yet, beneath the facade of professionalism there was another layer--one she didn't dare touch. Attraction simmered beneath her skin, a live wire waiting to spark. Tim's laugh, rough and unexpected, sent shivers down her spine. John's intensity--the way he leaned in when they discussed cases--made her pulse race.

As Genevieve crossed the station's threshold, the atmosphere clutched at her with invisible, frenzied fingers. The precinct was a hive of chaos, buzzing with frantic energy. Eyes darted like scared rabbits, wide with the strain. Phones shrieked their demands, keyboards clattered like hail against windows, and the sharp snap of files slamming shut punctuated the air like gunfire. Officers barked orders, their voices rough and ragged.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice slicing through the turmoil, only to be swallowed by the storm of urgency.

"It's a disaster," came the harried reply from a nearby officer, his hands hovering futilely over the unresponsive keys. "We're locked out. Every system, every file."

Before she could digest the gravity of the situation, Tim materialized at her side, his presence a sudden heat, his voice a low rumble of controlled alarm. "Hart, the whole network is down. We can't access any of our files."

She followed him, her heart a drumbeat in her chest, to her workstation where the screen stared back at her, blank and mocking. "I can't get in," she murmured, her fingers dancing across the keyboard in a desperate ballet.

Tim gaze was on her, intense and piercing. "Can you bypass the lockdown?"

Genevieve nodded, her focus narrowing. "I'll need to access the mainframe directly. If I can get to the server room, I might be able to override the system shutdown."

As they made their way to the server room, John joined them, his expression grim. "The hacker left a message," he said, handing her a slip of paper, a string of code scrawled across it like a taunt. "Does this mean anything to you?"

Genevieve's eyes devoured the message, a spark of recognition igniting within her. "The hacker's making demands. They want someone from the holding cells released, or else..."

"Or else what?" John asked, his eyes not leaving hers.

Tim stepped closer, his voice low and steady. "Or else they're threatening to release classified operational details of ongoing investigations. This could compromise half of our UCs."

"Who do they want out?" she asked, her mind already racing with the implications.

John's voice was grave. "A hacker know as 'Cipher'--Marco Saldana. He's been in holding since he disrupted a federal sting operation, thinking he was exposing corporate corruption."

--

Genevieve's fingers flew over the keyboard, the clack of keys echoing in the otherwise tense silence of the room. The glow of the monitors cast a pale light on her face, accentuating her focused expression as she navigated the code.

"Jake," she said, "I need you to check the server logs. Look for any unauthorized access points from the last 24 hours."

Jake leaned closer than necessary, his breath a warm whisper against her ear. "You got it, boss," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips as he relished the urgency of the moment.

Genevieve's fingers paused over the keyboard, a frown creasing her brow as she felt Jake's presence looming too close once again. "Jake, personal space," she reminded firmly, her tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Retreating, Jake raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just trying to help," he said, though the smirk on his face told a different story.

Genevieve turned her attention back to the monitors, her discomfort with Jake's proximity fueling her determination. She was here to solve a crisis, not to fend off unwanted advances. Her mind was a whirlwind of protocols and IP addresses.

"Here," Jake announced, pointing at a string of code on his screen with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Looks like our friend left us a little present."

Genevieve's gaze snapped to the anomaly, her brain instantly processing the information. "That's a reverse shell," she identified. "They've established a backdoor. We need to isolate the affected subnet and reroute the traffic."

With a flurry of keystrokes, she executed a series of commands, her movements precise and deliberate. The hum of the server room was a constant backdrop to Genevieve's concentrated efforts, her fingers deftly navigating the network's defenses. Jake's shadow loomed again, a little too close, a little too eager, but Genevieve was lost in her world of code and strategy, oblivious to his unsettling proximity.

Suddenly, the door slammed open with a force that made them both jump. Tim stood in the doorway, his face a mask of barely contained fury. "What the hell is going on here?" he barked, his eyes darting between Jake and Genevieve. "We've got officers' lives on the line, and you're--what? Flirting?"

Jake recoiled, his smirk evaporating under Tim's glare. "No, I--"

"I don't want excuses," Tim cut him off, stepping into the room with an air of command. "I want results. And I want them five minutes ago."

Genevieve felt a flush creep up her neck, Tim's anger washing over her like a scalding wave. Being a target of such ire struck a chord deep within her, silencing her usual retorts. With a stiff nod, she turned back to her screen, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she typed.

"Understood, sir," she managed, her voice a whisper against the sudden tension in the room.

Tim's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, a flicker of something softer passing through his eyes before he turned on his heel and left as abruptly as he had arrived. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with unspoken words and the weight of responsibility. Genevieve took a deep breath, letting the calm of logic soothe her frayed nerves.

--

Genevieve attempted to settle her nerves before approaching Sergeant Grey's office. The fluorescent lights of the precinct flickered overhead, casting a sterile glow on the walls lined with duty rosters and commendations. She found him at his desk, a fortress of paperwork.

"Sergeant Grey," she began. "I have a proposal, about the hacker."

Grey looked up, his eyes sharp and assessing. "I'm listening," he said, leaning back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight.

"We... I've set up a way to use the subnet to counterattack them and push them off the network, but it needs time to initialize," Genevieve explained, her fingers unconsciously tapping against her thigh. "If we can engage him in negotiations, keep his attention, it might just work."

Grey's gaze didn't waver. "Negotiate? With a criminal holding our systems hostage?"

Before Genevive could respond, a voice cut through her words. "It's a bad idea."

Tim stood in the doorway; his disapproval evident. Genvieve's heart skipped a beat, the memory of his earlier anger still fresh.

"I know it's risky, but it could work," she insisted, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness.

Grey considered her words, then nodded. "Set it up in the tech room. We'll do it your way, Hart."

Relief washed over Genevieve, but it was short-lived as Tim's gaze bore into her. "This better work."

In the tech room, the air was thick with anticipation. Monitors lined the walls, each flickering with streams of data. Genevieve's fingers were a blur over the keyboard. She was deep in the subnet, deploying a countermeasure that would sever the hacker's grip on their systems.

Meanwhile, John stepped into the room, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He adjusted the communication device, cleared his throat, and initiated contact with the hacker.

"This is Officer Nolan." John's voice was calm, collected, the very embodiment of his seasoned experience and empathetic nature.  "Let's talk about what you want."

There was a pause before the hacker's voice responded, distorted through the speakers. "Ah, the famous John Nolan. You know what I want. The Cipher. Now."

John leaned forward, his eyes scanning the room, taking in his anxious faces of his colleagues. "You know I can't do that without something in return. Why is 'The Cipher' so important to you?"

A moment of silence hung before the hacker's laughter crackled through. "You think you're clever, don't you, Officer? Alright, I'll indulge you. 'The Cipher' has something of mine, something... personal."

Genevieve's ears perked up at the revelation, her mind racing. She continued her work, the countermeasure nearly complete.

John's gaze was unwavering, his mind working overtime. "Personal? Are we talking about information? Because if we can help retrieve it, maybe we can resolve this without any more trouble."

The hacker hesitated, and in that hesitation, Genevieve saw her opening. With a few final keystrokes, she activated the countermeasure. The subnet isolation protocol began its work, systematically cutting the hacker's access.

"You're stalling, Officer Nolan." The hacker's voice was now tinged with a hint of panic.

"No stalling here. Just trying to understand the situation," John replied, his tone still even. "Help me help you."

Genevieve's program began to work its magic. One by one, the systems came back online. The screens cleared, the lockdown lifted, and the hacker's connection was lost. "We're good."

Meanwhile, Jake's fingers danced across his own keyboard, the rapid keystrokes a quiet drumroll to the climax of their operation. "Got him," he said, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as the hacker's phone location materialized on his screen.

John gave the hacker a parting shot, his voice a mix of stern officer and wry citizen. "Looks like your time's up. We've enjoyed our chat, but I prefer my conversations a bit more... local. Take care now."

With that, he ended the call, the line going dead as the hacker's digital presence evaporated from their network. A collective exhale filled the room, and for a moment, Genevieve allowed herself to bask in the glow of victory.

Sergeant Grey clapped a hand on her should. "Good work, Hart."

--

Genevieve's heels clicked on the asphalt, a steady rhythm in the quiet evening as she approached her new car. The sleek lines of the vehicle gleamed under the streetlights. But the pride of her purchase was overshadowed by the weight of the day's events, the sting of Tim's words still fresh in her mind.

Tim leaned against her car, his figure outlined by the dimming light. His presence both a comfort and a reminder of their earlier confrontation. As she drew closer, he pushed off from the car and met her hallway.

"Genevieve," he began, his voice low. "I was out of line earlier."

She nodded, accepting his apology with a tight smile, but her eyes remained downcast, fixed on the ground. Tim reached out, gently tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. His touch was warm, and for a moment, the world seemed still.

"I can be an ass sometimes," he interjected, a rueful half-smile breaking through. "Especially when the pressure's on. But that's no excuse. I'm sorry."

The apology hung between them, sincere and heavy. Genevieve nodded again, this time a silent acknowledgement, as Tim's other hand reached out, hesitating just a breath away from her face. He didn't touch her, not quite, but the air seemed to crackle with the tension of the near contact.

"We weren't flirting, you know," she said, a whisper of a challenge in her voice as he stepped back, his presence still lingering like a promise or a prelude.

"No, you weren't," he agreed, his voice steady, the ghost of a smile still playing on his lips as he turned to leave. "Goodnight, Genevieve."

With that, he walked away, Genevieve's gaze lingered on his retreating form. The night was still, the only sound her beating heart, echoing the turmoil within.

[happy4sworld]

Our Minds Entwined------------------------

ch 1, ch 2

Aaron Hotchner x Original Character x Spencer Reid

in which jason gideon's daughter joins the fbi as the newest youngest member

Chapter One:

The bar was abuzz with the kind of infectious energy that only comes from a group of friends riding the high of a celebratory night out. In the center of it all was Evelyn Gideon, her laughter a melody that seemed to turn heads and draw smiles even from strangers. She was the embodiment of sunshine—her allure as undeniable as the curves she carried with effortless grace.

Evelyn raised her glass, her eyes sparkling with excitement and liquor. "To new beginnings and breaking ceilings," she toasted, her voice carrying over the crowded room.

Her friends echoed the sentiment, the voices a tapestry of support woven with threads of admiration. "To Evelyn, the FBI's newest and brightest!"

As they sipped their drinks, the conversation flowed easily, touching on memories, aspirations, and the occasional playful banter about the 'aesthetically pleasing' aspects of her new job.

Evelyn leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, "You know, I've my fair share of late-night googling and let's just say the FBI isn't all work and no play. They've got some serious eye candy too."

Her friends giggled, urging her on, and she obliged, a little tipsy from the copious amounts of wine. "There's this one agent, my boss, Aaron Hotchner. Oh, and another, Spencer Reid. They're like the real-life versions of those FBI recruitment posters. So hot, it's criminal."

The group erupted into laughter, unaware that just a few tables away, two men had paused their conversation, a knowing look exchanged between them. They said nothing, just an awkward cough as they went back to their drinks.

Spencer eyes met hers briefly before adverted his gaze.

Aaron's expression was unreadable as he scoffed, "Interns."

The laughter from Evelyn's table continued to ripple through the bar, a stark contrast to the muted tones of conversation at the agents' table. Spencer's eyes flickered back to his drink, the ice clinking softly as he swirled the glass, a thoughtful expression on his face. Aaron, meanwhile, maintained his stoic facade, though the corners of his mouth twitched in a surpressed smile.

Evelyn, buoyed by the warmth of the wine and her company, leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting across the room. She caught Spencer's eye again, realization drawing on her face, and this time he held her gaze, an unspoken challenge passing between them.

One of her friends nudged her, her eyebrows raised in amusement. "He's cute."

Evelyn's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing with the implications. "I think that's my new boss and colleague."

Evelyn, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol and her earlier comments, caught the agents' glance and felt a sudden wave of embarrassment wash over her. She fumbled with her purse, her laughter trailing off into a nervous giggle.

"Uh, I just remembered, I have an early meeting tomorrow, and I should really get going," Evelyn stammered, avoiding eye contact with the table of agents. Her friends, sensing her discomfort, offered her quick hugs and understanding nods as she made her hasty retreat.

As Evelyn vanished into the crowd, Aaron and Spencer's attention was momentarily captured by the bar's TV, where a breaking news segment flashed across the screen. They leaned in, their focus on a case they'd been following, the world around them fading into the background.

When they finally turned back, expecting to find the lively group still immersed in their celebration, they were met with the sight of an empty chair where Evelyn had been. A twinge of disappointment flickered across their faces, though neither would admit it aloud.

Spencer cleared his throat, "Well, interns are always full of surprises," he remarked, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Aaron nodded, his gaze lingering on the now quieter table. "Indeed. But let's not forget, we were all there once," he said, raising a glass in a silent salute to their beginning memories.

"Statistically speaking," Spencer began, his voice barely above the murmur of the bar, "the chances of us overhearing a conversation about ourselves in such a setting are quiet slim."

Aaron Hotchner, the pillar of stoicism, couldn't help but chuckle at Spencer's comment. "And yet here we are," he added, the hint of a smirk betraying his amusement.

—

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across Evelyn's sleep softened face as she awoke to the chirping of birds and the distant hum of the city. She lay in bed for a moment, her mind a whirlwind of memories from the night before. The laughter, the wine, the unexpected encounter with Dr. Reid and Hotchner.

She was Jason Gideon's daughter, a fact that filled her with pride yet weigh heavily on her. At 23, she was young to be joining the FBI especially the BAU, and she felt the pressure to prove herself as more than just a legacy hire.

Evelyn sat up, pushing back the covers as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Today was the day. Her first day at the BAU. A mix of excitement and nerves bubbled within her, but there was something else too—a hint of mortification. She couldn't shake the memory of calling her new boss and coworker hot within earshot. She hoped against hope that they hadn't overheard.

With a deep breath she rose and made her way to the mirror. She took pride in her appearance, and today was no exception. She chose her outfit with care, professional yet undeniably her.

As she applied her makeup, each brush was an attempt to paint away the embarrassment of last night. She styled her hair, letting it fall into soft waves around her shoulders. We one last glance in the mirror, she was ready.

Evelyn grabbed her gun and badge, then weight of them both a reminder of the responsibility she was about to undertake. She was a member of the FBI now, and she had a role to play.

—

Evelyn's heels clicked against the polished floors of the FBI building, a steady rhythm that matched her racing heart. She drew a deep breath, letting her bubbly personality shine through her nervous smile as she passed through the security checkpoint. She didn't spot Hotch or Dr. Reid, a small mercy that allowed her to collect herself without the weight of their gazes.

The first day formalities were a blur—ID photos, paperwork, and the endless maze of hallways. It was all so technical and impersonal, yet it was the gateway to her dream.

Then, a beacon of light, she spotted Penelope Garcia. They had connected over an online forum for crime fiction enthusiasts, bonding over plot theories and character developments. Garcia's vibrant attire and smile were just as welcoming in person.

"Penelope!" Evelyn greeted, her voice a mix of relief and excitement.

"Evelyn! Honey, you're even more stunning in person!" Garcia beamed, pulling her into a hug. "Welcome to the BAU family!"

As they chatted, Garcia led her to the bullpen, where Evelyn was introduced to the team. Emily Prentiss's firm handshake and measured smile spoke of strength and understanding. JJ's friendly nod and Derek Morgan's charming grin were disarming, making Evelyn's nerves ease slightly.

"So you're the prodigy Gideon was always bragging about," Morgan teased, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

Evelyn laughed, the sound light and genuine. "I hope to live up to at least half the hype," she replied, her tone playful yet sincere.

Prentiss leaned in, her voice low but encouraging. "We've all heard great things about you, Evelyn. We're glad to have you on board."

"And we'll make sure you find your footing," JJ added, her smile reassuring.

The warmth of the welcome eased the knots in her stomach. She was a part of the team, surrounded by legends, and yet, they made her feel like she was one of them—bright, capable.

"Gideon."

The newfound calm in Evelyn's stomach vanished as swiftly as it had arrived when she heard her last name echo across the bullpen. The authoritative tone of Aaron Hotchner snapped the easy atmosphere like a taut wire. She turned, her heart hitching as she met his gaze. For a fleeting moment, she saw the mask of his composure slip, a flicker of surprise that quickly schooled into neutrality. "A word, please?"

Derek couldn't resist the opportunity for a quip. "Don't keep the man waiting, he's not known for his patience," he said, eliciting a round of chuckles from the team.

Evelyn's heart pounded as she approached Hotchner's office, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts seeming to rest on one—he was going to confront me about what I said. She stepped inside, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

Hotchner's office was a stark contrast to the lively bullpen, its walls lined with commendations and case files. He gestured to a chair.

"Good morning, Evelyn," Hotchner began as he motioned her into his office. "Please, have a seat."

She moved past him, her senses heightened, astutely aware of the shift in his demeanor. As she settled into the chair, she caught him glancing at a file on his desk, his eyes momentarily distracted.

"I didn't expect you to be so..." he started, his gaze lifting to meet hers.

"Young?" Evelyn filled in, her voice a mix of confidence and self-deprecation, butterflies filling her stomach. "I get that a lot, but I assure you it won't affect my performance, sir."

In his mind, Hotchner corrected himself, Attractive, but he let the thought pass unspoken of course, cursing himself for even thinking it. "Of course," he said aloud. "Your age isn't a concern. Your qualifications speak for themselves."

He leaned back, interlacing his fingers as he regarded her. "As a new member of the BAU you'll be expected to undergo a period of observation. You'll accompany the team on cases, but your involvement will be limited until you've completed your training."

Evelyn nodded, absorbing every word.

"You'll be assigned a mentor," Hotch continued. "Dr. Reid will take on that role. He'll guide you through our protocols and procedures."

"I'm ready to learn and contribute, sir." Evelyn responded earnestly.

He had been called "sir" by many, but when the word left Evelyn's lips, it was as if he heard it for the first time. He caught himself starring at the lips at which the words came from, snapping his focus back to her eyes.

