#location redirection

[cranberrymoons]

.

[vladco-tech-official]

Maybe you should be a McMasters! We're hungry!!

[ophthalmotropy]

Does anybody else use Spotify with a VPN, and if so, has anyone had any issues?

[muhnow]

people keep leaving weird gooning reviews

[queriesntheories]

REBLOGS ARE OFF CAUSE THIS GUIDE IS TERRIBLE AND YOU DESERVE BETTER

I will instead redirect you to THIS more comprehensive guide, and cobalt.tools. Cobalt solves the problem of low quality video when you're done with VLC, and it can also take videos from a dozen other social media platforms.

Support the cobalt dev and the better guide writer, not me. I'm just a person who boiled down a wikihow guide and a youtube tutorial into a TLDR. I did not do very much work. They have.

I might turn reblogs back on, but for now I implore you to put your attention where it's needed most. Thanks for understanding. (original post under the cut)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

alright i am sick of yt to mp4 sites being shady and full of viruses and finding websites that seem to be working and then don't work

so HERE'S HOW YOU DOWNLOAD YOUTUBE VIDEOS WITH VLC!! VLC FREAKIN RULES!!

get your youtube link

open vlc, go to media > open network stream

paste your url in the box and PRESS PLAY!

wait for the video to open then go to tools > codec information

copy the entire file location (click the box, then ctrl-a to select all, then ctrl-c to copy)

paste into your browser of choice (i use firefox)

right click video and press "save video as", choose your file format if you want

DONE! NO VIRUSES OR SKETCHY STUFF!

the quality might be a little crummy but if you don't mind that, then shabam! video on your computer! then you can email it to yourself and have it on your phone too if you want! if you need a guide with pictures wikihow has you covered my friends

happy downloading and stay safe on the internet :D

[sairaverse]

a long post about how to manifest except I say the same thing over and over in different words

affirm and persist

assume and continue assuming

keep telling yourself you have it and it will conform

the 3d reflects your thoughts

"pick a version of yourself and lie about it until its true, block everything else that says you don't have it" -IGETEVERYTHINGIWANT on twitter

decide and keep deciding

just keep affirming

speak your desires into existance

"tell yourself that you have it and the law will automatically do its job"-nswaa127 on twitter

"a state is a location, to get to that location you affirm" -sammyingram

your subconscious is always accepting what you tell it so just keep telling it what you want until it conforms

just fucking affirm

just decide

just assume

just tell yourself you have it

(can you tell I'm going insane)

your thoughts create your reality so just think of what you want

live in the end and persist

persist

do you fucking understand yet?

keep persisting

persist no matter what

"if you're manifesting your dr and your cr is falling apart I HAVE SOME NEWS FOR YOU" -some girl who manifested a penthouse on twitter

just fucking affirm

robotic affirmations are goated

affirm and persist (did I fucking say that already)

just keep affirming

affirmations are just thoughts so just think

affirm

affirm

affirm

????? lalalalalala (pellowinks crashing out here)

you already have your desire right when you say you do

please affirm

affirmations are statements.

state you have what you want keep going until the 3d confirms

"saturate your mind until the 3d throws up your desire!" -unknown on twitter

"just affirm" -dollphied on twitter

"Your subconscious accepts what it hears, sees, and feels the most — not what’s true. Familiar = safe. Safe = real. Saturation makes your new assumption familiar enough to be seen as truth." -juni on twitter

your desires are yours already

^^vibe to this while recognizing you have what you want

you're the creator of your reality

(from an islamic standpoint)

allah loves to hear the voices of those who persist in dua again and again

allah is with the paitent

never say "inshallah" when making dua only say amen because its yours already!

allah never rejects your dua, he either gives it to you (if you persist) or gives you good deeds on the day of judgement

all affirmations work

yes you can manifest anything you want

yes you have it just keep saying you do

affirm and stop questioning

the law is just affirming until you have it

^^ your doubts when you persist in the new story

^^ off topic but this song is goated

K BYE

(I will redirect you to this post if you ask me something stupid)

[k0mmari]

Endless Abyss(kinda)! SY AU

First things first, this is very much inspired by this post by @/rainbowsmagicandshit and @/allpiesforourown, HIGHLY recommend reading that fist just to get a glimpse of where I started off, but do note I have accidentally deviated from the original idea a bit, so uh, oops ig.

