#Absolute Secure Access

[richardmhicks]

Microsoft DirectAccess Formally Deprecated

Today, Microsoft has announced the formal deprecation of DirectAccess. Microsoft DirectAccess is a widely deployed enterprise secure remote access solution that provides seamless, transparent, always-on remote network connectivity for managed (domain-joined) Windows clients. First introduced in Windows Server 2008 R2, it’s been a popular solution with many advantages over ordinary VPN…

[keykidpilipili]

I hope Instagram combusts into garbage ashes

[thesaltyace]

We went shopping for a fridge last year and ended up not buying one because of the connectivity bullshit. I wanted to get a fridge that fit our space better, but decided to keep the current one because I refuse to have a fridge that insists on being connected to the internet.

When we bought our last range, I had an incredibly difficult time finding what I wanted (convection oven) that didn't connect to the internet. The one with the features I liked the most LOCKED YOU OUT OF CERTAIN OVEN FEATURES until you connected it to the internet. And it locked them again when you disconnected, so if you had an internet outage you couldn't use the convection setting (arguably the most important feature I wanted). Why the hell would I buy an oven that locks the key feature I want behind internet connectivity? It's a fucking OVEN, why does it need to be connected to the internet at all? I bought a dumb range with zero connectivity and it works perfectly (Frigidaire to the rescue again, I love them).

A couple years ago, we thought our decade-old TV died. We shopped for a new one. There were ZERO dumb tv options available in the same size (46"). There was exactly one available in a much smaller size. We went home, cracked that old sucker open, tested everything with a multimeter, shrugged because we couldn't find anything wrong, and put it back together. It worked again. No idea what we did. But it was alive. We're still using it because we cannot stomach having a smart tv.

I understand that my phone is collecting a crapton of data and sending it who knows where. That doesn't mean I want every major appliance and electronic device in my home to do the same. Privacy concerns aside, do you trust that these manufacturers are keeping these devices secure and addressing security vulnerabilities? We know for a fact that they aren't. Connecting these smart devices to your network could give bad actors easier access to more important devices connected to the same network - like your phone or computer.

I loathe that so many things are connected for the sole purpose of sending data for marketing purposes. I loathe that the smart features arguably make the product worse (for instance - smart tvs appear to be laggy as fuck with no exceptions). I loathe that features can be added or taken away via that mandatory connectivity instead of me being able to buy something that just fucking works and will continue to fucking work as long as I maintain and use it properly. And I hate that companies now treat connectivity as though it it's a standard thing even when the device absolutely doesn't need it to properly function. They treat it like a feature for your convenience when really it's for theirs.

Bah. 😤

[qqueenofhades]

Okay all -- few quick thoughts about the Elon Muskifying of the government, especially the takeover of the Treasury and associated financial data for every single US citizen and organization, that we are learning about in detail today.

Don't panic. This sounds bad, because it is bad. It's really, really bad. It's outrageously fascist bad. But we've still gotta take a deep breath and get through it.

This is the kind of shock-and-awe exercise of untrammeled fascist power where they are absolutely counting on gleefully terrorizing, paralyzing, and stunning you into mounting no resistance, or just giving up and giving in. They are literally live-tweeting it in real time and boasting about all the access and influence they have right now. They want you to know about it and feel like you can't do anything, so you might as well let it happen.

We have to show them that's not true.

TIME TO MAKE SOME NOISE. Because it's Sunday night, I've gone ahead and contacted my state Attorney General and both senators by email (but come Monday morning, we should all be calling). Here is the email that I wrote to my AG:

Dear Mr. [AG],

As you will be aware, today (February 2, 2025) the Trump administration has granted wide-ranging access to sensitive US Treasury data, including the personal and private information of [state] citizens, to Elon Musk's so-called "Department of Government Efficiency." Musk is an unelected private citizen who has no legal right to access this data, and is engaging in extensive intimidation and coercion to fulfill his personal and harmful ideological agenda. The present and material harm that this causes to US citizens, [state] residents, and basic laws of government, privacy, and financial security is direct, unconscionable, and actionable. I strongly urge you, in your capacity as [state] Attorney General, to file direct suit against the Trump administration, Elon Musk, the "DOGE" office, and any identifiable individuals who have taken part in this action, in order to protect consumer data, citizen privacy, and basic faith and trust in government.

All the best,

[Qqueenofhades]

Short! To the point! Doesn't waste time, tells him what I want him to do, how Elmo's nonsense directly harms the residents of my state, and why he should take action to stop it! And frankly, given how on-the-ball blue-state AGs have been thus far, they're probably already working on it. You are very welcome to copy-and-paste this message and fill in your AG's last name and your state as appropriate. Super easy to do. Takes five minutes. Call tomorrow.

If you are in a red state, your voice is particularly important right now. The Trumpsters are counting on and are even emboldened by blue state pushback, but you really need to make it start coming from Republican strongholds. Congressional Republicans will only feel the slightest amount of unease about docilely enabling this BS when it starts threatening their own personal power. Hit them where it hurts.

Other lawsuits are coming. Marc Elias, Democratic lawyer extraordinaire, is well aware of this situation and has noted on Bluesky that more lawsuits are in the works. He often wins his cases. This does not mean that you shouldn't loudly make noise elsewhere, but please remember that this is one of those 24-hour periods where, as noted, they are counting on demoralizing you with a nonstop blizzard of bullshit. It does not say anything about how this will play out long-term or the opposition that can and will be mobilized to stop it.

Once again: courage. Take the small steps that you can do today. Then take a breath and get off social media for a little while. Try to take the long view. One step at a time, we will get through this.

Courage.

[sarahmackattack]

One last talent show to save the rec center

Ok everybody here's the deal.

My science education nonprofit, Skype a Scientist (you might know her, creator of the squid facts hotline and matcher of classrooms + scientists) has secured absolutely no grants to support general operations for 2025. But! We're selling advent calendars to fund our program! They absolutely rule. They can save our nonprofit asses. If we sell 5000, which I realize, is so many, we can fund our program for 2025. Then I can offer a bunch of programming for free. Running a nonprofit is a weird job.

Every day, counting down to frankly whatever you want (it's usually Christmas, but man, maybe you want to count down to Halloween, that's fine by me) scratch off the sparkly sparkly iridescence and reveal a fact about frogs! We have 24 top-notch frog facts here.

You should get one for every kid in your life, then get one for all the adults who still let themselves access joy in critters.

Get 'em here: https://squidfacts.bigcartel.com/

[rosemaryhoney27]

Phantom Manor

Danny had been through a lot. He’d been half-killed in a lab accident, gained ghost powers, and then been chased through the multiverse by a government that would’ve loved to dissect him like a frog in eighth-grade biology. So when the portal spat him out into this dimension—one packed with capes, cowls, metas, and aliens—he figured he’d finally caught a break.

No GIW agents. No Fenton parents shouting about ectoplasmic anomalies. No Skulker showing up to hunt him down in the middle of English class. Just... peace.

Well, almost.

The major snag? He was homeless. Again.

No ID, no money, and the last place he tried to haunt had been a warehouse with exactly three raccoons who did not appreciate his presence. He couldn’t go back to school, didn’t know how to get a job, and sleeping on rooftops got old fast, even for a ghost boy.

That was when Danny heard the most ridiculously useful rumor ever: Billionaire Bruce Wayne had a habit of adopting black-haired, blue-eyed children like it was a competitive sport.

And Danny? Well, he had black hair and blue eyes... at least half the time.

Good enough for government work.

So one night, in the dead of moonlight, Danny phased through the locked gates, passed the high-tech security system, and slipped straight into Wayne Manor. The place was huge, quiet, and oddly comfortable despite its bat-themed overtones. He didn’t even try to sneak around like a spy—he just floated through until he found an empty bedroom with a made bed, thick curtains, and a view of the garden.

He claimed it.

No one said anything.

So Danny just... stayed.

Danny didn’t mean to con anyone. It’s just that no one noticed him. He figured maybe there were already so many black-haired, blue-eyed kids around here that adding one more didn’t even make a blip on the radar. And since Jack and Maddie Fenton may not have taught their kids about interdimensional politics, they did make sure their kids had proper manners.

So, the first time he ate in the massive kitchen, he washed the dishes afterward. Alfred showed up just as Danny was drying the last fork, his sharp eyes watching from the doorway.

“...I see Master Grayson’s taste in midnight snacks has rubbed off on someone,” Alfred remarked.

Danny froze. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. Just thought I’d clean up after myself.”

The butler narrowed his eyes. Then nodded. “A rare instinct in this household. Continue.”

And from then on, it became a routine.

Danny helped in the kitchen. He helped clean the manor. He weeded the garden (phasing out any actual creepy-crawlies). He carried laundry baskets. He repaired a broken picture frame. When one of the Batmobiles needed a patch-up job on a fin, Danny phased into the engine and fixed it from the inside out while humming along to an old Ghostbusters theme remix.

Alfred was absolutely delighted with the newest, polite, respectful, and hard-working “Wayne.” Even if he had no earthly clue when exactly this young man had joined the family.

It took a few weeks before anyone realized something was off.

“Alfred,” Bruce said over breakfast one morning, “why is there an unfamiliar teenage boy pressure-washing the back patio with what looks like... green plasma?”

Alfred sipped his tea without looking up. “That’s Master Daniel. He’s been most helpful.”

“…We don’t have a Master Daniel.”

Alfred finally looked up, deadpan. “Master Bruce, I have tolerated you bringing home orphans like stray cats in the rain. The boy helps clean. He gardens. He fixed the coffee machine. I will not be chasing him out. Adopt him, give him a room, or be quiet about it.”

Bruce blinked. “...Fair.”

Meanwhile, Danny was just glad he hadn’t been blasted with a Batarang on sight.

He had a bed, food, quiet (well, relatively), and access to the Wayne library’s wi-fi. He was pretty sure Damian glared at him more than necessary and that Jason kept trying to figure out if Danny was secretly a zombie, but otherwise?