Hotchner's expression softened ever so slightly. "I believe you are. And remember, this team is a family. We rely on each other's strengths to face what most can't even imagine."

With a final nod, he stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Welcome to the BAU, Agent."

[happy4sworld]

Our Minds Entwined------------------------

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3

Aaron Hotchner x Original Character x Spencer Reid

in which jason gideon's daughter joins the fbi as the newest youngest member

Chapter Two:

Evelyn glided into the BAU office like the first breath of spring, her heels tapping a confident rhythm against the gleaming floor--a drummer setting the beat for a new day. The sun peaked shyly above the horizon, casting a soft glow that seemed to dance with the spark in her eyes. With a tray of meticulously chosen coffee cups cradled in her hands, she was the portrait of preparedness, memorizing everyone's order--or so she thought.

Her arrival was like a ripple in a still pond, drawing the gaze of every agent in the room. They couldn't help but be captivated by the way her hair cascaded in perfect waves, each strand catching the light as if spun from chestnut threads. Her nails, painted a shade of pink, spoke of a meticulous nature, each tip polished to a flawless finish. The air shifted around her, sweetened by the subtle hint of vanilla that trailed in her wake. She moved with a grace that belied the steel in her spine.

"Good morning, everyone!" Evelyn chirps, her voice a cheerful melody that fills the BAU conference room. She flutters to the table, her movements light. "Your caffeine fix, courtesy of the new girl," she announced with a wink, her words wrapped in warmth.

Each cup finds its way into the hands of colleagues, a personal touch from the newest member. Hotchner's eyebrow arches in silent question as he brings the cup to his lips, the familiar comfort of his morning ritual poised at the edge of disruption.

The first sip is a surprise, a cascade of caramel where stark bitterness usually resides. "This is... different," he remarks, the dryness of his tone belting out a hint of amusement that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Yet, in the curve of his mouth, there's a shadow of a smile, a rare crack in the facade of the ever-serious unit chief.

Reid's curiosity piqued as he approached his coffee with caution. The liquid was dark and unadultered, a stark contrast to the usual sugary coffee. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, a silent nod to Evelyn's thoughtful gesture. "Actually, this is exactly how I like it," he said, the lie as transparent as glass, accompanied by an awkward sweep of his hand through his hair. "Thank you, Evelyn."

The room fills with soft laughter. It was a rare sound, one that seemed to wrap around the room like a comforting blanket. Rossi, who had just walked in, couldn't but chuckle as he reached for his expresso, served just the way he liked it.

"You'll fit right in, kid," Rossi said, his voice rich with approval as he gave Evelyn a gentle pat on the shoulder.

Evelyn's cheeks flushed with a cocktail of embarrassment and delight, a rosy hue that matched the sunrise peeking through the blinds. "I'll get it right next time, promise," she chirped, her voice a tender mix of hope and humility.

As the room settled into the rhythm of the morning briefing, Evelyn found herself perched next to Reid, her pulse dancing to a nervous beat. "So, I heard you're going to be my mentor," she blurted out, her words tumbling faster than her mind could keep up. "I'm really looking forward to learning from you, Dr. Reid. I mean, your analysis on the last case was just--wow!"

Reid's gaze lingered on her, a silent enigma before his lips curled into a smile that could put the stars to shame. "I'm looking forward to working with you too, Evelyn. And please, call me Spencer."

The name rolled off her tongue, a sweet note in her mouth. "Spencer," she echoed, savoring the familiarity it promised. A shadow of a memory flickered--the bar incident--and her smile wavered, a ripple of uncertainty. Had he heard what she said that night? She prayed not.

The conference room, usually a crucible of tension and intellect, shifted into a training exercise as Hotchner laid out the case before Evelyn. "Evelyn, we have a mock case for you," he declared, his voice a beacon of authority. "We need a profile for a suspect based on the evidence provided. Let's see what you've got."

Evelyn stood, her notes clutched in her hands like a shield, her smile a bright flag of enthusiasm. "Thank you, sir," she said, her voice ringing with the clear tones of determination. "Okay, based on the behavioral patterns and crime scene photos, I'd say our suspect is a male in his late thirties, likely works in a managerial position--someone who's used to being in control."

From the sidelines, Reid observed, his mentor's eyes sharp yet encouraging. As Evelyn unfolded her thoughts, he found himself quietly impressed by the clarity of her intuition and solidity of her logic. She was a natural, her talent shining through like a lighthouse in the fog.

"Also," Evelyn pressed on, her confidence swelling, "he's meticulous, organized. The way the scene is arranged, it's almost ritualistic. This isn't his first rodeo."

Hotchner absorbed her words, his face a mask of neutrality. When she concluded, he gave a slow nod. "Impressive, Evelyn. Very thorough analysis."

Reid leaned in, his gaze locking with Evelyn's. "You're right about the control aspect," he offered softly, his voice a harmonious contrast to Hotchner's commanding tone. "But consider this--the suspect might also crave recognition. The 'ritualistic' aspect could be a signature, a way to stand out."

Evelyn's eyes stayed on Reid; her respect evident. "That's a really good point, thank you, Dr. Reid--Spencer," she corrected, a blush coloring her cheeks.

A hush fell over the room, all eyes draw to the pair. Then, like a burst of sunlight through clouds, Garcia tumbled into the room, her arms laden with case files and her attire a splash of color. "Sorry, I'm late, traffic was a nightmare!" she announced, but her tone softened as she caught sight of Evelyn. "Oh, you're doing the mock case today! You go, girl!"

Evelyn's smile returned, buoyed by Garcia's infectious cheer. The room came alive with a fresh vigor, the team converging to weave their insights on Evelyn's building profile.

As the discussion continues, Spencer leaned in, his voice a low murmur meant only for Evelyn. "You have a good instinct for this," he murmured, his eyes twinkling with pride.

The moment shattered as JJ burst through the door, her breaths quick and sharp, cutting through the quiet. "Sorry to interrupt," she gasped, "But we've got a situation. The 'Charleston Choker'--he's active again."

A heavy silence fell, the team's focus coalescing into a sharp point. Hotchner's nod was silent, a nonverbal command that set the wheels in motion. "Go ahead, JJ."

With a sense of solemnity, JJ unfurled the folder, her fingers tracing the outline of a lily in a crime scene photo. "Two hours ago, a jogger found a body in the woods outside of Charleston. Strangulation, posed, and..." Her voice faltered, the weight of the words heavy on her tongue, "...a lily placed in the victim's hands."

Reid's mind was awhirl with patterns and profiles, his thoughts racing ahead. "That's the third this month. The escalation is consistent with his pattern."

Evelyn's response with a bright flame of determination, tinged with a concern of the uninitiated. "What's our timeline looking like? How fast is he moving now?"

"Faster," JJ returned, her gaze locking with Evelyn's, a silent exchange of resolve. "Days instead of weeks."

Garcia chimed in from her nest of monitors, "And I just cross-referenced florists in the area. There's a purchase that stands out--cash, large quantities. It could be our guy."

Evelyn's eyes shone, the thrill of her first case igniting a spark within. "That's something! Can we get a location?"

Reid's smile was tinged with pride and a hint of concern. "We can, and we will. But we need to be careful. This unsub is cautious; he's been evading us for a reason."

Hotchner rose, his very stance a commandment. "Wheels up in 30. JJ, brief us on the way. Garcia, send everything you have to the tablets."

The team began to mobilize, the urgency palpable. As they walked out, Evelyn turned to Reid, her voice a mix of excitement and naivety. "This is it, huh? The real deal?"

Reid nodded, the protective edge in his voice unmistakable. "It is. And remember, it's not about just catching him--it's about saving the next potential victim."

--

Evelyn's first step onto the BAU jet was like stepping into another world--one where the grim realities of their job were momentarily eclipsed by the sheer luxury of federal funding. The plush leather seats, the soft hum of the engines, it was all so... cinematic.

As she settled into the seat beside Hotchner, the reality of her situation began to sink in. She was here, really here, on the jet she'd seen countless times from her father, now filled with the tangible presence of her new colleagues--legends in their own right. And then there was Hotchner, the epitome of stoic leadership, his profile as he reviewed case files was a study in concentration. Evelyn couldn't help but steal glances, each one leaving her more awestruck than the last.

Hothcner's brow raised as his focus stayed on the case file. "Something on your mind, Evelyn?" he inquired, his voice steady.

Evelyn's cheeks were a canvas of emotion, painted with the embarrassment of being caught ogling as she adverted her eyes. "Just... taking it all in. It's a lot to process," she said, her voice a whisper of excitement against the backdrop of her new reality.

A smile, rare and fleeting, graced Hotchner's lips. "It can be overwhelming at first," he acknowledged, his words a gently nudge of encouragement.

The jet engines roared to life, and as they ascended, Evelyn felt the weight of her new reality. She was flying high, both literally and metaphorically on the wings of her dreams and the gravity of their mission. The juxtaposition was dizzying.

JJ commanded the room from the head of the plane, her laser pointer a wand of urgency as she traced the geography of the investigation. "This is where the last body was found," she intoned, each word heavy with the gravity of their task. "And here, and here. All within a ten-mile radius."

Morgan's posture was that of a statue, contemplative and still. "He's got a comfort zone. He's not taking any chances, staying close to what he knows," he mused, his thoughts a fortress around the profile they were building.

"Which means he's likely a local. Someone who blends in, who wouldn't raise suspicion," Reid contributes, his voice a sound of reason.

Evelyn observed with the intensity of a hawk. Her notes were a flurry of ink and paper, a physical manifestation of her fervor to contribute.

"So, we're looking for a needle in a haystack, but at least we know which haystack," she offered, her optimism a beacon in the fog of uncertainty.

Garcia's voice, a familiar melody, filled the space from the screen. "And I'm sifting through it as we speak, my doves. I'll find that needle," she promised, her determination a tangible force even through the digital divide.

Hotchner's nod was a silent decree, a sign of approval and command. "Good. Keep us updated, Garcia," he directed.

The team continues to brainstorm, throwing out theories and ideas. Evelyn sat amidst the seasoned agents; her eyes wide with a childlike wonder. Her enthusiasm was infectious, a palpable energy that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of her heartbeat--fast, eager, alive. Hotchner watched her, his gaze the steady flame in her excitement.

There was a softness there, a rare glimpse of approval that softened the hard lines of his face. He saw in her the spark that had once driven him, the unquenchable thirst for justice that was the lifeblood of their work.

Evelyn's idea cut through the hum of the plane's descent. "What if we set up a roadblock? Check vehicles coming in and out of the area?" Her voice a symphony of eagerness.

Rossi smirks at her words. "Not a bad idea for a rookie," he mused, his words a gentle tease wrapped in the velvet of experience.

As the plane continues to descent, the team starts to pack up their gear. Hotchner remained seated, his gaze anchoring Evelyn in place.

"Listen, Evelyn," he said, his tone even, "I know this is exciting for you, your first real case. But remember, this job... it can take a lot out of you. It can change you."

Evelyn nodded, her shine not dimming. "I know. But I'm ready."

Hotchner's expression softened just a touch. "Just don't lost that optimism. It's rare in this line of work, and it's... refreshing."

[happy4sworld]

Ours Minds Entwined----------------------

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4

Spencer Reid x Original Character x Aaron Hotchner

in which jason gideon's daughter joins the fbi as the newest youngest member

Chapter Three:

The precinct doors swung open, admitting the BAU team into a world where the air was heavy with the scent of stale coffee and the buzz of fluorescent lights. The local officers, scattered like leaves, paused mid-motion their gazes drawn the badged newcomers. Among them, the chief stood out, his shoulders bearing the slump of defeat.

Evelyn stepped through the threshold, her arrival stirring the calm atmosphere as subtly as a breeze disturbs a tranquil pond. The male officers couldn't help but glance up from their desks, their conversations trailing off as they took in her confident stride and bright energy she carried like a torch. She was oblivious to the subtle shifts in posture, the stolen glances that followed her path to the map.

Hotchner's gaze, sharp and discerning, caught the brief interplay of looks, a silent conversation in the language of glances. Beside him, Reid's observation was more analytical, noting the dynamics without judgment, his mind already cataloging and discarding the information as irrelevant to the task at hand.

Hotchner's voice cut through the low buzz of the precinct, clear and authoritative. "We're here to assist, not take over. Your insights are invaluable." His words were a bridge, extending partnership to the weary officers.

The chief, a grizzled veteran with eyes that had seen too much, stepped forward to greet them. "We're at a dead end," he admitted, shaking Hotchner's hand with a grip that spoke of desperation. "This guy is thorough, leaves no trace."

Reid, his eyes sharp behind the lenses of his glasses, peered over the crime scene photos scattered across the table. "Has there been any consistency in the locations of the attacks?" he asked, his mind already sifting through the data like a codebreaker.

A detective, her badge dulled by the dust of the chase, shook her head. "All within a ten-mile radius, but no specific pattern. Random as far as we can tell."

Evelyn leaned over the map, her fingers tracing the spiderweb of roads and locations, her brow in concentration. "Not random, a constellation..." she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

It was there, in the quiet hum of her focus, the pattern emerged--a dance of dates and places that wove together.

"Look at the dates," Evelyn said, her voice a beacon cutting through the fog. "Each one aligns with a local event. It's not random; it's opportunistic. He's hiding in plain sight, using the crowds as cover for escape."

Silence fell, a heavy cloak, as all eyes turned to Evelyn. Reid's lips quirked up in a semblance of a smile, his respect for her clear in the warmth of his eyes. "She's right," he affirmed. "The unsub isn't just local; he's embedded in the community, using public events as his hunting ground."

Hotchner's nod was slow, thoughtful, the gears of strategy turning behind his stoic facade. "Good work, Evelyn. Let's get a list of upcoming events, cross-reference with his known comfort zone. We might just catch him in the act."

--

The office was a cocoon of concentration, bathed in the soft hum of working minds. The only sources of light were the twin glows of computer screens, reflecting off Reid and Evelyn's focused faces. Papers littered the desk, each one a piece of the puzzle they were desperately trying to solve.

Reid, his eyes scanning the data before them, spoke without looking away from the screen. "If we consider the unsub's preference for high-density events, it's logical to deduce that he will utilize the inherent disorder as a smokescreen for his escape," he said, his voice a low murmur in the quiet room.

Evelyn's eyes, bright with the thrill of the hunt, were fixed on the screen as she leaned forward, her curiosity piqued by the list of events. Her hair had loosened during the long hours of research, giving her an air of approachability.

Reid, ever the picture of academic focus, had his brows furrowed in concentration. His hair was a bit more unruly than usual, the curls just slightly askew. The faintest hint of a five o'clock shadow graced his jawline, adding a rugged edge to his otherwise youthful appearance.

Evelyn leaned in, her eyes scanning the list. "What about this one?" she asked, pointing to an entry on the screen. "The annual bourbon event. It's popular, draws a big crowd, and it's happening within his hunting grounds."

Reid's eyes flickered with approval. "Good catch," he affirmed, his voice steady and calm, yet there was an undercurrent of enthusiasm for her keen observation.

Evelyn's cheeks flushed with a rosy hue, her eyes sparkling with pride. The praise from Dr. Reid, sent a wave of elation through her--all the way to in between her thighs. She dragged her lower lip through her teeth, straightening her posture, as she turned to him. "So, we could catch him there," she said.

Reid observed the transformation with a gentle, knowing smile. There was a vibrancy to Evelyn's enthusiasm that reminded him so vividly of his own younger self--brilliant, eager to prove, and somewhat oblivious to the darkness they were about to face. Yet, there was a shadow of concern that crept into his thoughts; the job had a way of chipping away at one's spirit, and he hoped Evelyn would be spared the harsher realities for a little while longer. He saw her potential for greatness, but also the innocence that he once carried--an innocence her hoped to protect, even if just for a little while longer.

Reid leaned back in his chair, his eyes meeting Evelyn's with a mentor's patience. "It's a multifaced problem," he began, his tone measured and informative. "We have to account for variables that could influence the unsub's behavior--law enforcement visibility, crowd dynamics, ingress and egress points."

Evelyn nodded, her pen pausing over the notebook that was quickly becoming a testament to her dedication. "Right, exit strategies," she echoed, her voice a mix of realization and admiration. "I didn't even think about that."

"There's always a pattern, a logic to their choices, even if it's skewed by their own delusions," Reid continued, the profiler in him surfacing as he spoke. "Our job is to decode that logic, to think like them, so we can be there to stop them."

Evelyn's scribbles grew more fervent, her eyes alight with the challenge. "To get into their heads," she mused, looking up at Reid with newfound understanding.

"Exactly," Reid affirmed with a nod, a subtle smile acknowledging her quick grasp of the concept. "And remember, the most seemingly insignificant detail could be the key to unlocking their next move."

The realization struck like a bolt of lightning, and the urgency was palpable in the room. Evelyn's breath hitched as she stared at the date, her voice a mix of alarm and adrenaline. "Reid, it's tomorrow," she said, the words tumbling out with the weight of their implications.

Reid's reaction was immediate, his sharp mind already racing through the implications. His eyes now mirrored Evelyn's intensity. "We need to call Hotch," he stated, the command in his voice leaving no room for hesitation.

--

The BAU team, after hours of meticulous planning for the bourbon festival operation, stepped into the hotel lobby--a spacious area with high ceilings and a grand chandelier casting a warm glow over the polished marble floors. The air was filled with a mix of anticipation and fatigue from the day's efforts.

Morgan's eyes, sharp and observant, scanned the surroundings before resting on Evelyn. His muscular frame relaxed against the front desk, his FBI badge glinting under the lobby's lights. "You know, for a rookie, you're not too shabby at this profiling gig," he teased, his voice carrying a hint of respect.

Evelyn, despite the exhaustion that shadowed her features, still managed to exude an effortless elegance. Her hair, usually tied back for practicality, had strands falling loosely around her face, softening her determined expression. "Oh, please. I learned from watching the best," she quipped, nudging him lightly with her shoulder.

Morgan chuckled. "Just remember, it's all fun and games until someone gets out-profiled by the new kid."

In the hours between the precinct and the hotel, the team had dissected every detail of the unsub's previous attacks. They mapped out the festival grounds, assigned undercover positions, and established communication protocols. They even ran through several scenarios, each time refining their strategy to ensure they were ready for any contingency.