This was born out of a mix of different ideas (as usual), so think of this as ‘The AU where SY is a demon, and also the Endless Abyss, and also my excuse to have Binghe possibly make a harem consisting entirely of SY’s’, or, as I like to call it:

As per usual, Shen Yuan has died. It happens to the best of us, and of course, he died while reading the glittering piece of trash that is Proud Immortal Demon Way.But, as he is in the process of getting snatched away by the System, something goes wrong, and the System has to quickly redirect itself and it causes SY to get knocked out of course.

His soul scrambles to find a new host, and it manages to find someone suitable enough. When SY wakes up though, he isn’t greeted by the sight of a roof, or a forest, or anything remotely familiar; instead, the moment he regains consciousness, he’s senses are flooded with as much information as possible. It’s like a computer with too many tabs open, but in this case, you can see all the tabs at the same time and all of them are playing the most obnoxiously loud videos possible, in fact, everything feels so overwhelming even thinking becomes too much.

What SY doesn’t know is that he has transmigrated into the body of a Titan, an almost extinct godly demon race that only existed in the confines of Airplane’s first drafts, and it turns out shoving a human soul into the body of a deity doesn’t bode so well, since what the human mind is able to process doesn’t even come close to what a Titan is able to feel. So because SY can’t get a hold of his own mind, his control of his own body is also not great, and he is completely unaware as his newly acquired body goes on a rampage.

See, SY is currently in a very old version of the Demon Realm, so old in fact, Heavenly Demons still rule over the Realm. It really is quite a shame that SY wasn’t in his right mind at the time, and instead of being able to observe how ancient Heavenly Demons governed demonic society, he instead accidentally set on a path of destruction, with the casualties being anything that had the bad luck of standing in his way. In fact, the destruction got so bad a few of the Heavenly Demons rulers, who notoriously hated each other, settles on a temporary peace agreement and joined forces to stop the mad Titan.

SY, in his frenzied state, didn’t even notice as hundreds of years went by as the Heavenly Demons tried to stop him, and also barely noticed when they finally managed to chain him down and cast him away to be forever banished to the Endless Abyss. His body, once so tall it grazed the clouds, was torn apart, with each of its different parts sealed away in various locations as an attempt to diminish the Titan’s power. It worked, actually, and unbeknownst to the demons, SY slowly began to get his thoughts in order; the event that finally pushed him to coherency was when a few of those Heavenly Demon rulers got greedy, and while sealing away SY’s body parts, attempted to harness his power for themselves, and tried to create legendary weapons out of his flesh and bone.

Most of them failed, a Titan’s power to overwhelming for even a Heavenly Demon to handle, but one of them succeeded, and created a powerful sword made from the Titan’s own heart: Xin Mo. Unfortunately for the creator of Xin Mo, it didn’t take long for them to fall into madness and eventually succumb to Xin Mo’s power, casting themselves away to hold onto the sword forever in the same valley SY’s hands were sealed; but it is as they say, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and while Xin MO’s creator perished, they managed to take enough power away from SY for him to finally be able to think.

It had been a thousand years at this point, and SY’s first coherent thought was that he desperately needed a break, and that in all these years, he hadn’t managed to get a single glimpse into the world of PIDW, and what a waste! Specially since he was now in the most interesting area Airplane had managed to create, he was itching to explore the world. Of course, in his current state he wasn’t exactly able to move (having his limbs cut off certainly didn’t help, but apparently it had been so long since he was imprisoned that his Main Body had started to fuse with the Abyss? Really, more of a slight inconvenience than anything), but he also had become tired of his Titan body with it’s Titan feelings, and so he decided to split his consciousness and create a small army of human sized avatars who were later dubbed his ‘Watchers’, who’s sole purpose was to explore the Endless Abyss and send their findings back to the Main Body (in bite sized, easy to understand thoughts).

It is the first years of his Watchers wandering about that SY finally understood what had happened to his body, and figured out that Xin Mo was a product of his flesh. He figured that since demons tried to use his body for malicious purposes before, with one even succeeding, he decided that one Xin Mo was enough, and came up with a plan: He was going to piece his Titan body back together as a means to prevent anything of the sort happening again, but he was immediately going to seal the Titan body away again, as to not have to deal with it’s overwhelming power.