He was kind of fitting in.

At least until someone walked in on him halfway intangible while reaching through the fridge for leftover pie.

“…Master Daniel,” Alfred said from behind him, entirely unshaken. “If you are going to help with the silverware later, do remember to phase after you wash your hands.”

Danny, still half inside the fridge, stared.

“…Yes, sir.”

And thus, somehow, without anyone signing a single form or asking too many questions, Danny Fenton became the most ghostly Wayne sibling yet.

And honestly?

He was kinda cool with that.

[ot3]

isn't it interesting how infrequently covid comes up in discussions about the current generation of college students' work habits? pretty much everyone in the current crop of undergraduates was in high school during the quarantine and i can think of few things that would be as academically disillusioning in your formative years and set you up worse to continue your education.

you get ripped out of school at a critical point in your life because hundreds of thousands of people are dying all over the planet, are then left to try and tread water in your studies with the absolute bare minimum structural support, and are then subsequently forced to return with almost nothing to bridge that gap and the underlying knowledge that it actually may not even be safe for you to be attending class. and yet you're expected to just proceed as normal! and thats on top of all of the ways being a high schooler is already brutal and miserable. it is hard to imagine that would not have a significant

the post that prompted me to make this was going on an absolute tirade calling these kids stupid and lazy and accusing them of rotting their own brains with tiktok. they said one kid should be beaten with a bat. obviously i don't think that's an actionable threat im not trying to say theyre genuinely advocating violence against chatgpt users. but what they were genuinely advocating for was a return to analog schooling; no computers are phones in classes, all assignments handwritten. i'm against this for a myriad of accessibility reasons, but moreso than that, i just can not take any proposed solutions in good faith from people who are writing about the people they purportedly want to help with that much spite. i don't believe you actually want to empower people to learn i think you want to punish people for not learning and those are two completely different things.

man. school is fucking hard and like it or not a lot of people ARE there because they need to become employable, not because they want to be doing this. and it's not their fault things are set up in a way that often necessitates taking this path for even a modicum of financial security. i'm not really interested in any discussions of higher ed that are not even capable of extending an ounce of sympathy to those students too.

[richardmhicks]

Absolute Secure Access and IPv6

Absolute Secure Access (formerly NetMotion Mobility) is a premium enterprise secure remote access solution with deep user and application insight supporting Windows, Mac, iOS (iPhone and iPad), and Android devices. Although Absolute Secure Access supports IPv6 for remote network connections and client IP address assignment, the latter is not enabled by default. Administrators must make additional…

[ms-demeanor]

I've seen you say a few times that it's a good idea to have a password manager; could you explain why? I always feel like I'm missing something when it's mentioned because it's phrased as if there's an obvious danger that password managers protect you from, but I'm honestly not sure how they help keep passwords secure.

The obvious danger is human nature. Humans are bad at creating passwords; your passwords are almost certainly easy to guess, repeated across different accounts, or both, because that is just how the vast VAST majority of people create passwords, because humans are bad at creating passwords. Everybody knows "the rules" for creating passwords (don't use the same password on multiple websites, don't include personal details in your passwords, don't use very common words or letter or number sequences in your passwords, don't tell other people your password) and people break all of those rules anyway.

A standalone (not in-browser like firefox or chrome password manager, though those are better than nothing) password manager stores your passwords, generates complex passwords for you, and can also be used for things like storing notes on passwords (like "did I put my MFA on my email or my cellphone or an app for this password?" or "here are the made-up answers to the security questions I used for this website because I definitely didn't use real answers or answers I'd used on previous websites" or "these are the bills associated with this credit card").

With the way the current security landscape works, there are two things that are extremely important when you are creating a password:

Uniqueness

Complexity

The overwhelmingly prevalent way that people get "hacked" these days is through credential stuffing.

Let's say that your private data was revealed in the Experian breach a decade ago. It revealed your name, email address, and phone number. Now let's also say that your private data was revealed in one of the many breaches from social media sites; that one revealed your name, email address, phone number, password, and security questions.

If someone wants to try to gain access to one of your accounts - let's say your bank account - if they have your name and phone number (usually extremely easy to find online), they can cross-reference that information with data that has been revealed in previous breaches - now they've got your name and your email address (which you probably used to sign up for your online banking and have ABSOLUTELY used as your login for accounts all over the place) and at least one password that you've used somewhere.

But the thing is, they don't have one password. They have every password associated with that email address that has ever been revealed in a breach. If you go to the site haveibeenpwned.com you can enter your email and see how many times your email address has appeared in a breach. You can compare that with the number of passwords that were revealed in those breaches and you can ask yourself "what did those passwords have in common?"

Because I can tell you, my Tumblr password from 2013, my Kickstarter password from 2014, and my Disqus password from 2017 (all revealed in various breaches) probably had a lot in common.

So, now the hacker has: your name, your email (which is probably your username), and various passwords they can try to use to log in. Did you use the same password for Facebook and Twitter eight years ago? Did you use parts of that password for creating your bank password? If you heard that twitter passwords were exposed in a breach you probably changed that password, but did you change the bank password that you built on the same structure? Probably not.

So what people will do is gather up all of this information and guess. They'll try your 2017 Disqus password to see if it will get access to your bank account. They'll try your 2020 Gravatar password. They'll try your 2024 Internet Archive Password.

And the reason they do this is because it works.

And the reason that it works is because we are all fucking garbage at remembering unique, complex passwords so instead of creating actually unique, complex passwords most people pick one memorable word or phrase, one memorable number, one unusual character, and *MAYBE* one feature of the site they're creating the login for and they use that template forever (1988Tumblrmacabre!, 1988Facebookmacabre!, 1988Ticketmastermacabre!) OR they create one password that they think is complex enough and use it across multiple sites with minor tweaks ($n0h0mi$hRu13z, sn0h0mishRul13z!, $n0h0mi$hWA) as needed for the sites' password requirements.

So most of what password managers do that is a drastic security improvement over people creating and memorizing passwords is that they create passwords that are functionally impossible to guess and functionally impossible to memorize. The problem with memorizing passwords (which is what you're doing if you're creating a bunch of passwords that you type in all the time) is that you can't actually remember all that many passwords so you'll repeat those passwords. The problem with creating passwords on your own is that passwords that humans create are pretty guessable. Even if you're doing a passphrase that's a long string of words you're probably working with common words ("correct horse battery staple" as opposed to "truculent zygote onomatopoeia frangible") and your password is more guessable than you'd really want it to be. Password managers don't do that, they generate gibberish.

Perhaps you are that rare person who gets out a set of dice and a notepad and rolls up every character for your password and memorizes it and never repeats, and if that's you, you could still benefit from a password manager because a password manager makes it easier to change that unique complex password when it is inevitably revealed in a breach.

So, okay, let's check in with where we're at:

Password managers mean that you don't have to memorize your password, which means that you don't need a password that is easy to memorize, which means that they can create passwords that are extremely complex and are therefore very difficult to guess. This protects you from crackers who will try to brute force your password.

Password managers mean that you don't have to remember extremely complex passwords for every account, which means that you are less likely to repeat your password in whole or in part across multiple accounts. This protects you from credential stuffers, who will try to use your password from one account that was revealed in a breach to open other accounts that were not.

Because password managers can generate and store complex passwords essentially instantly, you can replace passwords nearly effortlessly when there is a breach (no need to 'come up with' a new password, no issues with learning or memorizing it).

There are, however, advantages beyond that.

One major, MAJOR advantage of a properly-used standalone password manager is that it makes you safer from various kinds of phishing attempts and link hijacking. When you are setting up a password in your password manager (PWM from here on), you should be on the website that you want to log in to. The PWM will give you the option to save the domain that you're logging in to. That means the PWM will remember the correct URL for your Tumblr login so when you go to the tumblr login screen in the future, it will offer to fill those fields. What it will NOT do is offer to fill those fields if someone sends you an email that spoofs tumblr support and wants you to log in at "tumblr.co" or "tumblr-support.com." Knowing this, and knowing that you should be putting your credentials in through the PWM fill option rather than copy/paste, is a GREAT way to protect against phishing that is often overlooked and definitely under-discussed.

Another advantage is that a standalone PWM will let you store secure notes with your passwords so that you can do things like keep track of recovery codes for the website, or generate gibberish answers to security questions. Security questions and answers are often revealed in breaches, can't be reset by the user as easily as a password, are repeated across websites MUCH more than passwords, and can be used to take over an account and reset the password. You shouldn't be giving real security answers, or even fake-but-repeated security answers; you should treat each of those like a password that needs to be complex and unique, which means that they need to be stored someplace (like a password manager).

I also personally use my password manager to store my car insurance information, my driver's license info, and payment details for easy entry, making it convenient for a lot of thing beyond password storage. (Bitwarden. My password manager is bitwarden. I recommend Bitwarden. go to ms-demeanor.com and search "bitwarden" to learn more.)

As to how they keep your passwords safe, aside from ensuring that you don't enter your credentials into a skimming site, a good password manager is well encrypted. Your password safe should be functionally impossible to crack and what people tend to not realize is that a proper password manager (like bitwarden) doesn't keep all your passwords in one encrypted safe, each one of your passwords is in its own encrypted safe. If someone hacks Bitwarden it's not like using a huge amount of effort breaking into a bank vault and finding a big pile of money, it's like using a huge amount of effort breaking into a bank vault and finding a big pile of bank vaults. Each password within your vault requires decryption that is functionally impossible to crack (at least with a good password manager, like bitwarden, the password manager I recommend and think that people should use).

Additionally, just as, like, a side note: password managers never accidentally leave caps lock on or forget which characters are capital or lower case and don't require the use of two hands and focused attention on the keyboard. You're never going to mistype your password if the password manager is filling it, and you would not believe the number of people we support at work who require password resets because they are typing their password wrong and don't realize it.