As they finalized check-ins, Garcia buzzed in with last-minute intel, adding another layer to the plan. They would need to be vigilant, adaptive, and above all, united to outsmart a foe who had eluded everyone thus far. The team dispersed to their rooms, Reid lingering behind with Evelyn as their rooms ended up being next to each other.

The dimly lit hallway to their rooms was quiet, save for the soft thud of their footsteps on the plush carpet. Reid walked alongside Evelyn; his profile bathed in the intermittent glow of the overhead lights. His hair was tousled, likely from the countless times he'd run his fingers through it in thought, giving him a disheveled charm that Evelyn couldn't help but find endearing.

As they reached her door, Evelyn's bag strap slipped from her shoulder, prompting her to grasp it tighter. In doing so, the sleeve of her blouse shifted, revealing the gentle slope of her collarbone. Reid's gaze inadvertently followed the movement, and he felt an inexplicable warmth flood to his cheeks. It was a simple, innocent moment, yet it stirred something within him.

"Here we are," Evelyn said, her voice breaking the silence as she fumbled with her key card.

Reid, still slightly flustered, cleared his throat. "Yeah, um, goodnight, Evelyn. See you in the morning," he managed to say, his eyes lingered a moment longer than they should've before he turned towards his own door.

"Goodnight, Spencer," she replied, her use of his first name sending a ripple through the air.

--

The bourbon festival buzzed with energy, a tapestry of sounds and colors under the open sky. The scent of oak and vanilla wafted through the air, mingling with the sweet, earthy aroma of the surrounding food stalls. Laughter and lively conversations created a backdrop to the twang of banjos and fiddles playing a lively bluegrass tune, setting toes tapping on the grassy grounds.

As Evelyn navigated the festival crowed, Reid found his attention inadvertently drawn to her. The way the setting sun played with her hair, transforming it into a cascade of burnished waves, and the way the sundress accentuated her every curve with an understated elegance. There was something about Evelyn in this light, in this moment, that captivated him, and he caught himself appreciating the sight more than he had anticipated.

Reid's attire was a departure from his usual suits--a plaid shirt that brought out the flecks of amber in his eyes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and dark jeans that were both functional and inconspicuous. His hair lay in casual disarray, seeming as though the festival's carefree spirit had influenced his usually precise appearance.

The bourbon festival was in full swing, the air filled with the sounds of laughter and music. Undercover among the revelers, Reid and Evelyn blended in seamlessly, their casual attire and relaxed demeanor belying the sharp vigilance in their eyes.

Evelyn leaned against a wooden stall, sipping her fake drink as she observed the crowed. "So, we're looking for a male in his 30s, likely with a history of gambling debts and penchant for superstition," she recited quietly to Reid.

Reid, who was pretending to be engrossed in a festival brochure, nodded subtly. "Exactly. The four-leaf clover he leaves with his victims--it's not just superstition; it's a signature. It suggests a compulsion, a need to leave his mark, which is indicative of a narcissistic personality. He's taunting law enforcement, believing he can control the outcome of his crimes--like he's playing his own game of chance."

Evelyn, her voice low and steady leaned in. "So, we're looking for someone who blends in too well, someone who's watching but not engaging," she observed, her gaze sweeping over the crowd.

Reid nodded, his attention divided between her and the faces passing by. "Our unsub targets individuals who are isolated, perhaps separated from the group--easy prey in a setting like this," he explained.

Evelyn's eyes followed his line of sight. "Right, the loners. The ones who look like they're searching for something or someone," she added.

As the evening progressed, the shadows began to cast across the faces of the crowd. Reid and Evelyn moved through the throng, their gazes sharp and discerning. They passed a group of raucous college students, their laughter ringing out as they clinked their glasses in a toast. A little further on, a family of four navigated the crowed, the children's faces painted with whimsical designs, their hands sticky with cotton candy.

The air was rich with the scent of smoked meats and the char of oak barrels, the soundscape a blend of folk music and the murmur of hundreds of conversations.

Reid's voice was low as he leaned in, "It's fascinating how a beverage can be both a social lubricant and a potential clue in a criminal investigation. I suppose that adds a whole new layer to the term 'spirit detective'."

Evelyn's laughter was like a melody that cut through the ambient noise of the festival, infectious and unrestrained. It was the kind of laugh that turned heads, not just for its volume but for its genuine quality.

She turned to Reid, her eyes alight with a playful glint. "So, we're adding 'spirit detective' to your already impressive resume? I must say, it's quite the title upgrade from genius profiler," she quipped, her tone teasing.

"Easy, we don't want to draw attention," Reid murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. Her laugh was a laugh he realized he wanted to hear again, a candid burst of warmth that cut through the coolness of his analytical mind.

The festival's din faded into the background as Evelyn's attention was momentarily captured by Hotch's presence. He stood there, a figure of quiet authority even in his casual undercover attire. The subtle checkered pattern of his shirt did little to conceal his disciplined build, and the way his jeans fit just right made Evelyn's mouth feel dry all of a sudden.

Hotch's eyes, usually a well of stoicism, held a flicker of something else as they met Evelyn's--a momentary lapse in his guarded demeanor. His gaze, sharp and assessing, traveled over her in a swift, sweeping motion that was both professional and personal. It lingered just a beat too long on the curve of her neckline.

Hotch, after his brief lapse, was once again the picture of professionalism. His conversation with Rossi resumed, his demeanor unreadable, the brief moment of personal interest concealed behind a mask of focus and command. Evelyn, still oblivious to the subtle undercurrents of attraction, turned her attention back to the mission, her mind as sharp as ever.

Evelyn excused herself from Spencer, weaving through the crowd in search of the bathroom. The path to the restrooms was a stark contrast to the bourbon-soaked revelry Evelyn had left behind. The vibrant string of lights gave way to the occasional flickering bulb that did little to pierce the encroaching darkness. The music, once a lively companion, now played a muffled soundtrack to her solitary walk, the notes distorted and distant.

The restrooms, a small cluster of temporary structures, stood isolated at the edge of the festival grounds. Evelyn's boots sank slightly in the soft earth with each step, the recent rain turning the ground to a treacherous mix of mud and grass.

As she stepped out, the sense of solitude was abruptly shattered. A hand clamped over her mouth with startling force, stifling the scream that rose in her throat. Her assailant's arm was an iron band around her, pulling her back against a solid chest. Panic flared, her breath hot and desperate against the palm pressed to her lips.

Panic surged, her heart thundering in her chest, her mind screaming for action, but her body momentarily paralyzed by fear. It was him--the unsub. His breath was hot against her ear, his grip unyielding.

Adrenaline surged through Evelyn's veins, her training taking over as she drove her elbow back with precision, aiming for the soft of her attacker's abdomen. The unsub grunted, his grip loosening just enough for her to twist out of his hold. The unsub recovered quickly; his face contorted with anger.

He lunged at her, throwing a punch that Evelyn narrowly dodged. She countered with a swift kick to his knee, causing him to buckle, but he was relentless. He swung again, this time connecting with her cheek, the impact sending a jolt of pain through her jaw.

Evelyn staggered but didn't falter. She wiped the trickle of blood from her lip and glared at the unsub with fierce determination. With a swift move, she stepped inside his reach, delivered a powerful uppercut that snapped his head back, and followed with a knee to his midsection that doubled him over.

As he gasped for air, Evelyn seized the opportunity. She grabbed his arm, twisted behind his back, and pushed him down to the ground. "FBI! You're under arrest," she declared, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart.

The scene was a rush of motion as the team manifested in an instant. Reid's face was a canvas of raw concern, his eyes searching for signs of distress. Hotch allowed a rare glimpse of worry to surface as he took in her appearance--the bleeding lip and the bruise blooming on her cheek. Evelyn's hair, though slightly disheveled from the altercation, framed her face.

The team's anxiety was palpable, a collective breath held until they were certain she was unharmed. It was her first case, and the stakes had never felt more personal. Yet, as Evelyn stood there, her bright smile breaking through the tension, her spirit undimmed by the encounter.

"I got him!" she declared; her smile unwavering as she met the eyes of her team.

--

Evelyn perched precariously on the cold metal edge of the ambulance, the harsh glare of its lights casting long shadows on the pavement. The EMT, with gentle hands, tended to the gash on her lip--a stark red against her skin. Each touch of the disinfectant was a sharp reminder of the day's chaos, a stinging sensation that seemed to echo her inner turmoil.

Despite the pain, Evelyn found solace in the rhythm of conversation, her words weaving between the EMT's methodical treatment. She spoke of trivial things at first, the weather, the relentless pace of the city, anything to keep the silence at bay. Yet, even as her voice trembled slightly, revealing cracks in her usually unflappable demeanor, she smiled--a smile, wistful curve of the lips.

Spencer's approach was hesitant, his hands buried deep in the refuge of his pockets, betraying a casual facade that his furrowed brow contradicted. As he drew nearer, the dim light fell upon Evelyn's features, illuminating the stark contrast of bruised skin against the sterile white of the ambulance's interior. His eyes, a mirror of his internal struggle, winced at the sight, a silent testament to the empathy that swelled within him.

"How you holding up?" he inquired, his voice a soft undercurrent amidst the wail of distant sirens. The concern in his tone was evident, wrapping around her like a warm blanket.

Evelyn, her face a canvas of the day's trails, bore the marks of the ordeal with an unsettling grace. The cut on her lip, now cleaned, was a vivid line drawn across her otherwise smooth complexion. Flecks of dried blood were still visible.

Evelyn's smile, though small and tinged with irony, was a testament to her unyielding optimism. "I've had better nights," she quipped, the humor in her voice a gentle balm against the sting of the EMT's ministrations. As a fresh bandage adhered to her cheek--she winced.

"I know it's part of the job, but... I'm sorry you had to go through that," Spencer said, his eyes meeting hers with sincerity.

Evelyn's shrug was a delicate dance of nonchalance, her shoulders lifting in a gesture that belied the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. "Comes with the territory, right?" she said, her voice a mix of jest and earnest. "Besides, we got him, and that's what counts." Her words were a shield, a deflection of the concern she saw mirrored in Spencer's eyes.

Spencer's response was a nod, subtle yet laden with the weight of unspoken words. The corner of his mouth curved into a faint smile, a silent accolade for her courage. "You did good, Evelyn. Really good." His affirmation was simple, but it carried the depth of his respect for her, for the strength she wielded so effortlessly.

"Thanks," Evelyn replied, her gratitude genuine, a softening in the steel of her eyes. "For checking on me." It was a moment of vulnerability, a crack in her armor that allowed gratitude to seep through.

"It's what teammates do." Spencer said, his voice a low timbre that seemed to resonate with the quiet of the night. His gaze held hers, a momentary tether, it lingered a beat longer than necessary.

As the silence stretched between them, a figure approached, his footsteps measured and purposeful. It was Hotch, his presence commanding even in the dim light. He carried with him a blanket. Spencer, ever perceptive, felt the shift in the air and excused himself with a nod, stepping away to give them space. Hotch's eyes met Evelyn's a wordless exchange passing between them before he spoke.

"You should keep warm," Hotch said, his voice firm yet laced with concern. He unfolded the blanket with practiced ease and draped it over her shoulders, the soft material enveloping in a gentle embrace. His eyes inadvertently lingered on the wound upon her lip, the starkness of the injury drawing his focus. It was a fleeting moment, but in it, there was an intensity. The EMT, giving them a brief nod, finished up and moved aside, leaving them in a quiet bubble of privacy.

Evelyn pulled the blanket tighter around her, the fabric against the night's chill. Hotch's proximity was a force itself, the air charged with an energy that seemed to pulse with each of his measured breaths. She was acutely aware of his gaze, the way it rested upon her with an intensity that was both unsettling and reassuring.

"Thank you," she murmured, her gaze lifting the meet Hotch's steady one.

Hotch's stance was as resolute as his reputation, his figure cutting a commanding silhouette against the flickering lights of the emergency vehicles. "Evelyn," he intoned, his voice carrying the weight of authority softened by a trace of concern. His eyes, usually a guarded fortress, held a glimmer of uncharacteristic turmoil as they fixed upon her.

Evelyn, still cocooned in the blanket, looked up to meet his gaze. The ambient light played across her features, highlighting the youthful resolve etched into her bruised face.

In that moment, as he saw her standing her ground, something within Hotch shifted. The sight of her in the fray, fiercely fighting for her life, had ignited a surge of panic unlike anything he'd experienced with other team members. It was a visceral reaction, one that puzzled him with the intensity. Was it the paternal instinct to protest the progeny of his old friend and mentor, Gideon? Or was it something else?

Whatever the cause, it was a jarring sentiment that Hotch quickly compartmentalized, returning to the matter at hand with his usual stoic clarity. "You know the risks of going off alone, even for a moment," he reiterated, his stern gaze lingering on the cut of her lip--a silent reproof of her impulse.

Evelyn absorbed the words, her own eyes reflecting a complex mix or appreciation and a newfound understanding of the weight of her actions.

Hotch's gaze softened as he concluded, "Despite that, you handled yourself well out there. It's clear you're Gideon's daughter, and that's not just a responsibility--it's a strength. I have no doubt you'll become an invaluable part of this team. You're going to be okay, Evelyn."

[happy4sworld]

Our Minds Entwined------------------------

ch 1, ch 2

Aaron Hotchner x Original Character x Spencer Reid

in which jason gideon's daughter joins the fbi as the newest youngest member

Chapter One:

The bar was abuzz with the kind of infectious energy that only comes from a group of friends riding the high of a celebratory night out. In the center of it all was Evelyn Gideon, her laughter a melody that seemed to turn heads and draw smiles even from strangers. She was the embodiment of sunshine—her allure as undeniable as the curves she carried with effortless grace.

Evelyn raised her glass, her eyes sparkling with excitement and liquor. "To new beginnings and breaking ceilings," she toasted, her voice carrying over the crowded room.

Her friends echoed the sentiment, the voices a tapestry of support woven with threads of admiration. "To Evelyn, the FBI's newest and brightest!"

As they sipped their drinks, the conversation flowed easily, touching on memories, aspirations, and the occasional playful banter about the 'aesthetically pleasing' aspects of her new job.

Evelyn leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, "You know, I've my fair share of late-night googling and let's just say the FBI isn't all work and no play. They've got some serious eye candy too."

Her friends giggled, urging her on, and she obliged, a little tipsy from the copious amounts of wine. "There's this one agent, my boss, Aaron Hotchner. Oh, and another, Spencer Reid. They're like the real-life versions of those FBI recruitment posters. So hot, it's criminal."

The group erupted into laughter, unaware that just a few tables away, two men had paused their conversation, a knowing look exchanged between them. They said nothing, just an awkward cough as they went back to their drinks.

Spencer eyes met hers briefly before adverted his gaze.

Aaron's expression was unreadable as he scoffed, "Interns."

The laughter from Evelyn's table continued to ripple through the bar, a stark contrast to the muted tones of conversation at the agents' table. Spencer's eyes flickered back to his drink, the ice clinking softly as he swirled the glass, a thoughtful expression on his face. Aaron, meanwhile, maintained his stoic facade, though the corners of his mouth twitched in a surpressed smile.

Evelyn, buoyed by the warmth of the wine and her company, leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting across the room. She caught Spencer's eye again, realization drawing on her face, and this time he held her gaze, an unspoken challenge passing between them.

One of her friends nudged her, her eyebrows raised in amusement. "He's cute."

Evelyn's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing with the implications. "I think that's my new boss and colleague."

Evelyn, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol and her earlier comments, caught the agents' glance and felt a sudden wave of embarrassment wash over her. She fumbled with her purse, her laughter trailing off into a nervous giggle.

"Uh, I just remembered, I have an early meeting tomorrow, and I should really get going," Evelyn stammered, avoiding eye contact with the table of agents. Her friends, sensing her discomfort, offered her quick hugs and understanding nods as she made her hasty retreat.

As Evelyn vanished into the crowd, Aaron and Spencer's attention was momentarily captured by the bar's TV, where a breaking news segment flashed across the screen. They leaned in, their focus on a case they'd been following, the world around them fading into the background.

When they finally turned back, expecting to find the lively group still immersed in their celebration, they were met with the sight of an empty chair where Evelyn had been. A twinge of disappointment flickered across their faces, though neither would admit it aloud.

Spencer cleared his throat, "Well, interns are always full of surprises," he remarked, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Aaron nodded, his gaze lingering on the now quieter table. "Indeed. But let's not forget, we were all there once," he said, raising a glass in a silent salute to their beginning memories.

"Statistically speaking," Spencer began, his voice barely above the murmur of the bar, "the chances of us overhearing a conversation about ourselves in such a setting are quiet slim."

Aaron Hotchner, the pillar of stoicism, couldn't help but chuckle at Spencer's comment. "And yet here we are," he added, the hint of a smirk betraying his amusement.

—

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across Evelyn's sleep softened face as she awoke to the chirping of birds and the distant hum of the city. She lay in bed for a moment, her mind a whirlwind of memories from the night before. The laughter, the wine, the unexpected encounter with Dr. Reid and Hotchner.

She was Jason Gideon's daughter, a fact that filled her with pride yet weigh heavily on her. At 23, she was young to be joining the FBI especially the BAU, and she felt the pressure to prove herself as more than just a legacy hire.

Evelyn sat up, pushing back the covers as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Today was the day. Her first day at the BAU. A mix of excitement and nerves bubbled within her, but there was something else too—a hint of mortification. She couldn't shake the memory of calling her new boss and coworker hot within earshot. She hoped against hope that they hadn't overheard.

With a deep breath she rose and made her way to the mirror. She took pride in her appearance, and today was no exception. She chose her outfit with care, professional yet undeniably her.

As she applied her makeup, each brush was an attempt to paint away the embarrassment of last night. She styled her hair, letting it fall into soft waves around her shoulders. We one last glance in the mirror, she was ready.

Evelyn grabbed her gun and badge, then weight of them both a reminder of the responsibility she was about to undertake. She was a member of the FBI now, and she had a role to play.