As the Watchers were sent to locate his body parts again, one of their first findings were the hands, which also meant the resting place of Xin Mo itself. How lucky, he thought! He could just take the hands away and maybe leave one of the Watchers guarding Xin Mo so when Luo Binghe eventually comes to retrieve his sword, SY at least can catch a glimpse of his favorite protagonist! He wasted no time, and while his avatars tried to unseal his hands, one of them went to move Xin Mo, just so it was out of the way, and in doing so the sword retaliated and ended up disintegrating the poor Watcher. What a rude sword, going against its own body.

Fine! If Xin Mo was going to be difficult so be it, and SY formed a new plan: before reuniting his Titan body back together, SY send his Watchers to keep an eye on as much of the Endless Abyss as possible and the moment Luo Binghe fell in, he would turn to hugging the protagonist’s thigh and help him survive the harsh environment as long as Binghe took Xin Mo. Well, it should be no problem, right? Binghe was fated to get the sword one way or another, and SY is sure his involvement will be small insignificant enough that it won’t be much more of a side quest for the future Demon Emperor!

Now, if he were a half human, half Heavenly Demon teenager who just got pushed into hell by his teacher, where would he land….

*

So, as you can see, this is mostly more like SY’s origin story lol, but I’ll probably write Binghe’s first meetings with the Watchers sometime soon (hopefully).In the meantime though, enjoy some more of the bonus sketches I did while figuring out the AU, and of course, if anyone has any questions or thoughts about this, feel free to send them to me!

[sportsallover]

That fourth stage with the finish in Andora is confusing me. I had to go to check out a map. Turns out, Italy has their own city called Andora, an 8-hour drive away from the country Andorra.

[worldgoit]

Window.location: Enhancing Web Navigation and URL Manipulation

1. Introduction

In the realm of web development, achieving smooth navigation and effective URL manipulation is crucial for delivering a seamless user experience. Among the many tools available to web developers, window.location stands out as a powerful and versatile feature. In this article, we will explore the ins and outs of window.location, understanding its properties, methods, and best practices to employ it efficiently.

2. Understanding window.location

At its core, window.location is a JavaScript object that represents the current URL of the web page. It allows developers to access various components of the URL and perform actions related to navigation and history.

3. Navigating with window.location

- Changing the URL with window.location.href. - Redirecting users with window.location.replace(). - Reloading the page with window.location.reload().

4. Navigating with window.location

One of the fundamental tasks of window.location is to enable navigation. By modifying the window.location.href property, developers can easily change the URL, effectively redirecting users to different pages. Additionally, we will learn how to use window.location.replace() to perform a redirection without adding a new entry to the browser's history and how to reload the page using window.location.reload().

5. Extracting Information from window.location

Parsing the URL's components can be essential for capturing specific data from the address bar. We'll see how to access individual parts of the URL, such as the protocol, hostname, pathname, and query parameters, using the properties of window.location. This can be particularly useful when building dynamic web applications that respond to varying URLs.

6. Modifying History with window.location

Controlling the browser's history can be vital in certain scenarios, like creating custom back buttons or implementing complex navigation patterns. We'll delve into how window.location can be used to manipulate the browser history, allowing developers to navigate users backward or forward within their browsing session.

7. Security Considerations

While window.location provides valuable functionality, it also comes with certain security implications. We will explore potential risks and vulnerabilities associated with its use, such as potential open-door for phishing attacks or misuse by malicious actors. Implementing best practices will help minimize these risks.

8. Handling Errors and Edge Cases

As with any web development tool, window.location is subject to potential errors and unexpected scenarios. We'll discuss how to handle invalid URLs, unsupported features in various browsers, and other edge cases that developers may encounter while working with window.location.

9. Tips for Efficient URL Manipulation

Performing page reloads or URL changes can impact performance and user experience. We'll share valuable tips for optimizing the use of window.location, ensuring that URL manipulation occurs efficiently and without unnecessary page reloads, particularly crucial for single-page applications (SPAs).