TL;DR:

Password managers make better passwords than you can and they make it possible to instantly create, store, and enter complex passwords, which prevents password cracking and makes people less likely to reuse passwords. They are heavily encrypted and should be functionally impossible to access, and each individual password within the manager should also be encrypted if you use a good password manager. Password managers also prevent people from entering their credentials on scam sites by only filling on matched domains. Standalone password managers (not browser password managers) also allow users to create and store unique security questions and account details to prevent bad actors from gaining access with stolen security answers. The password manager I recommend is Bitwarden.

If people used password managers to create, store, and use unique and complex passwords, and if they did regular backups of their system I think that probably about half of the InfoSec field would be out of a job.

Please use a password manager!

[plumipal]

The Tattoo (part three)

After scarabias overblot, and seeing what Ace and Deuce were willing to do for you, you were so touched that you decided to get them tattooed on your body as a small heart and a spade. After that chaos ensues-

If you wanna read the whole prolouge, then it's here

Oh poor Idia, where do we even start for him?... poor guy is absolutely shattered as soon as he saw those two tattoos on you through the cameras. He felt his entire reason to live just shatter. He feels his entire world collapsing in on itself. He completely just, breaks down, sobbing to himself on the floor trying to rationalise how the tattoos were not real, to try to keep his sanity in tact.

The days after that disastrous breakdown, he has been stuck in bed, too depressed to frankly do anything but to sulk. He had not eaten, not drank enough, and his personal hygiene is downright awful.

Once Ortho has convinced him to get up because crowley demanded him to actually attend his classes or it's byebye NRC for Idia, his pity for himself has turned into rage. Whenever he sees the dumb duo he can't help but to want to do anything against them, he sure would LOVE to doxx them...

But after some reconciderence from Ortho (statistics show he would be one of the top suspects for it and therefore make the prefect hate him even more (he believes)) he instead chose to take care of himself, putting actual effort in how he looks as to win you over with that. He sure hope it works, please...

Don't think ortho is just hyping up his brother, cuz he is sure helping on the sidelines. Digging up info the students don't want anyone to know abour sure is easy when you have unlimited internet access (and some illegal ways to obtain the info)

That's the easy way of getting students away from you, but getting you trapped up with them is almost just as easy. He starts calling you his siblings as well, subtly telling you how you and idia would be the greatest siblings ever to him, even backing up and glorifying hos brother in your eyes, anything it takes to get you to chose idia.... you will all be a happy family....

Sebek, for once in his life, is stunned to silence. He cant quite grapple the thoughts and feelings swirling within him is making him feel quite sick, making him quiet for the rest of the day..

Once classes has ended, he bolts over to his dorm only to dramatically lock himself in his dorm room and let out the worst crying session ever. He is sobbing,

The whole ordeal and emotions results in him having the need to constantly watch over you, as a way to show that he too can protect you, he can be there for you, just like ace and Deuce, but better! Please, he needed you, he needs you to need him too, please...

Silver don't quite know what to think about this. He cant blame you, the heroic stunts of your friends sure are nice, but why with something so permanent? He could do what they did and so much more for you, give him an opportunity and he will show you.

After "the talk" the four of them had, he has had a hard time sleeping for the first time in his life. He feels exhausted yet can't close his eyes, pictures of you happily being with ace and Deuce clouding his poor exhausted brain. He will take this on the only way he knows, a duel for your love and your hand.

You're not dumb either, you see how tired he had been and the lack of sleep he has been getting, and feeling bad for him you let him sleep on tou if that would help him. He takes this opportunity and sure is greedy with it, wanting more and more sleep time with you. It's one way to claim you, and at the moment it's enough for him, but don't think he won't demand more in the soon future..

Lilia feels heartbroken. First that the prefect, his beloved, has shown this love that he would love to have for someone else (especially two people), it breaks his heart. What breaks his heart even more is how he needs to go against his own sons for his beloved too. But he will do whatever it takes to secure you for himself.

When he meets you after hearing about the tattoo, he tries act as normal as possible, not wanting to scare you away with his desperation. Despite that though, he will also try to advance, because he is NOT losing to all these youngsters, he's old enough to know exactly how to treat someone right. Let him treat your right, please, he begs of you....

Malleus feels like there's a storm inside him, getting worse by every second he thinks about that forsaken tattoo you have. He activately tries to think less about it, not wanting the whole school to be stuck in a storm for weeks, especially when you're situated in that poor awful old and decrepid building. He will try to smite ace and Deuce if he has the choise to though-

After the anger dies down, that's when the sadness flows in. The fact that he was not your favorite, that he was not worth his own tattoo, frankly brings him to tears. He has never been denied something in his life, especially something that he wants so badly. It's a foreign feeling, and a horrible one at that.

He is an attention hungry dragon, give him what he wants and he will give you the world without question. Just, please, give him the love and affection he both crave and deserves...

Chat, im tired. Let me sleep- FINALLY THIS SERIES IS FINISHED! or so I thought- o will focus on other comics/ideas before I come back for the endings tho, because I kinda wanna do other stuff and not just the tattoo shenanigans yknow :) one again huge thanks to @artdolliewishes for lots of support and help lmao

I hope yall enjoyed this shitshow of a series atleast, was lots of fun to create after all

[teaboot]

So brief update: im the financially abused kid.

I've been asking my mom to let me have access to my account for quite a while now and every time she says we'll do it later. And i asked her right now, she's not doing anything, and she says "you'll get it later, it doesn't change anything if you don't get it right this second" in that Tone that is very much not convincing me. So uhh

The repliers' fear of her using my money starts sounding more realistic 😬 or at least it's platant that she's allergic to letting me have an opinion and agency

I know yall have wanted me to go to the bank directly, i just thought that maybe i could convince her, and talking to strangers is very scary and i dont even know all the terms like what do i even say or demand or convince them with if i dont even know what the difference between a credit and a debit card is?

But it's monday tomorrow and i Could go to the bank. If i end up doing something she'll certainly me mad at me

Go to the bank. Absolutely go to the bank. If you have a rough estimate of how much SHOULD be in your account, compare off that. If it’s clear she’s been taking money out, ask if you can freeze it- if you can’t access your money anyways it shouldn’t slow your roll too badly. Then ask whoever you speak with first advice of where you can go from there.

If they aren’t helpful, come in another day to speak with a different employee, and if they suck too, you can make a full withdrawal and open an account somewhere else eventually.

If she’s draining your account, you can’t freeze it, and you don’t expect her to stop, I’d consider quitting your job until you’re old enough to secure your own private account in dependant of her access.

Don’t worry about not knowing enough. Banks work with the public- odds are any experienced employee will have worked with the elderly, folks with memory issues, young people like yourself, people with disabilities and people who also experience financial abuse. A good bank colleague in this context should be the financial equivalent to a librarian in some ways- if they don’t know something they should at least be able to direct you elsewhere that does.

Another important thing:

If you find she HAS been spending from your account, ask to see the spending history, and ask if they can find any connection to a credit card, or if you can find out if your name has been used to get one.

If your mother’s credit history isn’t great and she’s willing to steal or “”borrow without permission”” from you NOW, there’s valid reason to suspect she may attempt to get cards under your name. As a person with no credit history, your credit would be better than anyone who’s had derogatory claims in the past and- you know what, I’m over explaining. Just something to consider and to talk to a professional about.

If it’s more about control than theft or fraud, that’s still incredibly shitty and certainly financial abuse, but it’s more straightforward. You will age out of her complete control, and then you change your passwords and PIN number and keep her out of it.

So, summary: Go to bank. Bring ID, like a provincial ID (? Im not American and i dont know if you are) driver’s license, passport, school ID if they take that, bring a list of questions, bring your estimate of how much you should have, and if it’s low, ask about checking into your credit score or credit cards attached to it.

It sounds scary, but just be polite and up front about feeling out of your depth and things should go well.

It is a lot to be dealing with, though. I’m sorry it’s something you have going on. Rooting for you

[motorsportbarbie13]

Whispers & Guesses

In which Max lets the news of his secret relationship with you slip out of jealousy.

Warnings: nothing Pairing: Max Verstappen x Singer!Reader Word count: 1.3k words

Shoutout to @shelbyteller for sliding into my DMs with this idea. Inspired by the song ‘Guess’ by Charli xcx and Billie Eilish. This was SO FUN to write omg 🤭 and happy Christmas to all those who celebrate!!

Master List

You were used to the whispers that followed you. The questions that weren't meant to reach your ears, meant to stir up gossip were just part of your life. You had gotten used to people talking about you years ago. You had to or else all of the gossip and rumors would eat you alive.

Nearly ten years into your singing career, with almost 15 Grammy's to your name, the whispers about your weight, your outfits, your hair? They all just rolled off your back. None of it affected you anymore.

So when you walked into the paddock on Sunday morning at Silverstone as one of the celebrity guests, the whispers that followed you didn't even make you to miss a step. It seemed as if people were confused at your presence here, especially since you were in the middle of the European leg of your aptly titled 'Whispers & Guesses' tour.

To the outside world, you were in the paddock as Red Bull's guest just like any other celebrity but those closest to you knew better. You weren't just there to watch a Formula 1 race, you were there to watch your boyfriend race for the first time since you'd started dating him earlier in the year.

You hadn't meant to fall in love with Max Verstappen and you certainly hadn't meant to fall in love with him so quickly but sometimes things don't work out the way you plan for them to. It had all started right after the New Year when Max had treated his sister and mom to VIP box tickets to your concert in Amsterdam.

Your assistant had coordinated a quick meet and greet with the Dutch driver and his family before the concert and you had been stopped in your tracks when you first laid eyes on the Dutch driver. You'd never even heard Max's name before, didn't know how legendary he was in the racing world. You no idea he was a 3 time world Champion and you certainly had never even watched a F1 race but the moment he looked at you with those icy blue eyes, mouth hitching up in that signature lopsided grin, you had been an absolute goner for him.