—

Evelyn's heels clicked against the polished floors of the FBI building, a steady rhythm that matched her racing heart. She drew a deep breath, letting her bubbly personality shine through her nervous smile as she passed through the security checkpoint. She didn't spot Hotch or Dr. Reid, a small mercy that allowed her to collect herself without the weight of their gazes.

The first day formalities were a blur—ID photos, paperwork, and the endless maze of hallways. It was all so technical and impersonal, yet it was the gateway to her dream.

Then, a beacon of light, she spotted Penelope Garcia. They had connected over an online forum for crime fiction enthusiasts, bonding over plot theories and character developments. Garcia's vibrant attire and smile were just as welcoming in person.

"Penelope!" Evelyn greeted, her voice a mix of relief and excitement.

"Evelyn! Honey, you're even more stunning in person!" Garcia beamed, pulling her into a hug. "Welcome to the BAU family!"

As they chatted, Garcia led her to the bullpen, where Evelyn was introduced to the team. Emily Prentiss's firm handshake and measured smile spoke of strength and understanding. JJ's friendly nod and Derek Morgan's charming grin were disarming, making Evelyn's nerves ease slightly.

"So you're the prodigy Gideon was always bragging about," Morgan teased, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

Evelyn laughed, the sound light and genuine. "I hope to live up to at least half the hype," she replied, her tone playful yet sincere.

Prentiss leaned in, her voice low but encouraging. "We've all heard great things about you, Evelyn. We're glad to have you on board."

"And we'll make sure you find your footing," JJ added, her smile reassuring.

The warmth of the welcome eased the knots in her stomach. She was a part of the team, surrounded by legends, and yet, they made her feel like she was one of them—bright, capable.

"Gideon."

The newfound calm in Evelyn's stomach vanished as swiftly as it had arrived when she heard her last name echo across the bullpen. The authoritative tone of Aaron Hotchner snapped the easy atmosphere like a taut wire. She turned, her heart hitching as she met his gaze. For a fleeting moment, she saw the mask of his composure slip, a flicker of surprise that quickly schooled into neutrality. "A word, please?"

Derek couldn't resist the opportunity for a quip. "Don't keep the man waiting, he's not known for his patience," he said, eliciting a round of chuckles from the team.

Evelyn's heart pounded as she approached Hotchner's office, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts seeming to rest on one—he was going to confront me about what I said. She stepped inside, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

Hotchner's office was a stark contrast to the lively bullpen, its walls lined with commendations and case files. He gestured to a chair.

"Good morning, Evelyn," Hotchner began as he motioned her into his office. "Please, have a seat."

She moved past him, her senses heightened, astutely aware of the shift in his demeanor. As she settled into the chair, she caught him glancing at a file on his desk, his eyes momentarily distracted.

"I didn't expect you to be so..." he started, his gaze lifting to meet hers.

"Young?" Evelyn filled in, her voice a mix of confidence and self-deprecation, butterflies filling her stomach. "I get that a lot, but I assure you it won't affect my performance, sir."

In his mind, Hotchner corrected himself, Attractive, but he let the thought pass unspoken of course, cursing himself for even thinking it. "Of course," he said aloud. "Your age isn't a concern. Your qualifications speak for themselves."

He leaned back, interlacing his fingers as he regarded her. "As a new member of the BAU you'll be expected to undergo a period of observation. You'll accompany the team on cases, but your involvement will be limited until you've completed your training."

Evelyn nodded, absorbing every word.

"You'll be assigned a mentor," Hotch continued. "Dr. Reid will take on that role. He'll guide you through our protocols and procedures."

"I'm ready to learn and contribute, sir." Evelyn responded earnestly.

He had been called "sir" by many, but when the word left Evelyn's lips, it was as if he heard it for the first time. He caught himself starring at the lips at which the words came from, snapping his focus back to her eyes.

Hotchner's expression softened ever so slightly. "I believe you are. And remember, this team is a family. We rely on each other's strengths to face what most can't even imagine."

With a final nod, he stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Welcome to the BAU, Agent."

[happy4sworld]

Our Minds Entwined------------------------

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3

Aaron Hotchner x Original Character x Spencer Reid

in which jason gideon's daughter joins the fbi as the newest youngest member

Chapter Two:

Evelyn glided into the BAU office like the first breath of spring, her heels tapping a confident rhythm against the gleaming floor--a drummer setting the beat for a new day. The sun peaked shyly above the horizon, casting a soft glow that seemed to dance with the spark in her eyes. With a tray of meticulously chosen coffee cups cradled in her hands, she was the portrait of preparedness, memorizing everyone's order--or so she thought.

Her arrival was like a ripple in a still pond, drawing the gaze of every agent in the room. They couldn't help but be captivated by the way her hair cascaded in perfect waves, each strand catching the light as if spun from chestnut threads. Her nails, painted a shade of pink, spoke of a meticulous nature, each tip polished to a flawless finish. The air shifted around her, sweetened by the subtle hint of vanilla that trailed in her wake. She moved with a grace that belied the steel in her spine.

"Good morning, everyone!" Evelyn chirps, her voice a cheerful melody that fills the BAU conference room. She flutters to the table, her movements light. "Your caffeine fix, courtesy of the new girl," she announced with a wink, her words wrapped in warmth.

Each cup finds its way into the hands of colleagues, a personal touch from the newest member. Hotchner's eyebrow arches in silent question as he brings the cup to his lips, the familiar comfort of his morning ritual poised at the edge of disruption.

The first sip is a surprise, a cascade of caramel where stark bitterness usually resides. "This is... different," he remarks, the dryness of his tone belting out a hint of amusement that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Yet, in the curve of his mouth, there's a shadow of a smile, a rare crack in the facade of the ever-serious unit chief.

Reid's curiosity piqued as he approached his coffee with caution. The liquid was dark and unadultered, a stark contrast to the usual sugary coffee. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, a silent nod to Evelyn's thoughtful gesture. "Actually, this is exactly how I like it," he said, the lie as transparent as glass, accompanied by an awkward sweep of his hand through his hair. "Thank you, Evelyn."

The room fills with soft laughter. It was a rare sound, one that seemed to wrap around the room like a comforting blanket. Rossi, who had just walked in, couldn't but chuckle as he reached for his expresso, served just the way he liked it.

"You'll fit right in, kid," Rossi said, his voice rich with approval as he gave Evelyn a gentle pat on the shoulder.

Evelyn's cheeks flushed with a cocktail of embarrassment and delight, a rosy hue that matched the sunrise peeking through the blinds. "I'll get it right next time, promise," she chirped, her voice a tender mix of hope and humility.

As the room settled into the rhythm of the morning briefing, Evelyn found herself perched next to Reid, her pulse dancing to a nervous beat. "So, I heard you're going to be my mentor," she blurted out, her words tumbling faster than her mind could keep up. "I'm really looking forward to learning from you, Dr. Reid. I mean, your analysis on the last case was just--wow!"

Reid's gaze lingered on her, a silent enigma before his lips curled into a smile that could put the stars to shame. "I'm looking forward to working with you too, Evelyn. And please, call me Spencer."

The name rolled off her tongue, a sweet note in her mouth. "Spencer," she echoed, savoring the familiarity it promised. A shadow of a memory flickered--the bar incident--and her smile wavered, a ripple of uncertainty. Had he heard what she said that night? She prayed not.

The conference room, usually a crucible of tension and intellect, shifted into a training exercise as Hotchner laid out the case before Evelyn. "Evelyn, we have a mock case for you," he declared, his voice a beacon of authority. "We need a profile for a suspect based on the evidence provided. Let's see what you've got."

Evelyn stood, her notes clutched in her hands like a shield, her smile a bright flag of enthusiasm. "Thank you, sir," she said, her voice ringing with the clear tones of determination. "Okay, based on the behavioral patterns and crime scene photos, I'd say our suspect is a male in his late thirties, likely works in a managerial position--someone who's used to being in control."

From the sidelines, Reid observed, his mentor's eyes sharp yet encouraging. As Evelyn unfolded her thoughts, he found himself quietly impressed by the clarity of her intuition and solidity of her logic. She was a natural, her talent shining through like a lighthouse in the fog.

"Also," Evelyn pressed on, her confidence swelling, "he's meticulous, organized. The way the scene is arranged, it's almost ritualistic. This isn't his first rodeo."

Hotchner absorbed her words, his face a mask of neutrality. When she concluded, he gave a slow nod. "Impressive, Evelyn. Very thorough analysis."

Reid leaned in, his gaze locking with Evelyn's. "You're right about the control aspect," he offered softly, his voice a harmonious contrast to Hotchner's commanding tone. "But consider this--the suspect might also crave recognition. The 'ritualistic' aspect could be a signature, a way to stand out."

Evelyn's eyes stayed on Reid; her respect evident. "That's a really good point, thank you, Dr. Reid--Spencer," she corrected, a blush coloring her cheeks.

A hush fell over the room, all eyes draw to the pair. Then, like a burst of sunlight through clouds, Garcia tumbled into the room, her arms laden with case files and her attire a splash of color. "Sorry, I'm late, traffic was a nightmare!" she announced, but her tone softened as she caught sight of Evelyn. "Oh, you're doing the mock case today! You go, girl!"

Evelyn's smile returned, buoyed by Garcia's infectious cheer. The room came alive with a fresh vigor, the team converging to weave their insights on Evelyn's building profile.

As the discussion continues, Spencer leaned in, his voice a low murmur meant only for Evelyn. "You have a good instinct for this," he murmured, his eyes twinkling with pride.

The moment shattered as JJ burst through the door, her breaths quick and sharp, cutting through the quiet. "Sorry to interrupt," she gasped, "But we've got a situation. The 'Charleston Choker'--he's active again."

A heavy silence fell, the team's focus coalescing into a sharp point. Hotchner's nod was silent, a nonverbal command that set the wheels in motion. "Go ahead, JJ."

With a sense of solemnity, JJ unfurled the folder, her fingers tracing the outline of a lily in a crime scene photo. "Two hours ago, a jogger found a body in the woods outside of Charleston. Strangulation, posed, and..." Her voice faltered, the weight of the words heavy on her tongue, "...a lily placed in the victim's hands."

Reid's mind was awhirl with patterns and profiles, his thoughts racing ahead. "That's the third this month. The escalation is consistent with his pattern."

Evelyn's response with a bright flame of determination, tinged with a concern of the uninitiated. "What's our timeline looking like? How fast is he moving now?"

"Faster," JJ returned, her gaze locking with Evelyn's, a silent exchange of resolve. "Days instead of weeks."

Garcia chimed in from her nest of monitors, "And I just cross-referenced florists in the area. There's a purchase that stands out--cash, large quantities. It could be our guy."

Evelyn's eyes shone, the thrill of her first case igniting a spark within. "That's something! Can we get a location?"

Reid's smile was tinged with pride and a hint of concern. "We can, and we will. But we need to be careful. This unsub is cautious; he's been evading us for a reason."

Hotchner rose, his very stance a commandment. "Wheels up in 30. JJ, brief us on the way. Garcia, send everything you have to the tablets."

The team began to mobilize, the urgency palpable. As they walked out, Evelyn turned to Reid, her voice a mix of excitement and naivety. "This is it, huh? The real deal?"

Reid nodded, the protective edge in his voice unmistakable. "It is. And remember, it's not about just catching him--it's about saving the next potential victim."

--

Evelyn's first step onto the BAU jet was like stepping into another world--one where the grim realities of their job were momentarily eclipsed by the sheer luxury of federal funding. The plush leather seats, the soft hum of the engines, it was all so... cinematic.

As she settled into the seat beside Hotchner, the reality of her situation began to sink in. She was here, really here, on the jet she'd seen countless times from her father, now filled with the tangible presence of her new colleagues--legends in their own right. And then there was Hotchner, the epitome of stoic leadership, his profile as he reviewed case files was a study in concentration. Evelyn couldn't help but steal glances, each one leaving her more awestruck than the last.

Hothcner's brow raised as his focus stayed on the case file. "Something on your mind, Evelyn?" he inquired, his voice steady.

Evelyn's cheeks were a canvas of emotion, painted with the embarrassment of being caught ogling as she adverted her eyes. "Just... taking it all in. It's a lot to process," she said, her voice a whisper of excitement against the backdrop of her new reality.

A smile, rare and fleeting, graced Hotchner's lips. "It can be overwhelming at first," he acknowledged, his words a gently nudge of encouragement.

The jet engines roared to life, and as they ascended, Evelyn felt the weight of her new reality. She was flying high, both literally and metaphorically on the wings of her dreams and the gravity of their mission. The juxtaposition was dizzying.

JJ commanded the room from the head of the plane, her laser pointer a wand of urgency as she traced the geography of the investigation. "This is where the last body was found," she intoned, each word heavy with the gravity of their task. "And here, and here. All within a ten-mile radius."

Morgan's posture was that of a statue, contemplative and still. "He's got a comfort zone. He's not taking any chances, staying close to what he knows," he mused, his thoughts a fortress around the profile they were building.

"Which means he's likely a local. Someone who blends in, who wouldn't raise suspicion," Reid contributes, his voice a sound of reason.

Evelyn observed with the intensity of a hawk. Her notes were a flurry of ink and paper, a physical manifestation of her fervor to contribute.

"So, we're looking for a needle in a haystack, but at least we know which haystack," she offered, her optimism a beacon in the fog of uncertainty.

Garcia's voice, a familiar melody, filled the space from the screen. "And I'm sifting through it as we speak, my doves. I'll find that needle," she promised, her determination a tangible force even through the digital divide.

Hotchner's nod was a silent decree, a sign of approval and command. "Good. Keep us updated, Garcia," he directed.

The team continues to brainstorm, throwing out theories and ideas. Evelyn sat amidst the seasoned agents; her eyes wide with a childlike wonder. Her enthusiasm was infectious, a palpable energy that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of her heartbeat--fast, eager, alive. Hotchner watched her, his gaze the steady flame in her excitement.

There was a softness there, a rare glimpse of approval that softened the hard lines of his face. He saw in her the spark that had once driven him, the unquenchable thirst for justice that was the lifeblood of their work.

Evelyn's idea cut through the hum of the plane's descent. "What if we set up a roadblock? Check vehicles coming in and out of the area?" Her voice a symphony of eagerness.

Rossi smirks at her words. "Not a bad idea for a rookie," he mused, his words a gentle tease wrapped in the velvet of experience.

As the plane continues to descent, the team starts to pack up their gear. Hotchner remained seated, his gaze anchoring Evelyn in place.

"Listen, Evelyn," he said, his tone even, "I know this is exciting for you, your first real case. But remember, this job... it can take a lot out of you. It can change you."

Evelyn nodded, her shine not dimming. "I know. But I'm ready."

Hotchner's expression softened just a touch. "Just don't lost that optimism. It's rare in this line of work, and it's... refreshing."

[happy4sworld]

The breaking point

Part 2 of Beyond the Limit (can also be read as a standalone)

Spencer realizes that being dominant doesn’t always require him to be rough, especially when he has complete control over your body.

warnings: (18+, MDNI) soft dom spence because there’s a lot of praising in this one, reader in lingerie, orgasm control or edging, overstimulation, reader gets cockdrunk (idk how to explain it better), a little cockwarming at the end

Words: 4,3k

a/n: this has been in my drafts for a while and i finally finished it, i don’t usually do a part two for my oneshots but…i’m actually tempted to do more

You were a tease—a goddamn tease. Spencer knew he needed to work on his self-control, but it was hard to keep his composure when you had the ability to stir desire within him. It was perplexing, given that there was a time when thoughts of anything remotely sexual never even crossed his mind.

For the majority of his life, intimacy had been a foreign concept. While he occasionally felt a pang of jealousy witnessing everyone around him find love, he managed just fine without it.  He suspected it was partly a defense mechanism, channeling his focus toward other aspects of his life—such as his mother's health, for example—to avoid dwelling on what he lacked.

But then all his beliefs shattered when you came crashing into his life. Suddenly, everything he thought he knew about himself was thrown away. Your presence sparked a fire within him that he never knew existed and he found himself craving the intimacy he had once dismissed as unnecessary.

He wasn't even aware of how touch-starved he was until he met you, and now it was hard to maintain that last thread of self-control he possessed. It wasn't that he didn't want to give in, but rather, he feared the intensity of his own desires, afraid that he might enjoy it more than he anticipated.

Because did he have to be rough with you for him to be satisfied, now that he had once known how it felt like? But how could he indulge in such temptation when you looked so utterly beautiful right now, so delicate, so precious in his eyes?

How could he even fathom ruining your perfection with roughness?

"Spence?" You nervously asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Your confidence was starting to dissipate as his eyes slowly traveled down your body, taking in the lingerie you chose to surprise him. Although this was not the reaction you were hoping for. "Do you not... like it?"

Spencer's gaze lingered on you, his expression was unreadable for a moment before a warm smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"No, no, it's not that," he reassured you, putting down the book he had been reading on the bedside table before you walked into your shared bedroom. He reached his hand out, motioning you to come closer. "It's just... you caught me off guard, that's all."

You approached him cautiously and as you stepped closer, you noticed the tension in his shoulders easing, replaced by a soft warmth in his eyes. His hand found its place on your waist, drawing you closer and you instinctively fell on his lap, your knees dipping onto the bed on each side of his thighs.

Feeling his arousal right between your legs, you couldn't suppress the soft gasp that escaped your lips. "So you do like it," you murmured, a hint of satisfaction lacing your words.

"Like it? Sweetheart, that's an understatement," he replied. His calloused palms traveled along your sides as he took in the way the lace material hugged your curves.

The lilac-colored lingerie set on your body accentuated your figure perfectly. Both pieces were see-through, granting him a glimpse of your chest and lower region. The delicate edges of the top were adorned with more of the soft fabric, cascading over your stomach and back in a gentle, stunningly pretty way.

"You're so beautiful," Spencer whispered as he traced the intricate patterns of the fabric with his fingertips. "Absolutely breathtaking."

His touch sent shivers down your spine. You leaned into him, relishing the warmth and tenderness of his touch as one of his hands moved up your arm before resting behind your neck, pulling you closer to him.