10. The Future of window.location

As technology and web standards continue to evolve, we'll explore the potential future enhancements of window.location. Staying abreast of upcoming changes can be valuable for developers looking to adopt the latest and most efficient techniques. location API - Mozila https://developer.mozilla.org/en-US/docs/Web/API/Location/reload

11. Conclusion

In conclusion, window.location serves as an indispensable tool for web developers, offering a range of capabilities to enhance web navigation and URL manipulation. By leveraging its properties and methods responsibly, developers can create user-friendly and dynamic web applications that cater to their users' needs effectively.

12. FAQs

- What is the purpose of window.location in JavaScript? window.location in JavaScript represents the URL of the current page and allows developers to manipulate the URL, perform page redirects, and access various components of the URL. - How can I change the URL without causing a page reload? You can change the URL without causing a page reload by modifying the window.location.href property or using window.location.replace() for a redirection without adding a new entry to the browser's history. - Is it safe to manipulate the browser history with window.location? While manipulating the browser history with window.location can be useful, it's essential to consider potential security risks, such as opening opportunities for phishing attacks. Following best practices and validation can help mitigate these risks. - Can I extract specific parts of the URL using window.location? Yes, you can extract specific parts of the URL, such as the protocol, hostname, pathname, and query parameters, using the properties of window.location. - Are there any limitations to using window.location in different browsers? Some older browsers may have limited support for certain features of window.location. However, with modern browsers, the majority of its functionality is well-supported. Read the full article

[inspiredangel]

sweetheart!reader get´s cuteness aggression w/mechanic!matt

You adored your boyfriend, he was everything you ever wanted in a guy, and he treated you so so well. He was everything you could ever ask for.

Whenever he comes back home from work or whatever errands he’s running around doing, you’re already there waiting for him, to shower him with all your love and affection — something he’s grown used to over the past couple of months.

You heard the front door click, and the sound of his footsteps echoing through the empty hallway, you immediately knew it was him since you’d been impatiently checking his location throughout the evening.

He walks in the living room and plops down next to you with a heavy sigh.

You shuffle closer to him, disregarding your phone, turning your full attention to him. You lay your head down against his shoulder, his gaze softening only slightly.

You look up at him to see he was already staring down at you, a hint of affection behind his gaze as he shakes his head and redirects his gaze away from you and back to the tv.

Your hands reach out and you stroke your fingers along his cheekbone. He furrows his eyebrows, his shoulders tensing slightly at the sudden contact.

Your fingers pinch his cheek softly — like people do with babies. You smush your guys cheek together “You’re so so adorable.” you cooed as you pulled away and moved your hand to squish his cheeks

You really could not help yourself. He was just so damn adorable

He grabs your wrist and pulls your hand away “fuck is wrong with you?” He hates it when you try to baby him like that, in his eyes he’s a ‘tough grown man’, but in your eyes he’s the most adorable thing ever.

You giggle and smile, his eyes narrowing as his heart melts at your little adorable smile and the happy look in your eyes.

He hates that you this kind of affect on him.

He rolls his eyes and pulls your closer to his chest, his fingers combing gently through your hair, as he admires the way you look so content pressed up against him.

He lets out a long sigh, and smiles softly. He really couldn’t stay mad when he had a beautiful girl like you with him.

©BEAUTYLOVES all rights reserved.

⊹ authors note  — made this cause i always get cuteness aggression when i see matt :,)

tags: @marrykisskilled @chrislilcumslvt @sosasturns @cyberskulzzz @slut4chris888 @waitforyrlove @zebonos @sturnioloangell @slctsblogana @anyaa2s @emely9274 @shadowthesim @frankoceanfanpage

[fluentmoviequoter]

Words to Die By

The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover

-> Part 2: Strikes to Die By

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader

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

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

Word Count: 13k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

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

“Can I help you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, it isn’t.”

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

“Is Bradford your training officer?” you ask.

“He is. Do you know him?”

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

“Eleventh,” she answers, surprised.

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

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

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

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

“I am. I assume you remember him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More evidence?” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With my life.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?” Lucy tries.

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did.”

“There’s more to it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You saw him last night?” JJ exclaims.

“I ran into him at the diner.”

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

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

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

“That would be illegal,” Spencer mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll tell Hotch. Anything else?”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine. Why?”

She stops typing suddenly and then inhales sharply.

“Garcia?” You ask.

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

“Penelope?” you ask hurriedly.