Max, on the other hand, knew exactly who you were and if he had been pressed, he would have been forced to admit that the meet and greet he had pushed for had been more for his benefit than his niece's. You'd secretly topped his Spotify Wrapped list for the last three years running, although if anyone saw that he'd blame the fact that he shared an account with Victoria and she was a huge fan.

What started out as simple infatuation turned into clandestine meetings carefully coordinated by your entire team as both you and Max wanted to keep the budding romance as quiet as possible for as long as you could. Secret flights for you into Nice to sneak into Monaco on weeks Max wasn't racing were thrilling and when that wouldn't work, Max would charter his plane to find you wherever you were in the world. It was difficult and honestly, not an ideal way to start a relationship but the chemistry between you and Max was undeniable. You both had decided early on that whatever was happening between you two was worth exploring and worth the extra work that it took to spend the precious free time you both had.

You had wanted to see a race for months now but it had posed quite the security headache since access to the paddock was kind of played fast and loose sometimes. The head of security at Silverstone had taken a particular interest in making sure that things were secure for you and after several meetings with your team and theirs that lasted multiple hours, it had finally been enough for your head of security to agree to let you attend.

It had been a complete surprise when you turned up at Silverstone Sunday morning, no one but Red Bull's PR team had known you were even considering coming to the race. As you walked through the paddock with your best friend Alice and PR manager Ginny, the whispers kicked up and only intensified when you 'accidentally' ran into Max where he was stood with Lando and Charles in front of the Red Bull garages.

"Max, it's so good to see you again." You say, pretending that you two don't know each other beyond that time you had met at your concert earlier in the year. When Max had made the request to Red Bull's PR team, he said that you had mentioned at the meet and greet all those months ago that you wanted to attend a race and your schedule had finally lined up.

"I'm so glad your schedule finally opened up to come see me at work." He says, enjoying the role you're both playing in front of everyone else, knowing that you're going to be in his bed later that night.

Introductions are made with you and Alice spending quite a bit of time chatting with the drivers. Lando flirts shamelessly with you, not knowing that your heart already belongs to his friend standing next to him instead. Max thinks it's cute, how Lando thinks he has a chance.

"Ok, ladies, we've got to get over to the hospitality suite before the race." Ginny says eventually.

You give all three drivers quick hugs and wish them good luck, Max's arms holding you just a beat longer than Charles and Lando. "Come back to me safe and sound, okay?" You whisper, mind drifting to that awful crash Max had gotten into with Lewis a few years ago. You had happened upon footage of the crash late one night when you were lonely in a hotel room and Max had been half way across the world at a race. It had scared you half to death and you hadn't been able to watch a race the same since.

Max simply nods, resisting the urge to press a kiss to your forehead. "Always, schatje." He whispers back, voice low so only you can hear him.

All three men watch you saunter away, hips swaying with each step.

Lando catches his fist in his mouth and groans. "God, I love when you can just see the little bits of lace peeking out under their clothes like that."

"And the little sliver of skin? Did you see that tattoo on her lower back just barely making an appearance?" Charles can't take his eyes off your retreating frame either.

Max isn't usually much of a jealous man but the way his friends are talking about you has something burning hotly in his chest. He works to keep his mouth shut as Lando continues to chatter on about you.

"Do you think it's a matching set? The strap I saw was navy...I bet it's a matching set." Lando mutters as he rubs his hand over his jaw.

"It is." Max says simply, hands tucked casually in his pockets. He nearly laughs when both Charles and Lando whip their heads around so fast it's a miracle neither of them snap their necks.

"How...What?" Charles stammers.

"It's a matching set." His tone implies that he knows something that the 2 other drivers don't. "Navy lace with one of those little red bows right in the middle" He points in the middle of his chest as a visual aid.

Lando's jaw is on the floor as he tries to figure out the implications of what Max has just said. Max simply smirks, allowing Charles and Lando to put two and two together on their own.

"I'm not saying your wrong, mate but like, how the fuck do you know?" Lando asks, voice heavy with confusion.

"Well, I picked the set out this morning when she woke up in my bed." Max has to stifle a laugh when Charles' jaw joins Lando's on the floor. "And it's the set I bought for her a few weeks ago when we were in Japan."

With a shrug, Max claps both men on the back and turns away without another word, wandering towards the garage before pulling out his phone to text you about what just happened.

Tag list: @formulaal @martygraciesversion381 @longhairkoo @samantha-chicago @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland @chlmtfilms @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @sltwins @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @strawberryy-kiwii @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @eloriis @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @bibissparkles @llando4norris @chelseyyouraverageluigi @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @imlonelydontsendhelp @nina-or-anna-or-nora @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama

[dollyswishingwell]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Clingy

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ very cute very fluffy

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You’re both so lovey dovey even in public

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The restaurant is five stars, of course, perched on the edge of a cliffside just a short drive from your seaside estate. The reservation was made under a fake name (Rafayel refused to let paparazzi or his manager find you tonight), and the entire upper balcony has been reserved just for the two of you. There are flowers on the table, and soft candlelight flickering, but you barely even look at the decor. You’re far too busy clinging to your husband like a lovestruck kitten.

He doesn’t sit across from you like normal couples would. No, Raf slides right into the booth beside you, body turned in so he can pull your legs onto his lap and sling an arm around your waist. You’re practically curled against him in your baby pink lace dress, your lashes fluttering as you giggle and cling to his arm, your freshly manicured nails tracing slow little hearts on the back of his hand.

“Mmm… you’re so extra cute tonight, pearlie,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek. “i’m not complaining.”

You beam up at him, all flushed and twinkly-eyed. “You think so? You’re so warm… I’m cold. You’re my husband so you have to warm me up.” You nuzzle his jaw, voice sugary-sweet. “You’re basically my hot water bottle.”

“Tch.” Rafayel laughs under his breath, his lips twitching into a smug little grin. “So needy. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He leans in to press another kiss to your cheek, and you scrunch your nose up with a little whine when he refuses to stop, smattering soft kisses all over your face while you giggle and try to hide your face in his chest.

People at nearby tables are staring. Of course they are. Some are stunned, others are flat-out seething. They recognize Rafayel, he’s that Rafayel. The elusive young prodigy who paints like a god, rarely seen in public with anyone but his manager. And here he is now, all silver cufflinks and expensive cologne, absolutely wrapped around his wife like you’re spun sugar and he’ll die without you.

“She’s so pretty… no way that’s his wife,” someone whispers.

“She’s got him trained.”

You hear every word, and so does Raf. But does he care? Not even a little.

“I should kiss you again,” he purrs low in your ear, ignoring the waiter politely clearing his throat in the background. “Let them watch.”

“Rafayel,” you whisper, scandalized and delighted all at once.

“Mmhm. You love it when they’re jealous, baby. Don’t lie.” He picks up your wine glass for you, bringing it to your lips like you’re royalty. “You wanna feed each other next? Really rub it in?”

And you’re giggling again, absolutely glowing, curled up in his lap with the whole world watching, Rafayel’s spoilt, pampered wife, too adored to ever care what anyone else thinks.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

It’s a private reservation at the finest restaurant in the city, perched high above the sea, only accessible by a winding mountain road and a discreet black car driven by Zayne’s most trusted security aide. Of course. You’re the wife of Dr. Zayne, the heart surgeon everyone in the medical world either fears, envies, or worships. And tonight, you’re not just his wife, you’re his world.

He doesn’t sit across from you. He never does anymore. As soon as you’re seated at the plush velvet booth by the window, Zayne smoothly slides in right beside you, setting his arm on the back of your seat and guiding you in closer with a hand on your thigh.

You’re already giggling as you cling to his arm, your cheek smushed affectionately against his shoulder. You’re dressed in a soft, creamy silk dress with bows at the sleeves, and every time you glance up at him with that playful sparkle in your eye, Zayne melts just a little.

“Should I be worried?” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “You’ve been attached to my arm since we left the estate.”

You nuzzle closer, all sweet and smug. “You sat next to me instead of across from me. That’s dangerous, Doctor.”

He huffs a soft breath, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he presses another kiss to your cheek, then another just beneath your ear. “I should’ve known better,” he murmurs lowly, eyes sharp with restrained fondness. “Spoiling you has consequences.”

You just giggle again and whisper, “You love it.”

And he does. He really, really does.

Your hand is wrapped around his forearm, perfectly manicured fingers tracing little circles into the fabric of his black dress shirt. Your legs are crossed beneath the table, brushing against his. You’re beaming up at him like he hung the moon, and Zayne, ever composed, ever cold to the world, is absolutely undone in your presence.

The waitstaff pretends not to notice. The other patrons do their best to glance discreetly. But people know who he is. They know what kind of man Zayne is, disciplined, untouchable, too focused on perfection to waste time on emotion. So to see him like this? Kissing his wife’s cheek every few minutes, feeding you from his plate, wiping away a crumb with the gentlest thumb to your lip?

It drives them mad.

“Is that really him?”

Zayne hears it. He always hears it.

But instead of reacting, he just smiles softly against your temple, his voice low and serious.

“Let them talk. You’re mine,” he says. “And I’ll sit beside you for the rest of our lives if it means I get to feel you like this.”

You beam, heart fluttering.

“And when we get home,” he adds, brushing a finger beneath your chin, “I’ll make sure you stay this happy for the rest of the night.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The restaurant is cloud-level, literally. Nestled atop one of Linkon’s floating towers, suspended by anti-grav beams and accessible only by private aircar, the entire place gleams with luxury. Glass walls shimmer with golden light, giving a panoramic view of the starscape and bustling skyline below.

But none of that matters to you. Because your husband, Xavier, is sitting right next to you, and that’s all you care about.

You cling to his arm like a koala, cheeks puffed and eyes bright with laughter, your frilly pastel dress spilling into his lap as you lean into him.

“You always sit beside me instead of across from me,” you coo teasingly, brushing your fingers over his silver cuff. “People are starting to think we’re obsessed with each other.”