His lips touched yours gently, sending a thrill coursing through your body. He nipped at your bottom lip, his touch both teasing and tender and as he sucked on it softly, a low moan escaped you. He then deepened the kiss, his tongue gently pushing into your mouth, and you kissed him back eagerly, your lips moving in perfect sync with his.

When he finally pulled away, you were left breathless, but he didn't stop giving you attention. His mouth made its way down to your neck, his lips trailing soft kisses along your skin and you couldn't help but arch your back, offering yourself to him completely. He then sucked on the spot below your ear, his lips creating a deliciously pleasurable sensation that made you moan softly in response.

You could feel his smile against your skin as he continued to travel further down, his lips leaving a trail of heat along your neck and collarbone. At the same time, his fingers pulled down the strap of your lingerie top, the material gracefully falling down your body, revealing more of your skin.

"Beautiful," he whispered as if it was the first time he laid his eyes on you, even if the two of you lost count long ago. His name slipped from your lips the moment his wide palms were pressed to your breasts, kneading the soft flesh and your nipples hardened beneath his touch.

Your mouth hung open in a silent gasp, and your breathing quickened in response when his thumb traced over your sensitive peak, sending electric sparks of pleasure coursing through your body. Spencer watched the way your eyes widened with desire, his own filled with a hunger that mirrored yours. And when he leaned closer, wrapping his soft lips around it, you were instantly gone.

The sensation sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, eliciting the most sinful sound you weren't even aware of making. It was like music to his ears, fueling his desire to please you even more. He continued to suck on your skin, giving the same attention to each breasts, his movements growing more fervent with each passing moment.

When he felt your hips bucking against his, he let out a low, guttural groan of pleasure. He softly drew back your nipple, your supple skin following his pull before he released it with a soft pop. Your skin glistened from his saliva, and honestly, Spencer had never seen such a splendid sight before.

The way you were grinding against him over his cotton pants frantically sent a surge of desire coursing through his veins. He could feel the thin fabric of your sheer panties pressing between your cunt, and with each movement, he could see glimpses of soft, bare skin glistening under the light, driving him wild with longing.

A primal need surged within him, a need to devour you, to lose control and indulge in the raw intensity. He craved to run his rough hands along your body, to explore every inch of your skin and claim you as his own. But he couldn't—not when you were the one in control as you sought pleasure in the way your hips moved against his.

So instead, his hands found purchase on your hips, guiding you to move faster. "That's it, sweetheart," he encouraged, his voice thick with desire. "Keep going."

You obeyed, pressing your aching heat against his cock, rolling your hips rapidly as a whimper of his name escaped you. You felt yourself growing hot and needy, your arousal dripping through your panties to coat his flesh beneath you, soaking through fabrics.

"Look at how wet you are," he mused, his voice laced with desire as he observed your flushed state and the evidence of your arousal staining the fabric between you. "Does this feel good?"

Your only response was another desperate moan, your body consumed by the overwhelming pleasure of being with him. What started lazy and slow soon turned into sporadic thrusts as you tried to cling to any friction. Your breath came in short, shallow gasps, and your body quivered with a delicious ache. It was too much, but at the same time, it wasn't enough.

"I need to feel you," you breathed out quickly, and before he could register what was happening, your fingers were pulling down his pants frantically. Sensing your desperation, he was quick to push the fabric down as his cock sprung free.

You bit down on your bottom lip as you lift your hips above him, taking him by the base with one of your hands while the other pushed the material of your panties to the side. He groaned when you pressed the tip of his cock to your dripping entrance.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his concern evident in his voice. Spencer always made sure you were fully ready, either with his fingers or mouth—or even with your own fingers. But you were already wet enough, and you couldn't wait any longer to feel him inside you.

You nodded eagerly, the need for him overpowering any hesitation. "Please," you begged, your voice pleading and desperate. "I need you now."

Both of you watched in awe as his girth stretched your clenched walls, the sensation of being filled to the brim overwhelming your senses. It wasn't the first time this happened, but it felt like a new sensation each time, and you found yourself instinctively clenching around him, eager to feel him even deeper inside you.

"Fuck," you whimpered, allowing yourself a moment to adjust to his size. His grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh as you squeezed yourself around him. With a slow, deliberate motion, you lifted your hips, feeling him ease out of you, only to lower yourself onto him again.

The sensation of him sliding back inside you made you gasp, a rush of pleasure washing over you as you took him deeper. His groan reverberated through your body, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through you. As his head fell back against the headboard, you couldn't help but whimper, the words tumbling from your lips without much thought.

"You fill me up so good," you confessed, your voice laced with desire as you rolled your hips against him. Your hands slipped under his shirt, feeling his soft stomach clench underneath your fingertips with every upstroke of your hips. "Take this off, baby."

With a low growl of approval, Spencer complied, swiftly removing his shirt and tossing it aside. Without hesitation, your hands trailed over his chest, reveling in the sensation of his smooth skin beneath your fingertips, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your touch.

He watched you intently, captivated by the raw display of pleasure that painted your features. The way your face twisted in ecstasy, the way your mouth hung open in silent gasps, the way your breasts bounced with every movement—all of it drove him to the edge of his self-control.

As you quickened your pace, he felt his restraint slipping away, the urge to claim you completely becoming increasingly difficult to resist. Each time you clenched around him, it became harder for him to hold back. And as always, you could tell. You could feel the tension in his grip on your hips, the way his fingers dug into your flesh with a possessive urgency.

You slowed your hips, bringing your hand to his cheek, forcing him to look at you. "You're doing it again."

His gaze met yours, filled with a mixture of desire and frustration. He knew exactly what you were referring to. "I... I can't help it. You drive me crazy."

"I know that," you responded, stilling for a moment as you kept him buried deep inside you. "I just need you to do something about it."

He slowly shook his head. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," you assured him, your voice filled with confidence as you leaned closer, bumping your nose against him seductively. "Come on, I know how much you want to be in control."

When he didn't respond, you pushed him even further, your lips tantalizingly close to his as you whispered your seductive taunt.

"I know you want more," you teased. "Don't you want to take control? Lie me on my back and fuck me until I can't think anymore? Until I beg you to stop while you use my body over and over again?"

"Don't tempt me," he choked out, his voice thick with longing and restraint.

But you weren't finished yet. "Yeah?" you challenged, your tone daring as you buried your hand in his disheveled, sweaty hair. "Then I dare you to."

You tugged on his roots.

"Fuck me, Spencer." You nipped on his bottom lip. "Fuck me real good."

His breath caught in his throat at your bold words, his heart pounding rapidly. With a shaky exhale, he met your gaze, the intensity in his eyes burning brighter than ever before.

And then, in a sudden surge of boldness, he surprised you, flipping you onto your back as you let out an amused squeal. But your laughter was quickly drowned out by the heat of his lips crashing down on yours.

He kissed you feverishly, with a messy and desperate hunger that left you breathless. He clung onto you as if you were the very air he needed to survive. He was devouring you as if you were the most delicious meal he had ever encountered, and he savored every moment, every sensation, swallowing your desperate moans.

And then he pulled out and you whimpered at the loss but any hint of disappointment vanished as you watched him shed his last piece of clothing. Then with deliberate slowness, he reached for your panties, his eyes locked on yours as he dragged them up your leg, savoring the sight of the damp fabric clinging to your skin.

When he finally discarded it on the floor, he wasted no time in grabbing one of your legs. With deliberate tenderness, he began trailing soft kisses along the inner part of your thigh, each gentle press of his lips sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body. Your breath quickened as you watched him, your heart pounding in your chest.

"I'm not going to be rough," he whispered, his voice low and husky, his eyes never leaving yours as he planted soft kisses right at the edge of your drenching heat, teasingly close to where you craved him most. He then crawled over your body, settling himself between your legs, his gaze locked on yours.

"But I am going to use you," he murmured, his words sending a thrill of excitement coursing through you. "You'll let me do that, won't you?"

As he hovered above you, his weight supported by his arms, you watched a strand of his outgrown hair fall over his eyes. With a gentle touch, you reached out and tucked it behind his ear, a soft smile playing on your lips as you nodded in response.

"Say it," he urged. "Tell me you're mine to use."

You met his gaze, your own eyes dark with longing and anticipation. "I'm yours," you whispered, and when you felt his tip pressing into your entrance once again, you gasped. "I-I’m yours to use."

In one swift motion, he filled you again with a hard thrust that had you arching your back, a strangled moan escaping your lips as pleasure surged through you. "S-Spence..."

"Good girl," he praised, his words sending shivers down your spine as he kissed your cheek. His hips began to roll into you, setting a rhythm that drove you wild. "My good, pretty girl."

You whined in response, the sound music to his ears as he continued to thrust into you at a steady rhythm. He relished the way you responded to him, the way you surrendered to the pleasure he was giving you. He wanted to use the way you were satisfied, to use the way you wanted him, to take you to the brink of ecstasy.

He wanted to use you in every way possible, to make you his in every sense of the word.

Spencer never considered himself a possessive person, but when it came to you, he wanted to be the one you surrendered to completely. And in this moment, he had never felt more in control. It was intoxicating, the power he held over you, the way you willingly gave yourself to him.

That was why when he felt you clenching around him, knowing you were so close to your peak, he stopped. He wanted to draw out this moment, to savor every sensation, every sound you made, every breath that escaped your lips. He wanted to draw out your pleasure until you were begging for release, until you were completely and utterly his.

"Why—" you gasped. "Why did you stop?"

He smiled down at you. "Because I want to make you feel good, Angel," he whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "And I want to take my time doing it."

Your head fell back, and you couldn't help but bite your lip to suppress a moan. His use of the term Angel always had a way of melting your resolve, and you knew he was fully aware of the effect it had on you.

"Be patient," he chided before burying his head in the crook of your neck, nipping at your skin gently. Then, he resumed moving his hips, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. It felt incredible, but you couldn't shake the desire for him to fuck you harder.

"More," you cried out, feeling as if you were in a deep haze.

"Yeah? Spread your legs wider then."

You whimpered at his simple command, your shuddering legs gradually spreading a few inches wider. It was becoming harder to breathe from the way he was pushing you into the mattress, but you welcomed the pleasure, craving more of him.

Your hands clawed at his back, leaving crescent-shaped marks from your nails as you desperately sought something to hold onto. The intense pleasure coiled tightly in your gut, making you feel as if you were gasping for air while your head swam with overwhelming sensations.

Your moans became more fragmented with every stroke of his hips, your thoughts clouded by the pulsating ache between your legs. All you could focus on was the overwhelming sensation building within you, traveling along your body. You were so close—and then it stopped.

It simply stopped right at the edge, and you couldn't feel anything but a raw need. It was incredibly frustrating as you caught him smiling down at you. You whined and bucked your hips, chasing the tight warmth you had so suddenly been denied.

Your breath came out in short, ragged gasps. "You're evil," you managed to say, your voice trembling with need. "I-I was so close..."

"Too soon," he murmured against your lips, his breath hot against your skin as he pressed his lips to yours. "Just imagine how good it'll be once I finally let you come."

Spencer then slowly pulled away, his eyes tracing every detail of your trembling form—the way your mouth was slackened open, the way your hair sprawled across the sheets, the way your eyes fluttered closed yet struggled to remain open. He noticed them glistening with unshed tears, on the verge of falling, and a pang of guilt tugged at his heart.

He knew he was pushing you to your limits, but he couldn't help himself. He was simply using you, just like you asked him to. But seeing the tears welling in your eyes, a wave of tenderness washed over him, and he leaned down to kiss them away, whispering soft words of comfort.

"Shhh, it's okay," he murmured. Although his words were spoken softly, there was nothing gentle about the way he continued to fuck you. "You can take it. Hold on a little bit longer, I promise."

A choked sob escaped you as he pressed soft kisses to your cheeks, murmuring soothing words. One of his hands reached between you, settling on the lower part of your stomach before pressing down gently as he felt the outline of cock moving inside you. He let out a groan, overwhelmed by the sensation.

"That’s it, Angel," he murmured, his voice filled with admiration. "You're taking me so well."

You whimpered almost pathetically as everything started to blur. You were a sweaty mess, both of you were, his skin gliding along yours effortlessly as he continued to thrust into you. The sound of wet skin slapping against each other filled the room, so sticky, so messy, but you didn't care. All that mattered was the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

The throbbing between your legs was starting to burn, but at the same time, it felt so good—the way he was stretching you, the way you could feel him moving in and out of you. Every stroke sent waves of pleasure crashing over you, it was all too much but also not enough.

"S-Spence..." you whined, your head spinning with pleasure, almost too delirious as drool seeped down the corner of your lips. "Pl-Please, I-I can't—"

A soft chuckle escaped him as he watched you struggle to form coherent words. "Alright, alright, I got you," he murmured reassuringly. "On three now. Can you be a good girl and come at the count of three?"

You nodded weakly. "Yes, yes," you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of your ragged breaths.

"That's my girl," he praised, his voice filled with satisfaction. "One..."

Your breath hitched as anticipation built within you. Obscene wet noises filled your ears as he continued to fuck you, and with each number, his thrusts grew more deliberate, more intense.

"Two..."

You whined and he swallowed your moans, capturing your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss. You couldn't form any coherent words. You couldn't even think. It was too fucking much and you were on the verge of your breaking point.

And then, on the final count, he drove into you with such force that it sent you hurtling over the edge, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

"Three," he whispered as he pulled back slightly, a string of saliva connected your parted mouths.

You gasped, holding onto him tightly as waves of pleasure consumed you. Your senses overwhelmed, your vision blurred with white-hot intensity, and tears leaked from the corners of your eyes as you teetered on the edge of overstimulation.

T-Too much—You can't. You fucking can't.

The sensation never seemed to end and you found yourself surrendering to it,  your mind going blank. It was as if you were intoxicated by the heady sensation, your senses dulled and heightened all at once, drunk on his touch. Your body felt so wet, so sensitive, so overwhelmed by the sheer force of your climax. 

And when you thought it couldn't get any more intense, he proved you wrong by rutting his hips even harder with so much force as he chased his own high. He tucked his head in your neck, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he moaned into your ear. With a few final thrusts, he drove into you deeply, his body tensing as he released himself inside you.

You were tired, so overwhelmingly spent, and as you both came down from the high, you gasped and trembled, your body finally relaxing from the pent-up tension. Your eyes felt glassy and unfocused, blinking slowly as you registered his murmured praises against your neck and shoulder.

He gently pulled away, and you winced as you felt him still throbbing inside you. Slowly, he searched for your eyes, his gaze filled with tenderness, and sighed in relief when you looked up at him with a tired yet blissful smile on your lips.

He smiled softly, relieved by your response. "You're okay."

You nodded, still feeling a bit dazed. "Hmm," you murmured, running your fingers along his damp hair. "I'm more than okay."

He leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. "You did so well," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. "I'm so proud of you."

You giggled. "Me? I never thought you could be tempted to do that so easily."

He chuckled softly, brushing his nose against yours. "You have that effect on me," he confessed. "Besides, it's hard to resist you."

"I am pretty irresistible, aren't I?"

"Absolutely," he replied as he brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face. He shifted his weight and started to pull out, only for you to wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in place.

"No, no," you pleaded. "Stay inside me for a while."

He paused, looking down at you with a smile. "We need to clean up."

"And we will." You ran a hand over his shoulder. "Just... give me five minutes."

He sighed, his resolve melting under your pleading gaze. "Alright, five minutes," he agreed, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "But then we really need to clean up."

You responded with a soft hum, snuggling closer to him as he shifted toward the empty space on the bed. With a gentle gesture, he pulled you on top of him, enveloping you in his arms as you sprawled across his body. 

You let out a sigh, tucking your face into the crook of his neck with the rhythm of his heart beating against your own. And as you savored the sensation of him still pulsing inside you, you smiled peacefully—you have never felt so complete.

I'm tempted to turn this into a series of one-shots where he and Reader explore new kinks together... or like how they try to navigate their relationship. I'm really, really tempted.

[happy4sworld]

"YOU SCARED ME out there..." spencer was half-heartedly listening to you as his mouth trailed across your exposed neck, nipping over your jugular with a certain need. you were both still partially clothed; dress bunched at your hips, his trousers slack on his thighs and his shirt half-buttoned from where your hands had splayed over his bare chest.

soothing his tongue over the place he'd just bitten he tilted his head slightly, catching your blurred gaze with one of equal lust, "scared you so much so that you had to come check if i was okay, right?"

his question drew a long sigh from the back of your throat, one hand tangled in the back of his hair as you tugged it impatiently. you hated being reminded of the state of whatever this situation had become, often silencing him through some sort of lewd act — but the same topic would always come back around, mostly whenever you were on top of him with his mouth on yours. so you'd fight against it, not wanting to make whatever this was complicated.

the kiss was messy, quick in the way your lips worked against one another as his tongue sought comfort with yours. you swallowed back a groan, the feeling of him hardening beneath you sending your brain into a state of euphoric dizziness. spencer pulled back just enough for you to whine, saliva glossing your bottom lip as you pouted dumbly, "don't tease me doctor reid."

your choice of name went straight to his cock, spencer's fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as he kept them parted enough to roll his hips up to you. out of pure desperation you whined; the noise soft and melodic as he lapped it up, head ducking till he brushed against the swell of your breasts. the material of the dress was dragged down slightly as he exposed more and more of your skin, almost scoffing at the way you were wearing nothing but that damned dress as if you knew this was how the day was going to pan out.

"you know we can't keep getting ourselves into this situation..." his purr went to the ache between your legs, pathetically grinding down on his clothed bulge as you struggled to find some sort of release. there was a part of him that wanted to lean back and watch you get yourself off, entranced in the way you jutted out of sync; but he couldn't, not when he needed the same type of release that you did.

hot, wet kisses were peppered across your tits, tongue darting out as he ran the tip of it over your nipple before taking it between his lips. his suckles were soft yet sent sent shivers down your spine, a whimper emitted through your tightened throat as you shamelessly arched into him. the hotel room was silent apart from the panting that came from you both, hunger lacing every move as he let your nipple fall from his mouth with an inaudible pop. glassy pupils fought to meet yours once more, drinking in the way your chest heaved and your eyebrows furrowed as you sulked dumbly, "i really fucking want you spencer - and i want you now."