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

“It’s about me?” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me finish-“

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

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

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

“Manipulated the data how?” Hotch asks.

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

“Left it where?” Grey inquires.

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

“The date?” Hotch presses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Talk to me,” Hotch encourages.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” Hotch asks. “Where is he?”

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

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

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

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

“34381?” you guess. “And 6147?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if they could help?” JJ argues.

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which affects us how?” Hotch inquires.

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

“Still doubting your hypothesis?” Hotch deadpans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep me updated,” Hotch tells you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready?” you ask Lucy.

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

“What was the cause of death?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a lot of options.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why be a TO?”

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

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

“Got it. Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She retired,” Tim replies.

You drop your shoulders and nod. “Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

“The novellas?” he guesses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me tell my team.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We can hope.”

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

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

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

“She is.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one connection.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was scared.”

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

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

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

“Who?” Tim asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“I’m going with you,” Tim states.

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

“You need me-“

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

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

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

“Alexander Riley,” you murmur.

“What?” Tim snaps.

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

“Convenient.”

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” he agrees slowly. “Why?”

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

“You got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Spencer asks. “Wait, who?”

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

“Abuse of power,” Hotch deduces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll get a BOLO out,” Wade offers.

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

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

“Just send ‘em my way,” Derek jokes.

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

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

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

“Bradford,” Wade begins.

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

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

“No idea. Sir.”

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

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

“Be safe out there,” you conclude.

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

“That was fun,” you mumble to Derek.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“You could have told me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Cursed wanderer?” Tim repeats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. You.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not recently.”

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

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

“Can you do me a favor?” you ask.

“Anything,” JJ and Derek answer together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Welcome to the club.”

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

“You think it will?”

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

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

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

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

“I hope so.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did Derek ask Spencer about the bomb?”

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

“Could he be a cleithrophobe?” Tim wonders.

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

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

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

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

“You made it,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t hurt you.”

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

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

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

Riley fidgets, then nods.

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

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

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

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

“You know who,” Alex mutters.

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

“Of course.”

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

“You were so far away,” he whispers.

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

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

“Kick it,” he demands.

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

“Kick it.”

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

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

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

“She was mine first,” Tim interjects suddenly.

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

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

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

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

“Something changed,” you say from beside Riley.

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

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

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

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

“Fool! They’ve gotten to you, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was your boss,” Tim points out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two Weeks Later

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

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

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

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

“I could have done that,” you complain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please do.”

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

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

[subjectsix]

KIP'S BIG POST OF THINGS TO MAKE THE INTERNET & TECHNOLOGY SUCK A LITTLE LESS

Post last updated November 23, 2024. Will continue to update!

Here are my favorite things to use to navigate technology my own way:

A refurbished iPod loaded with Rockbox OS (Rockbox is free, iPods range in price. I linked the site I got mine from. Note that iPods get finicky about syncing and the kind of cord it has— it may still charge but might not recognize the device to sync. Getting an original Apple cord sometimes helps). Rockbox has ports for other MP3 players as well.

This Windows debloater program (there are viable alternatives out there, this one works for me). It has a powershell script that give you a little UI and buttons to press, which I appreciate, as I'm still a bit shy with tech.

Firefox with the following extensions: - Consent-O-Matic (set your responses to ALL privacy/cookie pop-ups in the extension, and it will answer all pop-ups for you. I can see reasons to not use it, but I appreciate it) - Facebook Container ("contains" Meta on Facebook and Instagram pages to keep it from tracking you or getting third party cookies, since Meta is fairly egregious about it) - Redirect Amp to HTML (AMP is designed for mobile phones, this forces pages to go to their HTML version) - A WebP/AVIF image converter - uBlock Origin and uBlacklist, with the AI blacklist loaded in to kill any generative AI results from appearing in search engines or anywhere.

Handbrake for ripping DVDs— I haven’t used this in awhile as I haven’t been making video edits. I used this back when I had a Mac OS

VLC Media Player (ol’ reliable)

Unsplash & Pexels for free-to-use images

A password manager (these often are paid. I use Dashlane. There are many options, feel free to search around and ask for recs!). There is a lot that goes into cybersecurity— find the option you feel is best for you.