Xavier blinks slowly, like you just told him water is wet. “…We are,” he says blankly, in that soft monotone only you can translate into affection.

You giggle and squeeze his arm tighter. “You’re obsessed with me,” you tease. “Just admit it.”

He tilts his head, like he’s seriously thinking about it. Then, without warning, he kisses your forehead. Gently. Then your cheek. Then your other cheek. Then your forehead again.

You squeal, squirming and laughing, “Xaviiiiii!”

“You’re warm,” he mumbles as if that’s an explanation, nuzzling into your cheek like a sleepy cat.

Across the restaurant, people stare. Not because they recognize Xavier as the quiet, high-ranking hunter who never smiles in public… but because he looks soft. Like a prince from a fairytale who’s completely lost in his pretty little wife.

“She looks like she hasn’t let go of his arm since they sat down…”

You catch every word. So does Xavier.

He just blinks lazily at them, then leans in close and whispers, “I’ll kiss you more if they keep staring.”

You gasp, flustered. “You wouldn’t—!”

He absolutely would.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, pressing a final kiss to the tip of your nose before handing you your drink like a devoted little servant. “Let them stare. They’re not sitting next to you. I am.”

You melt instantly, snuggling into his chest, so deeply content that you barely even touch your food.

“…Do you want to feed me?” he asks after a few minutes, out of nowhere.

You turn to him, eyes wide and sparkly. “Xavi, do you want me to feed you?”

“…Yes,” he admits. Quietly. Like a shy little confession.

And now you’re both giggling like lovesick teens, pressed up together while the entire restaurant watches the famously unreadable hunter be absolutely owned by his pretty, spoiled wife.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

The restaurant is dimly lit and decadent, somewhere impossible to get a reservation unless your name carries weight. And Sylus? His name levels cities. The maître d’ practically bowed when you both arrived, leading you past rows of stiff, silent elite to the most private, most exclusive booth on the upper floor, where you and Sylus now sit… or rather, cuddle.

He didn’t even pretend to sit across from you. He slid in right beside you with the smooth confidence of a man who owns the world, tugging you close until your thighs were pressed together and his arm was slung behind you. You, in your dainty designer dress with bows and ribbons and diamond clips in your hair, are glued to his side like a glittery little shadow.

Your giggles are soft and constant. You keep making silly little comments, whispering jokes into his ear, and Sylus, the cruel, calculating genius who commands black-market syndicates with a twitch of his finger, is just… laughing.

Real, warm, stunned little laughs under his breath.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, utterly charmed, his crimson eyes shining like molten ruby as he leans in and brushes his lips against the tip of your nose. “Do you just… wake up thinking of ways to be adorable?”

You hide your face against his shoulder, squealing softly. “Stoppp, I’m being serious!! It was funny!”

“It wasn’t,” he says, smirking. “But it was cute.”

You pout, dramatically lifting his hand and placing it over your heart. “You wound me.”

“And yet you’re still clinging to me,” he hums, curling a finger under your chin. “Shameless little thing.”

The staff pretends not to notice. The other diners, politicians, corporate moguls, underworld royalty, try very hard not to gawk. But they do. Because Sylus never shows emotion. He’s known for his brilliance and cruelty, not softness.

And here he is now, laughing with his wife. Kissing her nose. Smiling like he hasn’t seen war. Like the world is fine because you’re next to him.

“She’s practically on his lap—!”

“Wait. Is he laughing?”

Sylus hears it. Of course he does.

But he just leans in closer, thumb stroking your cheek gently. “Do another one,” he murmurs with a crooked grin. “Tell me another joke. Say something ridiculous again. I wanna see if I laugh harder.”

“You’re so annoying,” you whisper, melting in his arms, your laughter soft and lovesick.

“You married me,” he teases, dropping another soft kiss to your nose like he can’t help himself. “Now suffer.”

And you’re both giggling like it’s not a cold, terrifying world. Like you’re not the prettiest, most spoiled thing he’s ever obsessed over. Like he wouldn’t level the restaurant if anyone made you frown.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The restaurant is nestled high above Skyhaven in one of the floating garden domes, reserved exclusively for military elite. No civilians. No press. Just power, silence, and glass walls that overlook the entire twinkling city below.

But the only thing you can focus on… is him.

Your Colonel husband, Caleb, sits right beside you in the plush half-moon booth, his military coat folded neatly beside him. His sleeves are rolled up now, strong forearms on full display, veins tracing up beneath his golden skin. He smells like leather and clean soap and the faint scent of his command ship. And you? You’re absolutely melting.

You’re in a soft, lacey dress, pink, of course, and you’re clinging to his arm like a starved kitten. His free hand is on your bare thigh, rubbing slow, warm circles to keep you warm, and you’re practically buzzing with how cozy and protected you feel.

“You’re cold,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss your cheek softly. “Did I bring you out without enough layers again?”

You pout dramatically and snuggle closer, wrapping both arms around his bicep like it’s a plushie. “It’s your fault for having arms this warm. Now I need them.”

He chuckles lowly, so fond, so hopeless for you. “You just like an excuse to sit in my lap.”

You gasp, mock offended. “You say that like it’s not the best seat in the house.”

He grins. Then picks up his fork, spears a perfect bite of your favorite dish, and gently holds it to your lips. “Eat, pips. You’ve been clinging to me for ten minutes and haven’t touched a thing.”

You obediently open your mouth, letting him feed you like the spoiled little housewife you are, eyes fluttering shut as he rubs your thigh slow under the table.

“Mmh… you’re gonna ruin me,” you sigh dramatically, cuddling back into his chest. “Big strong husband, warm hands, feeding me like a princess. I’m gonna pass away.”

That earns a soft, helpless laugh from him. He presses another kiss to your temple. “I like spoiling you.”

You tilt your head up, gazing at him with sparkly, love-drunk eyes. “I love your arms. I think I could survive winter with just your arms and your lap.”

“I’ll keep you warm forever,” he murmurs, brushing his lips across your forehead like a promise.

Around the restaurant, a few officers and generals glance over, surprised to see the Colonel Caleb, known for his sharp discipline and war-born silence, feeding his wife by hand, rubbing her thighs, whispering soft things into her ear like she’s the only person left on Earth.

“She’s gorgeous…”

But Caleb doesn’t even hear them. Or rather, he does, but you’re the only thing that matters.

“You’re shivering,” he murmurs, already slipping his coat over your shoulders. “I’ll keep you warm when we get home too.”

You sigh dreamily, cradling his arm and whispering, “I’m so in love with you.”

And Caleb, expression softening for only you, leans in close and kisses your lips, slow and deep, murmuring back against your mouth:

“I know. And I’ll never let you go.”

[darkmatilda]

𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: while working on the case and watching a certain profiler with pretty eyes and a well-tailored coat, you overhear some local cops badmouthing him — and before you know it, you decide to put them in their place.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, unpleasant comments about spencer’s looks and behavior, diva is so diva he should marry her right now fr and hold my hand while i say this and don’t panic joke about morgan's baldness...

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 1.8k

𝐚/𝐧: request | i was too much of a lazy bitch to make a header sorry i hope his pretty face makes up for it xx

“How are you feeling out in the field?”

Morgan addressed you with his arms loosely crossed over his chest and a slightly teasing expression on his face. You slowly shifted your gaze to him.

“Absolutely fantastic,” you replied flatly, adjusting your grip on the handle of the umbrella resting against your side. Through the tree canopies spreading above your heads, patches of gray clouds broke through, now and then releasing a few drops as a warning of the real downpour to come. “I love nature.”

He nodded ironically, clearly unconvinced.

“Of course,” he said. “Do you love the mud on your boots too?”

Almost exactly as those words left his mouth, several large raindrops tapped against his FBI jacket, followed immediately by more, falling with even greater intensity. Your friend raised his eyes to the sky, pressing his lips together in displeasure. Rainy weather always made working at a crime scene harder—securing the body and protecting biological and chemical evidence. And collecting the latter was already challenging given the location: a truly remote, densely overgrown spot in the forest, impossible to access by police vehicles. Those had been left at the end of the forest path, as far in as they could get, and you’d been led to the exact place where the latest victim of the serial killer had been found by local officers.

“I’m about to have mud on my boots,” you remarked, already imagining what would happen to the already damp ground after even just a few minutes of such heavy rain. The conditions you encountered had been predictable, so you had chosen footwear suited to them—stylish boots that also perfectly complemented the rest of your outfit. But then again, that was nothing unusual. Even if you had to evacuate during a volcanic eruption, you’d grab something you wouldn’t be ashamed to have melted into your skin by lava.

You opened the umbrella, which had until then been resting with its tip on the ground. Derek took a step toward you, premature gratitude written all over his face—so you stepped back instead, the corners of your mouth curling up mischievously.

“What? Worried about your hair?”

Morgan shook his bald head from side to side, sighing.

“You little witch—”

“Morgan!”

Hotch’s voice called out to you from a not particularly great distance. Even he—who normally never parted with his suit—was now wearing a brown fleece with a high collar and was currently overseeing the setup of a police tent over the recovered body to protect it from the rain.

Derek gave you a nod in farewell, ending the brief chat, but you didn’t even follow him with your eyes. Your gaze remained fixed in Hotch’s direction—or more precisely, on the member of his team who had just approached him. What immediately caught your attention was that Reid was wearing a very well-tailored coat (a detail that made you purse your lower lip in approval, because well tailored coats did have something about them), and he had just begun explaining something, as usual gesturing animatedly with his hands—now covered in blue rubber gloves, lightly dusted with dark soil.

Focused on whatever fascinating theory or analysis he was sharing, he seemed completely unaware of at least half of his gestures, absentmindedly rubbing his chin with the dirty glove in concentration—naturally leaving a mark on his skin.