[happy4sworld]

hhhrnemmmm thinking about spencer reassuring you when you get jealous ...... secretly thinking the way you pout about how he's yours is cute! and he'll make sure you know that there is nobody in the world who could hold a cnadle to you, not for him, but that doesn't mean he won't give u hell for getting all possessive in the first place ☹️ i think it secretly makes him really happy bc it makes him feel wanted

YOUR GRIP ON SPENCER'S bicep didn't falter; weaving through the few remaining crowds who were waiting for the last tube home, chatting amongst themselves as you tried your best to keep up with your boyfriend's quick steps. the two of you had been out with the rest of the team, an invitation that you simply couldn't pass up on as you giggled with them about everything else spencer doesn't tell you.

"we didn't have to leave, you know." your words sounded odd as they fell from your tongue, your back pressed against the wall of the subway station as your boyfriend peered down the tunnel in hopes the blinking lights would appear sooner. he didn't want to have this conversation with you, not in public anyway, but he had an inkling that you wouldn't be able to rest until you were in the confinements of your own apartment to let your envy slip.

spencer had always found your obvious jealousy somewhat cute — the way your eyes narrowed and your mouth pouted was a look that made his knees weak and his heart thump. you never let it get it past the thin line of it becoming toxic, no; it was an endearing thing, one that made him blush at the thought of being wanted that badly.

he tried to stifle a smile as he stuffed his hands further in his trouser pockets, pushing his arm against his ribcage as he trapped your wrist against him, "you know there's only one person who i will ever have eyes for."

and it was true — you were the only person who he could ever imagine himself with. it'd been like that since the first time he laid eyes on you, eyebrows furrowed as you quizzed him drunkenly over 90s bands before you scribbled your phone number on a beer mat and slid it over. even now, after just over a year, spencer would always look for you first when in a crowded room.

your lips would be pressed together, bottom lip slightly protruded as you waited for him to finally turn and face you. the air of the subway station was bitter, the tip of your nose chilly as you leaned towards him until your cheek was stroking his coat arm, "i just want you all to myself, all the time. keep you in a box maybe."

you weren't entirely sure if you were joking or not, words barely audible as spencer hummed back in humour. although there were people all around you, their laughter and brittle voices wrapping around you, you felt as if it was just the two of you huddled on the stained tiles. just how you had always liked it.

"i think the team would start profiling you if you were to do that," his chin tilted downwards, gaze meeting yours at long last, "although being with you for every single second of every single day sure does seem tempting."

[happy4sworld]

Bad Intentions

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7

Tim Bradford x Original Character x John Nolan

Chapter Six:

Genevieve's eyes fluttered open, the sunlight harsh against her sleep-softened face. She stretched, chasing away the remnants of drowsiness, and a smile flickered across her face at the sight of Kojo's peaceful slumber.

She swung her legs over the bed, the chill of the morning nipping at her legs, a stark contrast to the cocoon of warmth she'd left behind. The clock's accusatory gaze met her--9:42--and she bit back a curse. She winced at the late start. Time had slipped through her fingers like grains of sand. The house was silent, her footsteps the only sound as she moved through the stillness.

Last night's memories lingered, a tantalizing whisper against her senses. She could still feel the ghost of Tim's breath on her skin. But reality intruded, harsh and unyielding, as she glanced at her phone--17 missed calls from Henry. She sent a quick text--I'm okay--then turned the phone off. No classes today meant no obligations, no need to rush.

In the bathroom, her reflection in the mirror was a stranger's gaze meeting hers. Tim's note on the mirror offering a sense of normalcy of her thoughts, Extra toothbrush on sink. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Make yourself at home. She brushed her teeth with mechanical movements, her mind a battlefield of what-ifs.

She made her way to the kitchen, a testament to Tim's unexpected domesticity, its surfaces gleaming. She contemplated cooking, but the thought of disrupting the pristine order felt like a transgression she wasn't ready to commit.

Henry would be at work, she reasoned, a perfect time to collect more of her belongings. But doubt gnawed at her--was this just a temporary escape or step towards something more permanent?

The walk to our apartment was a short one, each step heavy with thought. The morning air bit at her cheeks as she moved. She reached the familiar apartment, her footsteps heavy before the threshold of the door. She let out a breath of air, her hesitation evident. Her hand hovered over the doorknob, heart pounding.

She unlocked the door, and pushed it open, stepping into the space that now felt foreign to her. She moved towards the bedroom gathering as much of her things as she could, but the sound of the shower running stopped her in her tracks. He's supposed to be at work, she thought. Panic set in at the realization, she turned to leave, but it was too late.

The bathroom door opened, and Henry stood before her, a towel wrapped around his waist, surprise etched on his face.

"Genevieve? What are you doing here?" His voice was soft, but the confusion was clear.

"I... I came to get some of my things," she stammered, avoiding his gaze.

There was a pause, a heavy silence that filled the room. Henry stepped closer, his eyes searching hers. "We need to talk, Gen. Look I'm sorry about last night, but you can't just disappear like that. Where were you?"

She swallowed deeply, feeling the weight of the moment. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, a gulf between them.

"I-, I just needed time to think," Genevieve's voice was a fragile thread in the vast tapestry of the room. "Henry, this is tearing me apart. I'm becoming someone I don't recognize, all to fit into your perfect picture of us."

Henry's expression crumbled, a portrait of pain. "I'm just trying to protect you, to a build a life where we don't have to worry."

Genevieve's eyes glistened, her dreams spilling over like a river breaking its banks. "And what life is that, Henry? One where my dreams have to die so we can live?"

He reached for her, a lifetime thrown across the growing divide, but she recoiled, a bird startled into flight. "You say you love me, but it feels like you only love the version of me that fits into your world."

Henry's voice broke, a crack in the damn of his composure. "I do love you, more than anything, Genevieve, it's just that--"

"No," she interrupted, standing from the couch. "Love isn't about control. I'm scared I'm losing myself to your fears."

The silence that followed was a living entity, thick and pulsing with the things left unsaid. Genevieve gathered her bag, her movements a declaration of intent as she headed for the door. Genevieve stepped out into the sunlight, the door closing behind her with a soft click that seemed to echo in the empty street.

She took a deep breath, the air tasting of freedom and the faint smog of the city. Her heart was still racing, a tumultuous sea after a storm, but there was also a sense of release, as if she had been holding her breath for too long and could finally breathe again.

She walked without direction, letting her feet carry her away from the apartment, away from Henry. The city was bustling around her, people going about their day, unaware of the shift that had just occurred in her world. She found herself in a small park, the greenery a stark contrast to the concrete around her. She sat on a bench, watching a couple kids playing catch, their laughter a balm to her aching soul.

It was time to think about what came next. She pulled out her phone, turning it back on, half expecting it to explode with messages and missed calls. But there was only silence. She opened her contacts, hovering over Tim's name. He had been a friend, maybe he could be more, but was she ready for that? She wasn't sure. Instead, she scrolled to another name, Sergeant Grey.

With a determined tap, she composed a new message:

Sgt. Grey, It's Genevieve. Do you have time to meet?

She hit send before she could second guess herself. This was the first step towards something new, something that was all hers. As she waited for a reply, she allowed herself to imagine a life where she was in control, where she was making a difference, where she was surrounded by people who did the same.

--

Genevieve's shoes clicked against the polished floor of the precinct, a fragmented tempo that matched the racing of her heart. She paused at the entrance, taking a moment to compose herself. The freedom she now possessed was bittersweet, the weight of her breakup with Henry still a fresh wound.

As she made her way through the bustling corridors, she caught sight of John Nolan. His eyes met hers, a silent acknowledgement passing between them. He approached; the lines of concern etched deeply in his face.

"Genevieve," John said, his voice was a low rumble of fatherly concern. "I heard about you and Henry. I'm sorry."

She offered a wobbly smile, appreciating his sympathy despite the awkwardness of their connection. "Thank you, John. It's for the best."

John nodded, understanding flashing in his eyes. "You've got a lot of potential, Gen. Don't let anyone hold you back, not even my son."

With a grateful nod, Genevieve continued on to Sergeant Grey's office, her decision strengthening with each step. She knocked softly before entering, finding Grey seated behind a desk cluttered with paperwork.

"Sergeant Grey," she began, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "Thank you for meeting with me. I know this is a big ask, but I'm interested in volunteering here, if you'll have me."

Sergeant Grey gave her a measured look, one that seemed to take in her state and weigh her words all at once. "Volunteering, huh? That's a commendable path, Hart. It's not just about showing up; you've got to be ready to commit. We'll start with the basics; an application, a thorough background check."

She listened, nodding, feeling the gravity of the decision settle in. "And after I graduate?" she asked, a hint of eagerness creeping into her voice.

Grey leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that was both intimidating and inspiring. "Then you're in the big leagues. Civil Service exam's your next hurdle. It's tough, but not impossible. You've got a good head on your shoulders. Use it."

---

Genevieve's heart skipped a beat as she nearly slammed into Tim just outside the Sergeant's office, the air in the precinct thick with the scent of coffee and determination. Her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and lingering tension from their near-kiss.

"Bradford," she murmured, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, another nervous habit that surfaced whenever she felt awkward.  Her voice was a soft tremor betraying her inner turmoil.

Tim's gaze was steady, his posture relaxed, the corners of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Genevieve," he said, his tone even, betraying none of the heat that had simmered between them the night before. "Didn't expect to see you here. Everything alright?"

She nodded, a cascade of chestnut hair falling over her shoulder as she launched into a rambling explanation, her nerves and excitement taking over. "Yeah, I was just talking to Sergeant Grey about volunteering. It's really exciting, you know? There's a lot to learn, and the tech analyst role--it's like the perfect blend of technology and law enforcement. I mean, the idea of digging into data, uncovering patterns, helping to solve cases... it's exactly where I see myself. And volunteering, it's like this stepping stone, right? A way to get in, to show them what I'm capable of."

Tim listened, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched the passion dance in her eyes, finding her rambling to be cute. "Sounds like you've got it all figured out," he said, his voice warm with genuine admiration. "How's the Henry situation?"

"Yeah, just, well... Henry and I, we're over. I went over this morning."

Tim's expression softened, a hint of concern breaking through his stoic facade. "I'm sorry to hear that. You know you can stay at my place as long as you need, right?"

Genevieve's cheeks warmed with a blush that spread to the tips of her ears. "I'm sorry about this. I won't be any trouble, I promise. I'll find my own place soon."

"Don't worry about it," Tim assured her, his voice low and comforting. "Take the time you need. My door's always open."

[happy4sworld]

do you believe me now?

in which fem!reader is insecure around spencer until she finally asks him to take matters into his own hands (literally)

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: inexperienced reader, fingering, softdom!spencer my sweet sweet beloved angel, sub reader, praise, you know he talks you through it, brief mention of drinking wine, i think that's it a/n: i hope u guys like this ! slightly different dynamic than my other stuff maybe but let me know what u think!! i love feedback and i love YOU!!!

“You’re so pretty.”

It’s the first thing Spencer has said since you two landed on his couch, exhausted from one of Rossi’s extravagant soirées. It was your first of many, if Spencer’s entire team is to be believed. More nights featuring Italian food and wine you could never afford don’t sound half bad—but for now you’re drained. You barely had the energy to kick off your heels and topple into Spencer’s lap five minutes ago. The silk dress still pools over his knees and your hair still falls in curls around your face. He brushes one aside as he continues. 

“I mean—you always look beautiful. But I’ve never seen you all done up. You’re obscenely gorgeous.”

You groan awkwardly, burying your face in Spencer’s collar as your face heats. Taking compliments has never been your strong suit, especially from someone who you perceive to be so out of your league. The relationship you have with Spencer is relatively new, and sometimes you worry delicate; like one slip-up revealing the real you and he’ll go running. So far, though, he seems hellbent on proving you wrong. 

His hand finds the bare skin of your arm, passing up and down gently. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“…I do.”

It’s unconvincing. Spencer scoffs. 

“No, you don’t. You never believe me when I compliment you.”

The cadence of his voice is light enough, but it’s evident that there’s some genuine frustration there, lurking just under the surface. 

Your head lolls over his shoulder and he angles his neck to look down at you. Hair falls over his eyes, and you’d fix it if he didn’t look so damn perfect. Everything about him looks intentional, like he was designed by someone who took great pride in their work. Not at all like you—a collage of features and spare parts you guess whatever force created you had lying around. Nothing about you feels on purpose. But that’s a hard thing to explain.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s impolite. It just feels disingenuous to accept compliments like that.”

Goosebumps arise on your arm where he touches you.

“You being polite isn’t what I’m concerned about. I just wish I could make you understand that I mean it when I compliment you. You’d know if I didn’t. I’m a terrible liar.”

That earns a giggle from you. Your boyfriend smiles, sparkling eyes darting over your face like he’s trying to bottle the sound, the memory—and you realize he probably is. What a terrifying thought. You look away, abashed once more. 

“I’m a woman, Spencer. I’m not allowed to like myself. That’s the whole thing with Eve and the snake and the apple and whatever. Eternal inescapable shame.”

“Are you trying to justify your self-loathing by making it biblical? You know I’m the last person that would work on, right? Both as an agnostic-leaning-athiest and someone who thinks you’re beautiful and wonderful.”

Another groan claws its way from your throat as you slide down in embarrassment. 

“You’re killing me here, Spencer.”

“What can I do to do to make you believe me?” he murmurs, carefully brushing tangles from your hair as you now rest practically prone across his lap. The ceiling light stretches behind him, haloing him in a soft glowing crown and making everything a bit more hazy and tolerable. 

“It’s not your fight.” It’s meant to be playfully dramatic, but it hangs from your lips with a painful amount of earnestness. 

“If it’s yours, it’s mine. That’s kind of the whole point of a relationship, right? Being a team?”

His fingers are nimble and warm between yours as you interlace them, steepling and bumping them together as you speak. 

“Well, if you know so much, why are you asking me? It sounds like you know exactly what to do to make me magically love myself.”

A dangerous twitch plays at the corner of his lips as he gazes sleepily down at you. 

“Oh, I have a few ideas. But I’m asking what you’d be comfortable with.”

“Whoa!” you blurt, giggling self-consciously, covering your face with your (and inadvertently one of his) hands. “Where did that come from?”

He smiles at your response to his mildly suggestive comment. “I lose my filter when I'm tired. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” 

You sigh gustily, dragging his hand down to fall over your collarbones. His fingers twitch over the delicate skin, like he’d graze it if your hand wasn’t weighing his down. 

“No, no, you didn’t make me uncomfortable, you just… surprised me. I’m really bad at talking about this kind of thing.”

“Sex?”

You yelp, slinging your arm over your face and hiding in the crook of your elbow. “AH! Don’t say it!” 

He laughs again, a little less reserved this time. 

“What? You can’t even listen to me say the word?”

“No! Too scary!”

Eventually you peek out from under your arm to find Spencer still watching you. The humor has faded from his eyes and been replaced by a kind of serene calm. He brushes a lock of hair from your shoulder. 

“Come here,” he says—a request more than a demand. With some wriggling and a bit of help, you manage to reorient yourself into a sitting position across his lap once more. His touch is warm even through the fabric of your dress when he kisses you, hand sliding over your waist before moving to trace your jaw and ending up on the back of your neck, urging you closer ever so slightly. You kiss him back without hesitation or restraint, as you delight in doing when he gives you the opportunity. What you may lack in experience and refinement, you make up for with affection and enthusiasm. He pulls away after a minute, much to your dismay, and brushes his thumb over your lips. For the first time, you think you see a hint of worry in his eyes. Guilt claws at your heart when he quietly asks, “you’re not scared of me, are you?”

“No!” You assure quickly, looping your arms around his neck. “No, it’s not you. You’re perfect and I’m sure you really mean all of the nice things you say. But I just… sometimes I worry I’ll scare you away once you realize I’m not as pretty or… good as you thought.”

“That’s impossible.”

Once more you let your head fall onto his shoulder. “You don’t know that.” 

His hand begins running up and down your back, soothing your sympathetic nervous system in a way that all the deep breaths in the world never could. 

“I know that I really, really like you. And there’s not one part of you that I don’t find genuinely beautiful. I can’t imagine not feeling that way about you.” Your eyes flutter shut and you hum against him—a non-answer, but he doesn’t push it. Minutes go by quietly, ticking later into the night as he continues mindlessly rubbing your back and watching you breathe. “Do you want me to take you home?” He finally asks after a long while. Again, you don’t respond. He smiles. “I know you’re awake.”

The corner of your lip twitches as you attempt to suppress a grin. Spencer sighs. 

“I guess if you’re already asleep you’ll just have to stay here. But it would be convenient if you’d sleepwalk to my bed so that I don’t have to carry you.”

When you begin stirring and sitting up (one eye cracked to navigate) he laughs, hands on your waist. “Would you look at that. Who knew she would be so suggestible in non-REM?” You snort as you push yourself to a standing position using Spencer’s shoulders to support yourself, and ruining the whole act. He smiles up at you like you’re something divine and lets his hands trail over your hips. 

“I sleep with my eyes open.”

“Do you often have coherent conversations in your sleep, too?”

You shrug. “I’m full of surprises.”

“I’m sure you are,” he agrees, finally standing himself. “I’m assuming you don’t want to sleep in your dress?”

“I have shorts on underneath I can wear, but a shirt would be helpful.”

“Then we’ll get you a shirt.”

———————————————

Ten minutes later you’re in Spencer’s bathroom, wearing your shorts and one of his sweatshirts (you cannot imagine Spencer in a hoodie), and wiping black sludge from your eyes with makeup remover he claims was left by a friend after a particularly festive Halloween party. Hopefully he’s telling the truth—you can think of more dubious potential origins of the eye-makeup remover in his bathroom. No toothbrush—you use your finger and a generous amount of toothpaste until the red wine stains fade. 

Spencer is fixing the pillows when you exit the bathroom. You hold up your hands which are completely obscured and then some by the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. 

“Fits like a dream,” you say. A smile tugs at his lips as he finishes his task, before raising his eyes to you. The smile promptly fades and it’s like the sun disappearing behind an oppressive gray cloud. In an instant your stomach curdles and you feel like crawling out of your skin. 