Things I suggest:

Understanding Royalty Free and the Creative Commons licenses

Familiarity with boolean operators for searching

Investing in a backup drive and external drive

A few good USBs, including one that has a backup of your OS on it

Adapter cables

Avoiding Fandom “wikias” (as in the brand “Fandom”) and supporting other, fan-run or supported wikis. Consider contributing if its something you find yourself passionate or joyful about.

Finding Forums for the things you like, or creating your own*

Create an email specifically for ads/shopping— use it to receive all promotional emails to keep your inbox clean. Upkeep it.

Stop putting so much of your personal information online— be willing to separate your personal online identity from your “online identity”. You don’t owe people your name, location, pronouns, diagnoses, or any of that. It’s your choice, but be discerning in what you give and why. I recommend avoiding providing your phone number to sites as much as possible.

Be intentional

Ask questions

Talk to people

Remember that you can lurk all you want

Things that are fun to check out:

BBSes-- here's a portal to access them.

Neocities

*Forums-- find some to join, or maybe host your own? The system I was most familiar with was vbulletin.

MMM.page

Things that have worked well for me but might work for you, YMMV:

Limit your app usage time on your smartphone if you’re prone to going back to them— this is a tangible way to “practice mindfulness”, a term I find frustratingly vague ansjdbdj

Things I’m looking into:

The “Pi Hole”— a raspberry pi set up to block all ads on a specific internet connection

VPNs-- this is one that was recommended to me.

How to use computers (I mean it): Resources on how to understand your machine and what you’re doing, even if your skill and knowledge level is currently 0:

This section I'll come back an add to. I know that messing with computers can be intimidating, especially if you feel out of your depth. HTML and regedits and especially things like dualbooting or linux feel impossible. So I want to put things here that explain exactly how the internet and your computer functions, and how you can learn and work with that. Yippee!

[kissingmilfs]

⟢ 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔 | 𝒔𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒌𝒂 𝒙 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝒂𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒂 ⟢

18+ minors and men please dni

content warnings: alcohol, cunnilingus, fingering, clitorial stimulation, sex w/a strap, light choking/biting

⋆˚✿˖°જ⁀➴⋆˚✿˖°જ⁀➴⋆˚✿˖°જ⁀➴⋆˚✿˖°જ⁀➴⋆˚✿˖°જ

you’d had such a wreck of a day at work. the files your boss spent all week waiting for never showed up. and naturally it became everyone’s problem. including yours. you don’t even work directly underneath her. but for the rest of the day you were somehow solving her problems while trying to get your own work done. overtime is generally something you avoid. yes, the extra few hundred dollars were nice but surely not at the expense of your sanity. thankfully tomorrow was saturday. thankfully you worked in a “swanky and up and coming” part of the city.

a bar, your co-workers recommended frequently, sat at the corner up the block from your office building. the sounds of your steps were swallowed by the traffic surrounding you and the other pedestrians having lively conversations. it took no effort to locate the bar. maneuvering through glass and gold trimmed swivel doors—your eyes were forced to adjust to the low lighting of the bar. it is not the usual dive bar of your somewhat forgotten college days. the bar glittered with gold and black accents. marble decorated the space tastefully and almost inconspicuously.

despite the upscale location and vibe, you prayed none of the white collar men would take it upon themselves to acquaint their cigarette breath with your personal space. the space was busy, but not crowded. you’d normally indulge in sitting at the far end of the bar. tonight such familiarity isn’t plausible.

you sling your coat over the back of chair before settling into it. your manicured clean cut nails tap idly on the bar top. most bars are sticky and smell painfully of beer. everything here is kept to fine precision. as you take in the rest of your surroundings, it’s clear the owner(s) took a keen attention to detail.

a voice breaks your train of thoughts and the silence. “anything to drink? or just looking?”

your eyes instinctively begin to roll but as you redirect your attention towards the voice—your innate reaction comes to a pause. if you lacked a little less decorum, your jaw might have hung open at the sheer amount of woman across from you. she absentmindedly polished wine glasses while awaiting your response. her grey eyes dont necessarily pierce into yours but she is carefully considering you.

the fingers tapping the bar top pause. “what’s good here?” it’s the only response you can muster.

the bartender laughs casually and effortlessly throws the drying rag across her shoulder. “everything and anything. i’m the best bartender in town.”