You rolled your eyes at the sight, but there was something surprisingly gentle in that gesture. You turned the handle of the umbrella in your hand, which also rested on your shoulder—and then the corner of your ear caught a scrap of conversation happening behind your back. Even without turning your head, just by slightly focusing your hearing, you could tell it was coming from two of the local officers also present at the scene.

“Where do you think they even dug him up from?” asked the first male voice mockingly.

“Which one?” the second sounded confused, but a moment later let out a derisive snort. “Alright, don’t even tell me. I already know who you mean.”

Laughter. Real kings of comedy, truly.

“I wonder what he’s even doing in the FBI. I mean, they’ve got to have some kind of fitness tests, right? What’s a beanpole like that even good for?”

“I’ll tell you what he’s good for—pissing everyone off with his babbling. Just look at the other guy’s face.”

Following the suggestion, you looked at the other guy’s face. That, of course, meant Hotch’s face—there was no doubt who the first part of that pathetic, taxpayer-funded conversation had been about. You studied the BAU chief’s expression more closely and didn’t detect a hint of irritation or weariness at whatever Spencer was explaining to him. Hotch simply looked like Hotch.

Your observation was interrupted by the approach of one of your team members, the hood of her raincoat pulled tightly around her head and her glasses nearly completely covered in rain.

“We’re going to have to go back to the car for the equipment,” she informed you, adjusting her glasses on her nose with a sigh the moment she looked toward the path you had come from earlier. That meant quite a bit of walking through muddy terrain, carrying rather heavy items—always packed in sturdy cases for safety reasons.

A certain thought popped into your head, and with a smile creeping onto your lips, you calmed Olivia with a wave of your hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said. The woman frowned suspiciously as you turned over your shoulder toward the two men behind you. “Gentlemen, could I ask you for a favor?”

They stared at you for a beat too long, then at each other—and then eagerly stepped forward to fulfill the favor, whatever it was.

“Of course...”

“Anything you wish...”

You cleared your throat.

“You’ll go and bring back the case with number two on it,” you instructed.

Olivia furrowed her brows and parted her lips to protest, but you silenced her with just a look.

“But you need to be extremely careful,” you continued smoothly, “so, very slowly. Ideally, carry it together—for stability.”

The men listened with rapt attention and visible determination to follow your directions. Which, of course, were nonsense—one person could easily carry it alone. But trying to do it as a pair would stretch the trip out nicely in all that rain and mud. Then, well, they were gone, like children you’d promised candy to.

It was so very typical of the kind of men you made use of—just as typical as their pitiful little sense of being useful, irreplaceable.

You watched them vanish between the trees, and when your gaze met Olivia's again, her face showed both surprise and a certain intrigue.

“But we need case number three,” she pointed out, correctly.

You opened your mouth in exaggerated disbelief.

“Really…? Oh, Olivia, why didn’t you say so earlier,” you sighed, making it clear that the whole thing had been a game from the start.

The woman stayed silent for a moment, genuinely trying to figure out your intentions. She gave up shortly after, shaking her head with a sigh.

“And what kind of sadist are you playing today?” she asked.

“You’ll see,” you assured her.

The officers returned, lugging the wrong case and looking like wet dogs, their hair plastered to their foreheads from the rain, which had only intensified since they’d left. They set it down in front of you and Olivia, both sheltered under the umbrella you were holding, visibly relieved they hadn’t dropped it.

You waited a few seconds, during which they stood silently, clearly expecting some kind of eternal gratitude, before raising an eyebrow.

“I said case number three.”

They exchanged a look.

“Um, I’m pretty sure you said the one with number two on it.”

“Um, sounds like you’ve got a hearing problem,” you snapped, sharper than you’d intended, the words slipping out before you could stop them

It wasn’t something you’d planned from the start, and for a second, you were secretly surprised at yourself. But since sharpness and spite had apparently chosen you today, you decided to stick with that version of events and made sure your face reflected the proper level of displeasure.

Olivia glanced sideways at you for a long moment, then nodded with faux certainty.

“Yeah, she definitely said case number three. You must’ve misheard. Not your fault, maybe it was the rain,” she offered in a more sympathetic tone, though still fully backing your story.

The men exchanged confused looks, now with a flicker of doubt that maybe it had been their mistake. So, off they went again—to return the wrong case and fetch the correct one. When they finally disappeared, you gave Olivia a small, grateful smile.

Only to immediately wipe it off your face as the dumbasses reappeared, and declare:

“And what about my handbag? I told you to bring that too.”

And what amused you the most was that the two of them only started showing any suspicion or doubt after their third trek through the rain and mud. Frustration flashed in one of their eyes as he handed you your handbag.

“Was this really necessary for working the case?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Unbothered, and with their eyes still on you, you calmly reached into the bag for your compact mirror and lipstick, touching up your makeup with the faintest swipe.

“No,” you replied, snapping the mirror shut. “But at least you were useful for something. There’s no intellectual work here for two such empty heads, so you might as well make use of those muscles.” You gave them a critical once-over with that last word—because honesty, their physiques weren’t all that impressive either.

They stared at you in complete stupefaction before walking off, muttering something under their breath about a crazy bitch. Well, you had no intention of wasting another word on them. Another thing you had no intention of doing was explaining the entire ordeal to the clearly intrigued Olivia. And the main reason for that was the fact that you hadn’t fully rationalized it to yourself. Maybe you were just running on a higher than usual dose of spite that day.

Maybe there was another reason entirely.

Shortly afterward, Reid approached you, preoccupied with peeling off his latex gloves, only glancing at you with brows furrowed in curiosity.

“Is it just me, or did you send these guys to the cars three times?” he asked.

You merely gave a slight shrug.

“That’s what happens when you have trouble following instructions,” you remarked simply.

And before walking off to rejoin your team, you reached up and wiped that smudge of dirt from his chin with your thumb—the one you'd spotted earlier—leaving him, to put it mildly, completely stunned.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

hiiii I want to join the masses and thank you for bringing fake fiancé Hotch into our lives!

I had a random thought about them that you can completely ignore and delete but what if a case brought Hotch to his fake fiancée's work? 👀

She's trying to be professional (and failing) and Hotch is just trying to solve crimes without falling fast for his fake fiancée while also ignoring Rossi is being a brat about it all

CRAVING CLARITY - FAKE FIANCÉ

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (part of my fake!fiancee series, but can be read as a standalone) warnings | an: first of all thank you bestie!! hope i did your request justice 💓 fluff, shameless flirting, slight self-doubt from reader which aaron scoops up real quick, rossi being rossi. word count: 2.4k

✧ masterlist

You were elbow-deep in samples – literally and figuratively – drowning in endless deadlines with no lifeline in sight. Honestly, it felt like you were the only person in the entire company actually capable of meeting them. Carrying the whole operation on your back? Exhausting. Somewhere between fabric swatches and frantic emails, you had completely zoned out.

And you seemed to only snap back to reality when Bella, your assistant, waved her hands wildly in front of your face.

“Earth to you,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Did you hear a single word I just said, or should I start over with even bigger hand gestures.”

You blinked at her, still half-lost in the chaos of your to-do list. “Uh… something about me being a visionary genius who deserves an all-expenses-paid spa retreat?”

Bella rolled her eyes, plucking a stray patch of fabric from your desk. “Close, but no. I said there’s someone here to see you. Actually, two someones – both with FBI badges.”

You froze. “What? FBI?”

Oh no.

Had Hotch finally had enough? Had he officially put you on the infamous FBI watchlist? Decided that your emoji usage was a national security risk? Because honestly, you barely sent him that many – just the occasional heart, a well-placed sparkly star, maybe a winky face or two. And it’s not like he ever responded in kind. Not even once. Which, frankly, was an injustice.

And still, despite all your undeniable charm and very reasonable flirting, he had yet to ask you out. That, in itself, was a crime.

Which was exactly why you were going to make him wait. Just a minute. Or five. Just long enough to figure out what the hell he was doing here – and why flashing FBI badges was necessary in your perfectly peaceful, extremely fashionable workspace.

You smoothed down your outfit, tilting your head as you turned to Bella. “Did they say what it was about?” you asked, already moving toward the mirror, because if you were about to face Aaron Hotchner and whatever Bureau-level drama he had brought with him, you were at least going to look flawless doing it.

Bella shrugged, her eyes following you. “Something about needing access to records for a client we work with. No clue, honestly, sounds way above my pay grade.” She leaned against your desk, arms crossed. “They asked to speak to whoever’s in charge, and, well… that would be you.”

You sighed, fluffing your hair a little as you checked your reflection. And it was absolutely because your hair needed fluffing at this exact moment and not because a certain moody, absurdly handsome FBI agent was waiting for you.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” you muttered, making your way toward the lobby. As you turned the corner, it didn’t take long to spot them – Aaron Hotchner and his very good friend, and someone you’d quickly taken a liking to, David Rossi. It was slightly comical to see how out of place the two of them looked.

Would a splash of colour really kill them both?

You took a step closer, amusement curling at the edges of your lips. “So this is a thing now, huh?”

Hotch cocked his head, eyes narrowing as he watched you approach. “A thing?” he echoed, his voice sounding just as dry as you remembered.

Rossi, of course, wasted no time as he nudged him with a smirk. “Yeah, Aaron. You know – showing up at each other’s workplaces unannounced.”

You beamed, gesturing toward him. “See? Dave gets it.” You gave the two agents a once over, taking in their perfectly pressed suits and matching we-are-here-on-official-business expressions. You sighed dramatically, placing a hand on your hip. “Though, I do have one complaint… I don’t see any cookies.”

“Ah, yes. The cookies,” Rossi mused, turning to Hotch. “You should’ve seen him, going wild, breaking each one apart like they were evidence, searching for your number.” He gave you an approving nod. “Nice touch, by the way.”

Hotch exhaled very deliberately, eyes shooting daggers at Rossi. You, on the other hand, just giggled. He was ridiculously cute when he was flustered, all stiff posture and barely contained why do I put up with these people energy.