“…what?” you mumble, absolutely terrified that the thing he’d said was impossible just minutes ago has already happened. Without makeup, without a fancy dress, you’re just you, and maybe that’s not good enough.

“Uh…” He blinks, as if he’s buffering for a moment, before snapping back into action, and notably looking away from you. “It’s—it’s nothing. Do you, um—here, I tried to make it—“

“Stop. Just tell me what that was. You got all weird.”

Another pause—he looks back up at you reluctantly with a sigh. 

“I did not get all weird.”

“Yes, you did. You’re still being weird. It’s freaking me out.”

He’s utterly unreadable, which drives you fucking insane, when he eventually says, “come here.” This time, you think with a chill as you shuffle on your knees across the bed to sit in front of him, it really sounds like a demand. Spencer grabs your face in his hands, studying you intently. “I know you think I’ve finally decided you’re hideously deformed, but it’s actually just the opposite. I’m trying to figure out how to keep things polite for you.”

Realization dawns on you and the swarm of new butterflies in your stomach. The usual molten gold of his irises has been encroached upon, masked by blown pupils. Your face gets hot and your voice caves when you speak. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” he agrees quietly. “Do you believe me now?”

And to his credit, you really do. The hot skin, the vibrating cells in every fiber of your being, the racing heart—your body knows he means it. Part of you, the more confident, more desirous part, drags you closer to him, ghosts your lips over his. He chuckles. 

“Now you’re getting brave?”

“Am I not allowed to kiss you?” you whisper, draping your arms over his shoulders. 

“You’re allowed to do whatever you want.”

The words make you shiver—the lowered, gravelly tone of his voice you’ve never heard before snaps your resolve and you lean into him, connecting your lips with a deep urgency. Spencer inhales sharply, hands wandering to your waist and bearing down firmly as you press against him. When you lean back, he follows you, insists without saying a word that you don’t stop kissing him. It sends a thrill down your spine and between your legs, which both gives you pause and eggs you on. In the end, after a very brief internal struggle, curiosity and desire win. You drop to the bed and drag him down with you—he, your willing follower, blindly searches for purchase on the plush comforter. Now he’s on top of you, legs slotted together so that his thigh is temptingly close to your core. Too shy to actually do what you want to do, you clamp your thighs around his and tilt your hips, desperate for friction. He exhales heavily, slowly pulling his lips from yours like it’s the last thing he wants to do. Fingers dig into the flesh of your hip, not enough to ache but enough to draw your attention to your movements. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, firmly, but not like you’re in trouble—it’s a probing question. He’s trying to figure out if you’re aware of the way you’re nearly riding his leg. 

“I don’t know,” you admit breathlessly. 

“You just told me you couldn’t even listen to me say the word sex,” Spencer reminds you. “You said it was too scary.”

A frustrated whine seems to catch him by surprise, and he laughs. 

“That was a long time ago. I’ve matured since then.”

“Is that what happened?” he teases. 

“Honestly, I’m just really turned on right now, please—" you cut yourself off, crashing your lips into his once more. And he almost relents. 

Almost. 

“Slow down.”

He ceases kissing you for a second time and you’re starting to really get annoyed. 

“What?” you groan. “I thought you wanted this.”

His thumbs brush over the apples of your cheeks, demanding your attention. 

“I want you. In every sense of the word. If you make a bad choice tonight and it means you don’t like me anymore tomorrow, that is the opposite of what I want. I’m not saying no. I’m just asking you to think about it for a second.”

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and attempting to steady your mind and see beyond the thick fog of lust. What you find is a (mildly surprising) complete lack of fear. You’re not scared, like you thought you’d be; you feel utterly safe underneath him, with his hands on you and his heartbeat against your chest. This is a kind of intimacy you want to have with him. 

Your eyes open to reveal his, close enough you can see the tiny flecks of green. And so much warmth. Everything about him is warm. 

“This is what I want,” you assert. “I promise.”

His gaze flits between yours for a moment, pulling the truth from your soul like he might be able to find an imperfection there. But you mean it—and he seems satisfied. He trusts you, like you trust him. 

“Okay.”

A sigh of relief never quite finds completion before he’s kissing you again. Immediately the fire is stoked once more, the heat between your legs getting warmer when he experimentally pushes his thigh against you. You breathe into the kiss, pressing down on him and surrendering to the unconscious rhythm of your hips. He lets that go on for a minute or two until you’re so distracted that you can’t kiss him back. 

Unexpectedly he pulls away, disentangling himself from your legs. You stammer in frustration until his fingers hook under the soft material of your shorts. “Hips up.”

Wordlessly you comply, succumbing to his gentle words and touch. He bows to kiss you as he slides the fabric down unhurriedly. Once the shorts are gone, he sits up, and carefully lifts one of your legs over his lap, gaze unabashedly glued between them. 

“Eyes up here,” you try to joke, but it’s steeped in self-consciousness and your heart is pounding. He manages, stroking the inside of your knee with a thumb as he leans down again. 

“But you’re so pretty,” he murmurs, before he’s kissing you again. “Just like I knew you would be.”

You whimper when his hand skates over your stomach, lower, and lower, and—

“Tell me one more time, sweetheart.”

Your plead is just as hungry and yearning. “Please, Spencer?”

It works for him. 

When his knuckles brush over your clit, you forget to breathe. When they barely skim your entrance, collecting arousal to drag back upward, your brain malfunctions. It is not enough, maddeningly so, but when he finds a careful, introductory rhythm, it’s immediately bordering on too much, too good. 

Your stomach tenses and you are surprised by your own sighs and hesitant gasps as you try to adjust to the feeling of someone else’s hand between your legs. 

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs against your lips. 

“Mhm,” you chirp. Slow but insistent circles elicit a cry that gets caught in your throat, melting into a hum. Your eyes are closed, but you can hear the smile in Spencer’s voice. 

“You’re sensitive, huh?”

“S—sometimes.”

 He hums contemplatively. 

“Sometimes? Can you tell me about that?”

You can’t hardly think around those gentle movements of his hand, let alone speak. He touches you like you’re something delicate. It’s torturous and perfect. But you try to answer anyway, managing to keep the stammering to a minimum. 

“About what?” 

“I want to know what you think about when you touch yourself.” The smooth words in tandem with an incremental increase in pressure earn you first real moan. Timid and unpracticed, but very genuine. 

The answer comes immediately afterward; thoughtlessly and on a shuddering exhalation.

“You.”

“Yeah?” he smiles. “Good answer.”

Your eyes open fractionally to study his expression. You’d felt so much shame every time you’d imagined him in your bed late at night.

“Really?” 

“Really. And now look at you. Letting me do it for you.” As if to remind you, he speeds up the motion of his hand. On instinct you bring your fingers to your lips as you moan through a closed throat, partly to stifle the noise and partly because you don’t know what to do with the hand that’s not gripping the duvet. “Do you only touch here?” His fingers slide down to your slick entrance and your hips buck, mourning the loss of stimulation. “Or do you touch here, too?” 

You shake your head, breathing hard as he teases a finger around the soft place you’ve never really bothered to explore. “Never feels good when I try.”

“We’re gonna make it feel good, okay?”

You nod hesitantly, leaning back into the pillows when he kisses you again. 

His lips are so distracting, so intoxicating you almost forget what he’s doing until he does it. It’s a foreign sensation—not entirely pleasant or unpleasant. For a moment or two your brows furrow as you focus on the feeling, worried that maybe you’re broken just as you thought—until you feel a slight stretch and you realize he’s pushing a second finger into you now. A kiss lands on your cheek when you grab his arm with a choked gasp, and he mutters, “deep breaths,” into your ear. “I know it’s new, honey, just breathe.”

“Fuck,” you whimper as you look down, and you didn’t realize you were going to say it until it’s already passed between your lips. Pressure begins melding with the promise of pleasure, and something about watching his hand move between your legs—the tendons flexing and wrist bending as he eases into what is clearly a perfected motion—arouses you so much you moan at the sight alone. Flipping pages is all you thought that hand was meant for. It’s like a secret revealed as you watch it do something so salacious, and to you. 

A hot spark of pleasure flares deeper in you than you’ve ever felt. It catches and grows faster than you’d of thought—suddenly you can feel everything and it all feels better than you thought possible. Your jaw drops and a surprised huff of air blows a strand of your hair away. 

“Oh my god,” comes your breathy little whisper, unprepared for and intimidated by how good he’s making you feel. Filthy noises come from between your legs and you clench around his fingers. You had no idea you could make those noises. You had no idea you could get so wet. 

“Yeah, there we go.” His voice sounds a little further away now. You manage to tear your eyes away from all the action to his face. Much like you, he’s transfixed by the sight, brow furrowed and pretty lips parted in what could be concentration, or some sort of empathetic pleasure. His face has more color to it than usual and his breaths come heavier—it’s a very pleasant sight. Suddenly his fingers brush against a spot deep within you and your hips cant upward, a mewl pulled from the depths of your throat that has more control over you than you do it. Spencer’s eyes flash back to you, a grin playing at his lips. He does it again, looking right into your eyes, and you whine so pitifully your face flushes. 

“Too much?” he asks. You shake your head firmly, arching your back when he unconsciously slows down. At your response his fingers begin rutting into you again, committing to that spot inside you that makes you see stars. “Of course not. You’re gonna take whatever I give you, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. You’d do just about anything for him right at this second. Spencer holds an immense amount of power over you in this moment, and potentially in all future moments moving forward. But you trust him with it. 

“You don’t have anything to prove to me. I just want you to feel good. You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

But it’s really not too much. It’s exactly right. Your verbal capacity is acutely limited right now, so you can’t exactly say it, but you lock eyes with him and whine shamelessly, hips twisting against his hand. You think he gets the message. 

Hair falls over his face and he doesn’t fix it, opting instead to alternate his gaze between your cunt and face, cursing to himself lowly. You wouldn’t want him to stop and fix his hair—what you want is this, for him to keep pushing you toward that elusive edge and to keep looking at you like you put all the stars in the sky. 

“Look at you, my pretty girl. I’m so proud of you. I know this isn’t easy. I know you were scared. Thank you for letting me do this, honey.”

It’s the unexpected tenderness of the words, perfectly misplaced in the context of the moment. It’s the devotion, the honesty in his eyes, shining through the haze of lust, which makes your stomach drop and all your muscles tense. A million thoughts jumble in your head, dizzying and thrilling and confusing, but mostly all you can think is Spencer, Spencer, Spencer. Is this how it always is? Your hands tangle in the sheets—and then all the thoughts vanish. Everything is warm and fuzzy and sparkling clean, no worries, no lingering thoughts, no self-awareness at all. It’s nirvana. It’s revelatory. It’s ridiculous that he did this all in under five minutes and you haven’t been able to do it once even with very concerted effort. 

Slowly you float back into your body, breathing hard and watching through half-lidded eyes as Spencer gently pulls his hand away. Without him you feel weirdly empty and cold, like he should have been there all along. But his touch isn’t absent for long—he runs his hand over the bridge between your hips, little finger dipping into the crease of your thigh. 

“That’s never… I’ve never done that before,” you admit, slurring your words only slightly. 

His perfect features contort into a half-frown, half-smile. 

“You’ve never had an orgasm?” You nod. His head tilts. “Really? You didn’t tell me that.”

“When would I have told you?” you laugh, finding his waist with your hand and encouraging him to settle his weight on you. He does, burying his face in your neck and exhaling heavily. 

“Well?” you ask shyly, skating your fingers over his back. “Did I do it right?”

Spencer snorts, but presses a sickeningly sweet kiss to the curve of your neck. 

“Did you like it?”

“Yes,” you admit, voice smaller than you’d have liked. He pushes himself up onto his forearms and kisses you softly. 

“Then we both did it right.”

“But…” you stare up into his warm honey eyes, searching for any bits of hidden truth you can find. He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, utterly unconcerned. “You know what I mean.” 

“I do,” he agrees, “and I’ll say this because I know otherwise you’re going to worry about it forever.” He studies your face reverently for a moment, before parting his lips to speak. The words are slow to come, like he’s trying to figure the sentence out as he goes along. “You… are going to be, problematic, for me.”

Your whisper is almost as small as you feel under his heavy gaze. “What d’you mean?” 

“I mean,” Spencer begins, voice low, “I think I liked that too much. Do you see why that’s troubling?”

The flame you thought had been quenched flickers back to life like a pilot light. Your thighs press together to alleviate a growing ache in a still sensitive area and you answer, “no,” with a small shake of your head. His thumb tenderly traces your jaw, ever-patient despite the fact that you’re obviously playing coy. 

“Because I can’t have you all the time.”

“Yes you can,” you say without hesitation, though your eyes are fluttering. “You can have me whenever you want. Right now.”

He hums, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

“Not tonight. You’ve had enough. You’re tired.”

“I’m wide awake,” you slur, tangling a hand in his hair even as you lose the battle against your eyelids. 

He sighs good-naturedly, gently wrapping his fingers around your wrist and brushing his lips over the delicate skin. 

“You’re shockingly precocious.”

You hum. 

“You just unleashed the beast. You’re like Doctor Frankenstein.”

He chuckles, sitting up and finding your shorts. You manage to be semi-helpful, lifting your legs at appropriate junctures as he tugs your clothing back on. “And you’re a nerd.”

“I don’t need to take that from you of all people.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Spencer says, and the smile in his voice makes you smile, a quarter asleep as he leans over to turn off the lamp on your side of the bed before tugging the covers over both of you. 

He pulls you close in the dark, releasing a deep sigh as you curl into him. His heartbeat is steady against your ear, his arms warm around you. You can imagine making a home for yourself here. And you don’t know if he’s thinking it, but you hope he is, as you are silently repeating to yourself with every beat of his heart;

I love you

I love you

I love you. 

[happy4sworld]

Bad Intentions

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5

Chapter Five:

Genevieve hesitated at the door, her hand trembling slightly as she inserted the key. The day's victories loomed large in her mind, but she knew stepping through the door might diminish her newfound sense of pride.

With a soft exhale, the lock yielded, the sound echoing in the stillness of the apartment. She stepped inside, hugging herself against the cold that seemed to seep into her bones. Darkness veiled the room, yet Henry's presence was unmistakable, a silent figure waiting in the shadows.

The door closed with a muted click behind her. "Henry?" Her voice was tentative, seeking confirmation in the quiet.

A lamp flickered on, banishing the shadows and revealing Henry by the window, his posture defensive, his expression dark with brewing storms.

"You went behind my back, Genevieve," Henry's voice was strained, barely containing his anger. "After everything we talked about, you still went to the station?"

Genevieve's gaze fell, her fingers instinctively seeking the comfort of her necklace. "Henry, your dad asked for my help," she spoke softly, her voice a stark contrast to the chill of the apartment. "It wasn't about defying you. It mattered, and I thought--"

His interruption was sharp, his tone escalating with each syllable. "You thought what? That I'd be fine? That my feelings don't matter?"

"No, that's not it," she tried to explain, her voice steady but tinged with frustration, desperate for him to understand. "I wanted to help, to contribute. What I did today--it helped people."

"This isn't about doing good, it's about us! About trust!" Henry's voice grew louder, his anger now fully surfacing.

Genevieve's heart raced as his hand lifted, an involuntary flinch coursing through her. Though she knew he wouldn't harm her, the ghost of her past fears lingered, the instinct to escape momentarily overwhelming her.

"I, uh, I'm going to go," she whispered, her voice barely audible as she retreated to the bedroom. Her movements were quick, a bag hastily filled with clothes.

Henry's footsteps echoed behind her. "Gen, wait. We should talk," he said, his voice now softer but still edged with tension.

She shook her head, fighting back tears as she zipped the bag, her hands trembling. "I need space, Henry. Time to think," she pleaded, her voice choked with emotion.

Avoiding his gaze, she moved toward the door, her resolve unwavering. "Genevieve..." Henry's voice trailed off, filled with worry and regret.

She paused, eyes closed, gathering strength. Then, with a deep breath, she stepped out, the door closing with a quiet finality behind her.

The night air was brisk, and the city lights blurred as she walked, her mind a tumult of emotions. She found herself outside a familiar bar, the soft murmur of conversation and laughter spilling out into the street. It was a place where she could lose herself in the crowd, forget the day's confrontations, even if just for a moment.

Pushing the door open, the dim lightning greeted her. She made her way to the counter, ordering a drink with an attempt at nonchalance. That's when she saw him--Tim, sitting alone at the end of the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey.

Their eyes met, a current of recognition passed between them. Tim moved to take a seat beside her, the proximity sending a jolt of awareness through her.

"Didn't peg you as a dive bar kind of girl," Tim's voice had a rough edge to it, but at the same time low and inviting.

Genevieve offered a half-smile, the kind that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah, well, I needed a change of scenery I guess?"

Tim nodded, taking a sup of his drink. "We all need that sometimes. I saw the stunt with Henry today. You okay?"

Genevieve's fingers traced the condensation of her glass. "I'm fine. It's just... complicated."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Life's complicated. But you, you're doing good work. And hey, we got The Ghost, thanks to you."

A genuine smile broke through Genevieve's reserve. "That's... actually really great to hear."

Tim's gaze held hers, steady and sure. "You're tough, Genevieve. Tougher than you think. And for what it's worth, I've got your back."

The words hung between them. "Thank you," she let out a breath as she took a sip of her drip, keeping a wary eye on the sergeant. "He just doesn't understand why I want to do stuff like this."

"Is that why you're here tonight?"

Genevieve's demeanor dimmed, the shadows of the argument crawling back. "Henry and I had a fight after I left the station. It got... intense."

Tim's eyes narrowed, concern etching his features. "Intense how?"

She hesitated, her voice a mere whisper. "He was angry, really angry. For a moment, I was afraid he might... I don't know. I just had to clear me head."

Tim's brow furrowed, a protective edge to his voice that surprised even him. "Genevieve, you did the right thing leaving."

Genevieve nodded, her eyes meeting her glass as she bit down on her lip. "I just can't go back there, not tonight. I know Henry wouldn't actually hurt me, but in the moment, the fear was real. It just shook me, you know?"