“not sporting that bourgeoisie, mixologist, tag then?”

she barks out another laughter. “no. i don’t need a fancy variation of bartender to prove myself. come on. what’s to drink?”

you sigh and shrug. “honestly i’m not sure. i’m a little exhausted making my own decisions. how about you surprise me?”

“surprise?” her eyes track your disposition and the pouty lips as your own eyes survey the entirety of the back wall of liquor. “any preference to our expanse of liquor?”

your index and middle finger wedge between your platinum black credit card and id in the chest pocket of your suit jacket. sliding the payment and identification across the bar smoothly until they’re grazing brown fingertips. “something strong. i’ve had a long day at work.”

the bartender is somewhat surprised by the confidence displayed. not that she had pegged you as a damsel in distress. a woman who confidently sports a tailored three piece suit with a complementary coat isn’t an unusual member of the bar. your air of nonchalantness and casual surveillance of your surroundings draws her in. and when you, oh so casually, mentioned zero interest in decision making…it was almost as if a trap was set. a game launched.

“one surprise me drink then.”

within seconds she has flourished away and her hands grab speedily at different shelves. your eyes remained intently focused on the blur of movements. you attempt to track the ingredients but it’s futile. after a few minutes, she pours a umber liquid into a whiskey glass. leaning over, you smell the notorious notes of expensive ass whiskey. and something sweet.

“what is it?” you inhale another whiff.

the bartender pours the rest of the contents into a shot glass and shrugs. “try it. see if you can guess.”

you lift your eyes through your eyelashes. “okay…” you cautiously wrap your fingers around the glass and take a diligent sip. the flavors tingle on your tongue. you were right about the subtle sweetness. the whiskey doesn’t have the usual warmth coating your throat. well, it’s not as noticeable. instead your skin intakes the warmth and the first sip is reminiscent of a rum cake.

“holy shit.” you exclaim with pure genuine awe. “okay, um, whiskey, yes?” the bartender smirks and nods. “okay…it’s kind of sweet. cinnamon maybe? or nutmeg?”

her smirk shifts into an authentic smile almost revealing one of her canines. “no, but close. we make our own vanilla extract. i might’ve indulged and scraped a tiny amount of the soaked bean into the shaker.”

your eyes widen with the revelation. authentic vanilla beans are expensive and hard to come across unless you know someone. “that’s…woah, okay. what else did you put in here?”

“a little of this and a little of that. continue sipping and think on it. i’ve got other customers.” she tips her head towards the end of the bar. you can tell her tone isn’t rude or one of dismissal. if anything you believe she’s almost overindulging you.

as you take deliberate sips of the drink, you find yourself unable to pull away from the sight of the bartender. your eyes drink in the way her muscles move as she tosses the ingredients in a shaker. they threaten to burst around the sleeve of her plain black t-shirt. she grips her instruments of choice with such suave and ease. using either elbow, flesh or prosthetic, to hit the edge of the shakers for that satisfying popped release.

by the time you’re finished with the drink—you’ve worked through countless cheesy pickup lines and flirty innuendos all in your head. but before you can grace your words on her ears—a woman—no a creation of the gods—commands the entire presence of the bar. she must stand far over six feet. her dark skin glistening with a sheen she must’ve taken precise effort to massage into her skin. her muscles are perfectly sculpted and crafted as if by a potter’s gentle touch. and the dress?

mothers above the dress. who was the lucky son of a bitch who wove that fabric around her shoulders and breasts? the deep red and luxurious cotton threatening to fuse with her radiant skin. she certainly is not a real woman. she must be an apparition of everyone’s mind. some ethereal being projecting an unattainable image for us. yet as she approaches the bar with almost a mission in mind—you come to the realization the only seats are opposite you. one drink of the glorious concoction isn’t enough to even allow yourself near her presence.

as you deliberate whether to flag the bartender down again, the goddess herself, encroaches on your space. her perfume twirls around your noise. the familiar scent of coco butter overwhelms yet comforts you. her hand on your shoulders almost produces an embarrassing moan.