“Thank you, Dave.” Your tone was all honey-sweet innocence, like you hadn’t just turned Hotch’s mild embarrassment into your own personal entertainment. “Now, as much as I’d love to believe you’re here because the FBI finally approved a budget increase for uniforms, I have a feeling that’s not the reason.”

Rossi chuckled which caused Hotch to finally cut in before things finally spiralled completely out of control.  “Sorry to barge in like this. We’re here about a case.”

“How tragic.” Your hand made its way over to your heart. “And here I thought this was a romantic gesture.”

Hotch barely reacted – barely – but you didn’t miss the slight flare of his nostrils, the subtle shift of his jaw.

“We need access to client records from a company your firm collaborates with,” he explained, voice clipped, like if he just kept talking the entire conversation would magically reset itself. “Their CFO isn’t cooperating, and we believe you can help us expedite the process.”

“Mm,” you hummed, rocking back on your heels. “I can expedite a lot of things.”

That got him.

The barest shift of his mouth. The way his throat bobbed ever so slightly before he spoke. “The records,” he clarified, tone just a little tighter.

“You know…you’re awfully demanding for a man who still hasn’t taken me to dinner.”

“I didn’t realise dinner was a prerequisite for cooperation.”

You glanced briefly at Rossi, a silent Can you believe this guy? before turning back to Hotch. “Oh, Agent Hotchner,” you chided, sighing again as if he was the most exhausting man on the planet. “If you wanted my help, you could have just asked nicely.”

“I am asking nicely.”

You pursed your lips. “Are you? Because I think you could be a little nicer.”

Silence.

“You poor man,” Rossi chuckled, shaking his head. “This is hilarious.”

Hotch turned to Rossi who was still grinning like this was the highlight of his week – maybe even the entire month. “Are you done?”

“Not even close.”

“He really should be nicer to me, don’t you think?” You glanced at Rossi, like you were seeking expert legal counsel.

“Absolutely,” Rossi said without hesitation. “Common courtesy. Maybe some flowers. A little charm, even.”

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose like he was deeply reconsidering every life choice that had led him here. “I cannot believe I brought him with me,” he muttered under his breath.

“Alright, alright,” you relented, holding up your hands in surrender. “I suppose I could be persuaded to help. Purely out of the kindness of my heart, of course.”

Turning slightly, you motioned for Bella – who was definitely eavesdropping from just out of view – to come over. She sauntered in like she hadn’t just been shamelessly listening in.

“Bells, be a dear and show these two lovely gentlemen to the records they’re requesting.”

Before she could respond, Rossi held up a hand. “It’s alright,” he interrupted, cutting Hotch off before he could protest. “I’ll go, it’s not a two-man job.” Then, sparing you a knowing glance, he clapped Hotch on the shoulder. “You two can chat.”

You arched a brow, watching as Rossi motioned for Bella to lead the way.

And just like that, it was just the two of you.

You gaze flicked back to Hotch, your focus settling on him with an ease that almost annoyed you. Because, truly, how did this man manage to hold your attention so effortlessly? He wasn’t doing anything – just standing there, arms crossed, rocking that same old serious, mysterious expression. And yet, he might as well have had a gravitational pull.

They had to be teaching witchcraft at the FBI Academy. And maybe you should enrol, if only to figure out how to make him give you even an inch of the attention you kept throwing his way.

“Tell me, Aaron Hotch Hotchner, am I wasting my time here?” you asked, mirroring his stance as you crossed your arms.

His brow lifted, but you didn’t give him a chance to respond before pressing on.

“Because, at this point, I’ve done everything short of throwing my clothes off to get you to ask me out, and yet the only time you seem to come and see me is… well, today. And only because you need something.”

There. It was out.

You hadn’t planned to take the conversation in this direction, hadn’t expected to lay your cards out so plainly. But you were a woman who had suffered one too many heartbreaks, and at this point, you just needed clarity.

Because if this – whatever this was – was just some game to him, then you needed to walk away before you let yourself hope for something that would never happen.

Hotch didn’t react right away. He just looked at you, really looked at you, like he was weighing his response with the same precision he used to profile criminals.

That did not help your nerves.

“Well?” you prompted, your voice a touch softer, more hesitant. “Because if this is just some game to you –”

“It’s not a game.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling against your arms. “Then what is it?”

“You’re not wasting your time,” he assured you. “I just… can’t always give you as much of it as I want to.”

You let out small, breathy laugh. “God, you really have a way of making a woman work for it, don’t you?”

His lips parted, but before he could say anything, you kept going. “Because, see, this? This is the kind of thing a girl needs clarity on.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “If I like a man, I don’t not tell him. I bake, I flirt, I –” You huffed. “I wear my best heels and make sure my hair looks good when I know I might see him.”

His gaze flickered downward for a second before he brought it back up to your face.

“I work a lot,” he said finally. “And if I asked you to dinner, I’d want to be able to actually be there, not just physically, but completely. I wouldn’t want to have to leave halfway through because of a phone call. You deserve a date where I can give you my undivided attention.”

Oh.

Of all the things you had expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them. For the first time, Aaron Hotchner wasn’t shutting you down. He wasn’t brushing you off. He was telling you, plain and simple, that he wanted this – but he wanted to do it right.

And damn it, if that didn’t make you like him even more.

“Right… well, I’m busy too, you know. It’s not like I can just drop everything on a day that works for you or whatever.”

His smile was small but undeniable this time, and God help you, it was unfairly charming. “I wouldn’t expect you to. That’s why I’d ask in advance.”

You let a breath out, swirling a finger in the air at him. “Unbelievable. I am supposed to be the one making you flustered.”

“You do.”

You groaned, pressing your hands over your face in defeat. “Aaron Hotch Hotchner, I’m going to need you to vacate this building immediately.”

“I don’t think that’s how FBI jurisdiction works.”

You dropped your hands. “I don’t care how FBI jurisdiction works. You are menace, and I need you gone before you say something else that makes me –” You gestured vaguely in the air again, trying to find the right words. “– like you even more.”

His brow lifted and you hated that he looked so pleased with himself. “That would be a problem?”

“Yes!” you blurted before catching yourself. “Because my feelings for you need to be contained, okay? Like a jug that must not overflow. Not until I get that stupid date. I cannot like you more than I do now. It is against my nature, Aaron Hotch Hotchner.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Oh, don’t smile at me,” you lectured. “You know I’m right!”

“I don’t think emotions work like that.”

“Well, mine do,” you argued. “I have a system, Hotchner. A process which you are disrupting.”

He took a step closer. Too close. Instinctively, you took one back, because absolutely not. He could not be this close to you right now, not when you were in such a delicate (feral) state.

“And what exactly is this system?” he asked, his voice maddeningly calm.

You scoffed, waving a hand. “Oh, it’s very simple. I flirt. You ignore me. I get bored. I move on. That was the plan. But now? Now you’re smiling at me and talking about dates in advance, and frankly, I find it very disruptive to my workflow.”

“Well, I definitely wouldn’t want to throw off your workflow,” he murmured, voice dropping slightly.

You gasped, pointing at him with pure betrayal. “There! That! That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“What?” He feigned innocence and you wanted to shove him straight out the damn door and call security on him.

“You know what,” you accused. “You’re flirting.”

“I thought that was part of your system.”

“Oh my God.” You threw your hands up. “I take it back. You are not allowed to be good at this.”

He nodded, as if this was a very serious discussion. “Ah. So, to be clear, you want me to ignore your advances?”

You stared at him, eyes narrowed. And then, without thinking, you stepped forward, grabbed him by the lapels of his stupid FBI suit, and let out a long, dramatic groan into his chest. “Aaron,” you muttered into the fabric, “I hate you.”

His body was still for a second. Then, to your absolute horror, you felt his chest rumble with something dangerously close to a chuckle.

You yanked yourself back so fast you nearly tripped, eyes wide with betrayal. “Did you just laugh?”

“No.” His tone would agree, but his face did not.

“Oh, my God.” You shoved at his chest, half out of indignation, half just to do something with your hands. “You’re enjoying this.”

He didn’t confirm or deny it.

Which meant he absolutely was.

Before you could formulate a proper rebuttal, a voice cut in from behind you.

“Well, it’s a good thing we went to get these,” Rossi said, strolling in beside Bella. “Otherwise, God knows what these two would get up to in the back room.”

You took a very large, very obvious step back. “Please, Dave. We’re professionals.”

Rossi smirked. “Oh, sure. That’s definitely what me and Bella have just walked in on.”

tags - @fandomscombine @dohmeti @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog

dividers by cafekitsune

[fluentmoviequoter]

Last Day to Live

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!SWAT!reader

Summary: You take a shot meant for someone else, and your boyfriend Tim Bradford has conflicting thoughts about your actions.

Warnings: brief angst, r is shot, Tim yells a lot, fluff at the end, canon typical warnings (suicide by cop attempt, domestic violence call)

Word Count: 2.0k+ words

A/N: I chose to make r a member of 20-David Squad (29-David) and envisioned this being the same reader/Tim dynamic as People Like Us, but it can be read alone!

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

“There is absolutely no way that’s true,” Street states, shaking his head. “Tell the truth or I’m telling Deacon.”

“Telling Deacon what?” you question with a smile. “That I hurt your feelings?”

“Don’t make me separate you two again,” Deacon says as he enters the situation room.

“She started it,” Street grumbles. 

“Sure she did,” Deacon replies, glancing at you.

“29-David!” Hondo calls. “Mid-Wilshire is requesting assistance in your neighborhood. Domestic call went sideways and the husband barricaded himself and his wife in the house. Want to go?”

“Yes, sir,” you answer. “All hands?”

Hondo shakes his head, and Deacon offers, “I’ll go with.”

“Wait- if I go, will you buy me lunch?” Street interjects. 

You stop at the door, then say, “Thanks, Deac. I’ll drive.”

“What’s going on?” you ask as you approach a patrol car. 