He leaned forward, his instinct to protect her kicking in, though he couldn't quire place why the urge was so strong. They'd only met a few days ago, yet the impulse was undeniable. "Fear like that doesn't care about the logic of the situation. It hits you where it hurts. Listen, you don't have to figure this out alone. You can stay at my place for as long as you need. There's an extra room."

Genevieve looked towards the man, her eyes searching his. "Thank you. I... I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything."

----

The air was cool as Tim's keys jangled, unlocking the door to the house. Genevieve stepped inside, her eyes taking in the warmth of the lived-in space.

"Make yourself at home," Tim said, his voice a comforting baritone that seemed to ease some of the tension from her shoulders. "How about a tour?"

She nodded, following him through the hallway. That's when she heard the soft padding of paws, and a moment later, a pit bull bounded up to them, tail wagging furiously. "And this is Kojo," Tim introduced with a grin.

"Hey there, Kojo," Genevieve greeted, her hand finding its way to the dog's head, scratching behind his ears. Kojo's response was an affectionate nuzzle against her palm, and she couldn't help but giggle--a sound she realized she hadn't heard from herself in a while.

"Kojo's a good judge of character. Seems to like you," Tim said with a small laugh, scratching the back of his head.

"Is that so? I'm honored. He's a sweetheart." Genevieve laughs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she looked at the man.

"Yeah, he's been my partner in crime for a while. Aren't you buddy?" Tim says, giving Kojo a gentle pat.

"Looks like I'm in good company then."

"Definitely," finally, Tim opened the door to the guest room. "This is where you'll be staying," he said, stepping aside to let her in.

Kojo, however, had other plans. With a playful bark, he dashed into the room, jumping onto the bed with a triumphant look. "Looks like Kojo's made his choice for the night," Tim chuckled.

They said their goodnights, whispered into the soft fabric of the evening, Genevieve lay amidst the sheets, yet sleep was a fickle friend, just out of reach. The tapestry of the evening unfurled in her mind-- each thread a vibrant echo of Tim's smiles, his cool demeanor, the earnest light in his eyes that seemed to pierce hers.

But within those threads were remnants of the fight with Henry, whose words stung like thorns. And then there was John, whose presence was like a balm to her frayed nerves, a comforting contradiction that left her adrift.

Restlessness nudged her from the bed, guiding her to the kitchen in search of a glass of water. There, she found Tim, his presence a silent echo of her own wakefulness, a mirror to her thoughts.

The air between them was charged with the unspoken, with the weight of her heart's silents battles. 

"Can't sleep?" Tim's voice broke through the silence, his question laden with shared understanding.

She accepted the glass he offered, her fingers brushing against his, sending a cascade of warmth up her arm. "No, it's... it's been a long day," she admitted, the words a mere whisper of the storm within. "You?"

"Sometimes it's hard to turn off the brain after shift." Tim mused, his gaze holding hers, a silent question lingering in the air. 

Genevieve nodded, the complexities of her heart a puzzle she couldn't quite solve. The silence stretched between them, filled with the hum of the refrigerator and the distance sounds of the city at night. She took a sip of the water, the cool liquid a contrast to the warmth that Tim's proximity. 

She glanced up at Tim, his features softened by the dim light, a silent question forming in her eyes. "Tim, can I ask you something personal?"

He nodded, an unspoken permission hanging in the air.

"How did you know you wanted to become a cop?" The question slipped out, almost a whisper, her own uncertainties about the future arising. 

Tim's gaze drifted, not away from her, but inward to a place of reflection. "After the military, I saw it a way to continue serving, to protect others."

He paused, considering her, aware of the tension that lingered from her earlier confrontation. "Genevieve, it's natural to feel conflicted. But if you have a passion for using your skills to help people, that's something worth pursuing." His paused once more; his gaze thoughtful. "Henry might not understand now, but this is about what you want. He'll have to respect that."

The kitchen was quiet again as Genevieve absorbed his words, the weight of her decision seeming a little lighter. Tim's support was unexpected but genuine, a testament to the kind of person he was--someone who believed in doing what's right, even when it's hard.

"Thank you," she said, her voice steadier now. "I guess I just need to figure out how to balance everything."

The moment lingered, a pause in the rhythm of their conversation. Genevieve's words hung in the air. Unnoticed by either, the space between them had diminished, their shoulders almost touching.

Tim's eyes caught a glint of something on her cheek-- an eyelash, out of place on her otherwise flawless skin. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers brushing against her face with a featherweight touch. "You have an eyelash," he said softly. "Make a wish."

Genevieve's breath hitched, the intimacy of the gesture catching her off guard. She closed her eyes a brief moment, making a silent wish.

As she opened her eyes, they found Tim's gaze, a mere breath away. The air between them was electric, charged with a thousand unspoken words. They leaned in, drawn by a force neither fully understood, their faces inches apart, the rest of the world fading away.

But just as their lips were about to meet, the shrill ring of Tim's phone sliced through the tension.

He stepped back, a frown creasing his brow as he answered the call. "Bradford," he said, his voice all business now.

Genevieve took a step back, the spell broken. She was still with Henry, she reminded herself, even as her heart raced with what might have been. She watched Tim's back as he talked, his shoulders set in a familiar, determined line.

As she returned to her room, Kojo's soft snoring a comforting background noise, Genevieve couldn't shake the feeling of being inches from his lips.

[happy4sworld]

bad intentions (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/story/364003459-bad-intentions?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_myworks&wp_uname=mariasont “You can’t be saved now, darling.” Bradford x Original Character x Nolan

to anyone who wants to read the story via wattpad <3 love you guys!!

[happy4sworld]

I can’t access this account from my computer so from now on all chapters will be posted to this account 💕🎀🤩

Enjoy chapter four!! Love you all!!

Bad Intentions

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4

John Nolan x Original Character x Tim Bradford

Chapter Four:

Genevieve exhaled a breath of frustration, her focus fixed on the laptop screen that was cluttered with complex code and algorithms. The culmination of months of work was within reach, and the intensity of her task was evident in the rapid dance of her fingers across the keyboard.

The unexpected knock at the door jolted her from her digital world. She rose, crossing the room to find John on her doorstep, his smile warm as he presented a bag of Henry's belongings. "Henry asked me to drop this off. Is he around?" John inquired.

"He's in the living room," Genevieve replied, stepping aside to let John enter.

John's eyes drifted to the laptop as he placed the bag on the counter. "Something big you're working on?" he asked, a note of genuine interest in his voice.

A soft smile touched Geneviev's lips as she lifted the laptop, bringing it over to him. "It's my final project. It analyzes security footage to identify suspects based on their gait. It's still a prototype, but it's showing promise," she explained with a mix of pride and fatigue.

John leaned closer; his attention captured by the program. "Impressive," he said quietly. "The LAPD really could use a mind like yours. Have you given it any more thought?"

Her laughter was tinged with embarrassment. "A bit," she admitted.

John's smile grew. "If you decide to pursue it, let me know. I'd be happy to put in a good word with Sergeant Grey."

"Thanks, John. That means a lot," Genevieve said, her voice betraying a hint of hesitation.

A silent moment passed between them, charged with unspoken possibilities. John stepped closer, his hand almost reaching for her shoulder before he seemed to think better of it.

"I should head out," he said suddenly, his voice low. "But Genevieve..." He paused, his hand falling to his side. "If you're serious about the LAPD, call me. And tell Henry his things are on the counter."

"Will do," she responded quietly, watching as John turned and left, the air still vibrating with the tension of their exchange and leaving her heart racing with a complex blend of anticipation and an inexplicable yearning.

Genevieve's heart hadn't settled from her encounter with John as she carried her laptop towards the living room. The aroma of takeout and the low drone of the football game filled the space. Henry sprawled on the couch, engrossed in the game.

"Hey," she ventured, her voice tinged with a blend of excitement and apprehension. "Your dad stopped by. He left some things for you in the kitchen. We talked about my final project. He thinks I could really do something with it, even suggested he could vouch for me with the LAPD. If I could just get the algorithm to process the data faster, it could really make a difference in digital forensics."

Henry spared her a brief glance, his attention quickly snapping back to the game. "The LAPD? Really, Gen? You know how I feel about my dad's job. It's dangerous. I don't want you anywhere near that."

A frown creased her brow, the weight of her laptop now feeling like a burden. "It's a tech role, Henry. I won't be on the streets."

Henry chuckled dismissively, shaking his head. "Come on, babe. It doesn't matter. It's all the same world-- a world of risk and violence. I see what it does to my dad, the toll it takes. I can't... I won't have you be a part of that."

She opened her mouth to argue, but he interrupted her quickly. "Look, let's talk later, okay? The game's on. Mind grabbing another around of beers?"

Genevieve sat motionless, the crowd's roar from the TV punctuating the growing divide between them. His indifference was a stark revelation, he didn't share her aspirations. Rising from the couch, unnoticed, she retreated to the solitude of their room. Settling at her desk, she opened her laptop, the isolation creeping in as she stared at the screen.

----

Genevieve's steps were slow as she exited the university's computer lab, the weight of her backpack mirroring the heaviness that hung in the air. The campus was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of the shooting weeks earlier. The sound of gunfire still haunted her thoughts, a grim echo of mortality's fragility.

Her phone's ring silenced through the silence. It was John. "Genevieve, any chance you can swing by the station?" he questioned urgently. "There's a case, a string of cyber-attacks, and we think it's connected to the shooting."

She agreed, her decision swift. Henry's opinion was a distant concern compared to the gravity of the situation.

As Genevieve neared the precinct, her brisk walk pace gave way to contemplation. The shooting had left an indelible on the university, but it was the lingering fear of what might have happened that haunted her. She took a deep breath and pushed open the doors, her resolve firming with each step.

The precinct buzzed with activity; officers moved briskly, their expressions grave. Tim Brad stood out amidst the commotion, his presence commanding yet enigmatic. Their eyes met, and he approached with a professional detachment.

"Genevieve," Tim greeted her, his tone cool, professional, nothing like their first meeting. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"John called me in," she replied, her determination evident. "He said you all could use my help with the cyber-attacks, that it might have something to do with the shooting?"

Tim's jaw tightened. "This isn't a classroom exercise. It's real, and it's dangerous. I don't want you getting hurt because of some misplaced sense of duty."

Genevieve's frustration flared, but she maintained her composure. "I'm not here out of duty. I'm here because I can help."

Before Time could respond, Nolan stepped in, his easy smile a welcome contrast, oblivious to tension. "Glad you could join us, Genevieve. We've got a tough call on our hands; Someone shut down the school's system while the shooting was going on."

Genevieve nodded, ready to take on the task. "Put me to work then."

Sergeant Grey stepped into the room, his presence commanding immediate attention. "Hart," he began, his voice gruff but not unkind, "I've run your background--nothing personal, just protocol. You're clear. Nolan's vouched for you, and your project on gait analysis could be the break we need on this case."

Genevieve nodded, understanding the necessity of such measures. "Understood, sir. I'm ready to work."

----

Genevieve's hands flew over the keyboard, her eyes scanning lines of code as she explained her process to Tim, who listened intently. "So, we're dealing with a sophisticated network intrusion," she began, her voice tinged with excitement despite the gravity of the situation. "The attacker likely used a phishing scheme to gain initial access to the school's security systems, during the shooting, probably through a seemingly innocuous email link."

Tim nodded, urging her to continue.

"Once inside, they would've moved laterally across the network, escalating their privileges. That's where I come in," she said, her cheeks coloring slightly as her enthusiasm bubbled over. "I've developed an algorithm that can analyze network traffic patterns and identify anomalies. It's like... like finding a needle in a haystack, but I've trained it to recognize the specific 'gait' of our hacker's digital footprint."

She glanced over at Tim, half-expecting him to lose interest as Henry often did, but he was still with her, his gaze steady. Encourage, she dove deeper.

"The algorithm cross-references the irregularities with known behaviors of cyber threats. It's not just about firewalls and antivirus anymore; it's about predictive analytics and machine learning. We can use this to potentially isolate the hacker's entry point and maybe even their identity."

Tim's expression was one of genuine intrigue. "And you think this can lead us to 'The Ghost'?"

Genevieve shoots him an amused glance, a smile finding its way to her skin. "'The Ghost'? Did he name himself that? Or did you?"

Tim shot her a deadpanned look, to which she only giggled in response. "Anyway, if 'The Ghost' left even the slightest digital trace, my algorithm will find it. It's already sifting through the data from the security breach, looking for patterns in IP addresses, login times, even the types of queries made to the database. It's all about the behavior. Hackers have habits, just like anyone else."

Genevieve paused, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry, I can get a bit carried away with this stuff."

Tim shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Don't be. It's impressive, and it's exactly what we need right now."

Genevieve allowed herself to smile back, her earlier embarrassment put at ease by his words. She turned back to her screen, her fingers resuming their dance across the keys. The algorithm churned through the data; Genevieve's eyes locked on the screen as she pieced together the cyber puzzle.

"The pattern is clear," she murmured, more to herself than to Tim. "The Ghost has been targeting institutions, disabling their security systems during critical incidents. It's not just here; there have been similar breaches elsewhere."

Tim proximity felt closer, his voice low and intense. "So, he's creating chaos, but why? What's his endgame if he's not directly involved in the shootings?"

Her frustration was palpable, her voice tinged with challenge. "That's the million-dollar question. It's like... he's testing his reach, seeing how far he can push without getting caught. But there's no clear financial or political motive. Maybe it's a diversion? Or a statement? Hackers like The Ghost-- they want to prove they can outsmart the system. It's a game to them, and every successful attack is a win on their scoreboard. But what about the shooting here?"

Tim paused; his expression somber. "It's the most direction connection we've seen between the cyber-attacks and physical violence. If he's escalating, we need to find him before he strikes again."

Genevieve's concentration shattered as a familiar voice pierced the room's hum. "Can I talk to you?" The words hung heavy, pulling her away from the digital labyrinth she'd been navigating.

Her heart sank, fingers freezing mid-type. She turned, finding Henry framed in the doorway, his eyes slicing through her with a mix of confusion and accusation. She rose, her movements hesitant, and followed him away from Tim.

"Why are you here? I'm dropping off files for Dad, and I find you... What are you doing?" His voice was a low growl, laced with an edge that sent a shiver down her spine.

"John asked for my help with a case," she justified, trying to muster the confidence that seemed to falter under his intense gaze.

"My dad?" Henry's disbelief was evident as he raked a hand through his hair. "And this is more important than our conversation? Than how I feel about you being here?"

Heat creeped into Genevieve's cheeks, but she stood firm, clinging to the sense of purpose she'd felt earlier. "I'm doing something valuable, Henry. This is important to me."

His scoff was a sharp retort, his head shaking in disbelief. "Just remember what we talked about," he muttered, his departure as swift as his arrival.

Tears threatened, but Genevieve held them back, she took a deep breath, steadying herself. She turned, only to catch Tim's, a silent witness to her personal drama.

With a hard swallow, she re-entered the desk space, the screens' glow illuminating her determined face. Silence enveloped her, the station's usual buzz dimmed to nothing. She ignored Tim's concerned gaze, watching as her algorithm dissected the network's anatomy with a predator's precision.

"Look at this," she said, her voice a mix of triumph and tension. "The Ghost has been clever, using a Domain Generation Algorithm to create a smokescreen of random domains. But every hacker has a tell, and I think I've found his."

Tim leaned in, his presence a magnetic force. "You've got a lead?"

She nodded, her pulse quickening--not just from the chase, but also from the closeness of Tim's intense gaze. "Each domain is a piece of a puzzle, and when you put them together, they form a signature. It's like a digital fingerprint, unique to The Ghost."

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, the algorithm, now honing in on the aberrant patterns. "And there," she pointed, "is the anomaly. It's a recurring sequence in the domain registrations, a quirk in his method. It's his signature, and with it, we can start to trace his real identity."

Tim's eyes were on her, his admiration clear. "You're brilliant, Genevieve."

She felt a flush of warmth at his praise, her heart fluttering. It wasn't just the thrill of the hunt that excited her; it was Tim's unwavering attention, so different from Henry's dismissive glances. And then there was John, whose rugged charm had first drawn her into this tangled web.

"We're not done yet," she said, clearing her throat in an attempt to also clear her thoughts, her voice steady despite the turmoil insider her. "We need to cross-reference this signature with known hacker databases, look for matches in past breaches. If The Ghost has slipped up before, we'll find them."

Genevieve was acutely aware of Tim's proximity, his every breath. She was caught in the gravitational pull of two men, both alluring in their own right, yet it was the enigma of The Ghost that held her focus. She was determined to unravel the mystery.

"Got you," she muttered, "Daniel Parker."

Genevieve was oblivious to Sergeant Grey's presence, her focus entirely consumed by her victory. It was only when his voice broke through the concentration in the room that she realized had been observing from the shadows.

"Nice work," Sergeant Grey commended, stepping forward into the light, his gaze fixed on the computer screen. The precinct was a flurry of activity, officers heeding Grey's commands as they prepared to pursue the suspect. Genevieve's grin remained, pride swelling within her as she watched the officers depart on their mission.

Tim remained behind, his figure a steady presence amidst the bustle. "You did good, kid," he said, his voice a gruff whisper of approval. "But keep your feet on the ground. This world," he gestured around the precinct, "doesn't forgive easily."

Genevieve met his gaze, a spark of excitement in her eyes. "I can handle it," she assured him, her voice betraying a hint of vulnerability beneath the surface confidence.

The tension between them crackled, charged with the thrill of the chase and the unspoken attraction that lingered in the air. They stood there, caught in the moment of silent recognition, a mutual respect that was deepening with each shared glance.

It was John who interrupted the charged atmosphere, his arrival a reminder of the world beyond their bubble. Tim offered a parting nod, a silent acknowledgement of Genevieve's contribution, before he turned to follow the others. "You've got a natural talent for this. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Genevieve's smile was genuine, a flush of pride coloring her cheeks. "Thank you, John. That means everything, especially after... today."

John's expression tightened, a silent understanding passing between them. "Henry has his own battles," he said firmly. "Don't let his fears hold you back. You're meant for great things, Genevieve. Remember that."