“Neighbor called to report a domestic dispute,” Officer John Nolan explains. “Couple was in the yard when we arrived. Husband opened fire on us, then led his wife back into the house and barricaded the door.”

“Anybody made contact?” Deacon inquires. 

“No, sir.”

“Where’s your backup?” you ask. 

“Chen and Bradford are trying to find a way in,” Nolan’s rookie Celina answers. “The neighbor said one of their windows was broken and accessible from the ground.”

You look over the top of the patrol car to survey the house. Deacon nods beside you, then tells you to stay with him as he approaches the door. With your helmets on, you move carefully along the fence to reach the front porch. 

“Psst,” someone hisses. 

Deacon raises his fist over his shoulder, then gestures forward twice. You step to the side and see two familiar LAPD officers ducked beneath a window. 

“The wife’s in this room,” Tim whispers. “Interior door’s closed.”

“Eyes on the husband?” Deacon asks. 

Lucy shakes her head, and Deacon points you toward the window. You circle Deacon and kneel beside Tim before sending Deacon a thumbs up. He nods, then moves toward the door. 

“Can I get a hand up?” you ask Tim. 

He moves onto one knee before lowering his hands. You lift your foot onto his thigh and secure your gun on your back before reaching for the windowsill. 

Deacon knocks loudly and calls, “LAPD SWAT! Come to the door and open it slowly with both hands visible!”

With his cue, you push off Tim’s leg and pull yourself up as he lifts your leg to help you inside. 

“Shh,” you direct when the injured woman looks up. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

“He’s coming back,” she warns you. 

Looking between her and the door, you raise your hand to your radio to communicate, “Three.”

If her husband is at the door by Deacon, he shouldn’t know what your alert means: that you're taking his wife out the three-side of the house. You help the woman up and move her to the window quietly. She stops when she sees Tim outside, so you say, “He’s going to help you. I promise. I trust him, and you can too.”

She nods, then lets you lift her up into the opening before taking Tim’s hands and holding onto him as he lowers her gently to the ground. You turn away from the window after you're sure she's okay and move toward the bedroom door. 

“Rabbit! He’s heading toward the back door,” Deacon radios. 

You attempt to calculate his steps, then kick the door open and step into the hallway with your gun raised. Your timing is good enough that the suspect nearly runs into you. 

“LAPD SWAT,” you introduce. “Drop your weapon. You don’t want to piss me off any more, I guarantee that.”

Deacon enters the hallway from the other end, and the man tenses his jaw in a silent admission of defeat before dropping his gun and lifting his hands above his head.

“Not bad,” you muse as you approach Tim’s shop. 

“Say thanks, Tim,” Lucy urges. 

“Thanks for the assist,” Tim says. 

“If you think you can handle it from here, I’ll see you tonight.”

Tim nods, and you smile at him before you return to Deacon’s side. Lucy watches you get in the grey Charger before she asks Tim, “Why weren’t you nicer? Showing affection isn’t a bad thing, you know.”

“This is work, Chen,” Tim reminds her. “When it’s not, I’ll act like it’s not.”

A week later, you sit in Black Betty as Luca rushes toward a Code 99 call from Mid-Wilshire. You know an officer is in grave danger, but you don’t know who. Taking deep, measured breaths, you focus on doing your job. 

“Hicks texted,” Hondo says. You open your eyes to see he’s looking directly at you before he says, “It’s not Bradford.”

“Who is it?” you ask. 

“He didn’t say. Just that half their division is there and they haven’t had any communication with the officer since he sent out the call for help. Can you do this?”

“Yes,” you reply. “It’s a police officer in danger. Regardless of who it is, I’m here, Hondo.”

“I’m here too,” Street interjects. “If you were curious.”

"We weren't," Tan assures him.

“15 seconds,” Luca alerts.

“Sergeant Grey’s waiting for us at mobile command,” Deacon says. “A cop’s life is at stake. Let’s do this right.”

You feel Street’s hand against your shoulder before you tap Deacon. He moves around the corner and leads you into the backyard of the suspect’s home. The homeowner called 911 and begged for help, then, when the responding officer arrived, he lured him inside and shot an innumerable amount of AR-15 rounds into his shop. The officer radioed a Code 99 nearly twenty minutes ago but hasn’t been heard from since, Wade explained before you moved onto the property.

“Any sign of our caller or brother in blue?” Hondo asks in your earpiece. 

“Back door is wide open,” Deacon replies lowly. “No sound or movement from the three side.”

“Limited penetration entry?” you ask. 

“Back door is open,” Deacon repeats. “Hondo, should we flash bang and move in?”

“Negative,” Hondo replies. “He’s heavily armed and has an officer hostage. Let’s not scare him.”

“We have to do something,” Street interjects. 

“Who’s out there?” someone yells from inside. 

You look at Deacon and raise your brows. Street moves to your side and holds his gun on the door. 

“LAPD SWAT!” Deacon replies. “C’mon out and we can end this before it gets worse.”

“Worse?” the man repeats before laughing. “This is worse.”

“Keep him talking,” Luca requests. “We’ve got a way in.”

Deacon takes a measured step forward, but before he continues speaking, the police officer stumbles out of the door and sprawls out in the grass, unmoving. You jerk your hand forward to stop Street as the shooter exits the door with an AR-15 in one hand and a .357 Magnum on his hip. 

“Go ahead,” he says, spreading his arms as he moves toward you. “Shoot me.”

“Sir, drop the weapon,” Deacon demands. 

He smiles and lowers the AR as he takes another step. Deacon moves his elbow toward the injured officer, and you cover Street as he prepares to render first aid. 

“I said shoot me,” the man repeats. “You know you want to.”

“I want you to drop the gun and put your hands up,” Deacon says. “This doesn’t have to end with you in a body bag.”

The man clicks his tongue, then raises the .357, flipping it in his hand as he looks at it. “Everybody dies.”

“20 squad,” Wade radios. “Bradford, Chen, and Nolan are heading toward you.”

“Drop the gun!” Luca demands as he enters the backyard from the other side of the house. 

You watch the armed suspect closely, keeping an eye on which direction his shoulders are moving. Street whispers behind you, urging the officer to hold on, and you're going to make sure he gets a chance to do just that.

“What do you want me to do?” the man asks. “Let you get this officer some help? The way you helped my brother, when you put him in prison and he was killed?”

“Sir, you don’t have to go out like he did,” Hondo points out. “There’s a better way to make a difference.”

“There sure is.”

The man glances toward the injured officer, and he moves slightly, twisting his shoulders in your direction - in Street's direction. You don’t hesitate to drop your gun and shove Street flat onto the grass. A single, crisp firing sound fills your ears as you fall toward him. 

You hear Tim yell as a scuffle ensues behind you. Handcuffs clip less than twenty seconds later, and you groan in response. 

Two sets of hands land on you, one on your legs and the other on your shoulders. A familiar palm presses against the side of your neck in a desperate search for your pulse. 

You cough as your eyes open, your chest tight and burning. Above you, Tim’s shoulders drop in relief, and he shifts to sit flat beside you. 

“Don’t ever shove me out of the way like that again,” Street demands, pushing your legs and then looking at your face to ensure you’re okay. 

Tim’s expression shifts from concern to something like disappointment. He removes his hand from you as Deacon calls for a medic. 

“I’m okay,” you assure as you fail to sit up. 

Your team smiles in collective relief, but you can’t crack a joke before Tim’s mood shifts again. This time to anger. 

“What is it about this job that makes you so willing to treat each day like it’s the last day to live?” he demands, standing as his chest heaves. 

“Tim, I-���

“No!” he snaps. “You put yourself in danger constantly. I understand that this job isn’t easy, that there are risks, but you don’t care. You rush toward moments like this, move into the line of fire on purpose knowing that people care about you! I need you to come home!”

“I’m trying to get everyone home,” you defend weakly, looking up at him as you clutch your side.

“By sacrificing yourself?” he yells. 

You look at Street, who is still sitting beside you, then at the rest of your team. They neither argue nor agree with him. 

“I didn’t think I’d have to spell this out for you,” Tim continues loudly. “But I hate when you do this. I’m sick of expecting a call telling me you aren’t coming back.”

“It scares me too,” you point out. “Of course I want to come home to you.”

“You don’t act like it!” 

Tim looks away from you, his mind racing. “You could have died not knowing how much you mean to me - how much I love you! I can’t go home alone and see my sock drawer, why can’t you understand that?” He doesn’t mean to mention the drawer where the velvet ring box is hidden, but he’s scared and angry and wishes you understood why it kills him to see you rush into danger as you do. 

“Tim,” you call softly. 

He looks at you, slumped in the grass with your hand pressed to your side and your teammate unharmed beside you. 

“I’m sorry,” you begin, pushing your hands against the ground as you fold one leg beneath yourself. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, moving to kneel beside you. “The medic’s here. Just- just wait.”

You nod and apologize again as he lays his hand over yours. 

“I’m really sorry,” you apologize, resting on Tim’s couch with Kojo’s head in your lap. “I get where you were coming from earlier. I want to come back to you, always. But they’re my family, and I want to keep them safe, too. Losing them scares me.”

“I get it,” Tim assures, rubbing circles on your shoulder where his hand rests, far from the painful, darkening bruise against your ribs. “Could you - maybe, from now on - try to think a little more about the outcome before you act?”

“I promise,” you agree before you kiss Tim’s hand. “I guess I could have just body slammed Street into the dirt and we both would’ve been okay.”

“See? Much better plan.”

“You just want me to mess with Street.”

“Maybe.”

Tim smiles and pulls you closer carefully, glad to have you home and on the mend. You weren’t gravely injured, but he didn’t know, and that was worse, he thinks. 

“Hey, why’d you mention your sock drawer earlier?” you ask. “Afraid you’ll have to do your own laundry again if I’m gone?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

You purse your lips and wait for his attention to ask, “What does that mean?”

Tim kisses you rather than answering, knowing your promise is meant. You’ll always return to him, even if you have to crawl.