“may i sit beside you, sweetheart?” her words are perfectly enunciated and in an unrecognizable accent. or maybe it’s simply the drawl of the words.

you nod without any hesitation. there’s no denying a woman such as herself. you could not fathom a world in which she’s ever heard the word, no. her smile is almost mischievous as she accepts the non-verbal response. you witness her dress move as second skin as she effervescently sits. her golden eyes meet yours with such intensity you hold a breath. her face spreads into such a wide grin. you hadn’t realized how audible your swallow was. you would not have caught on to it until much, much later in the future.

“ambessa. pleasure to meet you.” her golden bracelets jingle against each other as she extends her hand.

you stare dumbfounded at the hand before remembering. her name rings in your heard over and over. “pleasure is all mine. i’m y/n.”

ambessa regards you with a tilt of her head. you can feel each inch of your skin on fire where her eyes trail towards to then away. then she lets out a hum. a satisfied hum. “i see. i’ve yet to meet you before.”

“i’m usually more comfortable drinking a glass of wine at dinner than drinking at any sort of bar. but i must admit it…this isn’t your normal bar.”

“indeed it isn’t.”

your brain works far too hard to think of something else to say. instead you awkwardly sip the melted ice and last whispers of the drink. you cringe internally when it makes that god-awful sucking noise as it reaches the final drops. within seconds, the empty glass is swapped out with a new drink. two drink straws dangle from your lips as you look up at the hand replacing it. you manage a faint, thank you, smile.

without warning, the bartender’s fingers guide the straws out from the grasp of your lips. “i know we’re supposed to care about the environment. so i’ll let ya keep the straws if you’re feeling attached.”

your cheeks, without second thought, burn with the irresistible urge to break out into a smile and giggle helplessly. you’re not one to shy away from the advances of beautiful women. you’re confident in your abilities to flirt and flirt back. yet it’s something tonight…something you’re unable to place your fingers on.

“i’ll, uh, let you have it.” you shake your head instantly to take the words back. “throw it away, i mean.”

your bartender only graces you with a chuckle before departing again. the next thing she does—you are certain it’s a hallucination. without hesitation pops one of your used straws between her teeth. as if it’s a toothpick or piece of hay. your thoughts don’t have the opportunity to stray for long. ambessa’s bracelets summon you once again.

it’s not pathetic to mindlessly follow the sound of a gorgeously stunning woman’s bracelets. especially not when ambessa’s long finger is dancing along the rim of her glass.

“tell me…what exactly do you do for work? you surely do not seem like an investment banker.”

you crack a smile at the not-so joking remark as ambessa’s voice gains your full attention. “no, i am not. i’m essentially a glorified reader. i read all these grant proposals that come into our company. i select which ones are worth our time and money then i allocate the proposals to different teams within the company.”

“smart girl, i see.”

it’s the only note ambessa gives you but you cannot contain the growing smile at the genuine praise.

“thank you. i’d like to think so too. and how about you? what do you do for work?”

ambessa knows how to draw you in. there’s a twinge of a smile on her lips. instead of offering an immediate reply, she lifts her glass and swirls the contents around. “a little of everything, dear. one might call me greedy.”

“greedy? how so?” you find yourself inching towards ambessa. though it appears, or maybe it’s the trick of the light, ambessa is purposely drifting back to draw you close.

“how so…excellent question. i assume you’d know a little something about greediness though.”

you stiffen at those words. you’re usually quite adaptable in situations—never needing more than a few seconds to switch courses. yet ambessa’s words knocked your usual confidence out of you. greedy? of all the words and general assessments—greedy is never a first impression you’ve left. have you?

“i’m…unsure…of what you mean.”

ambessa’s laugh crackles in the air. the hairs on your arm react as if to electricity or physical touch. “ah. i see you’re not fully acquainted in the evident ways of your desires. both for myself and my lovely bartender, sevika.”

your throat shrivels up at ambessa’s blatant comments. it aches for an escape. or perhaps you need the quenching sacrament that is only offered after foolishly devoting your lust to ambessa. you force your gaze away from the trance held by golden embers sparked in ambessa’s eyes. it takes only one second to realize sevika’s paid close attention to the interaction at play.

the moment your eyes locked in with those glossy grey ones everything clicks in place. sevika cracks a smile around the straw, your used straw. ambessa’s finger never once stops moving around the glass. the condensation mimicked how you felt. slowly melting under the watchful gaze of two undeniably attractive women.

“you two know each other then?” the slight tremble in your tone is noticeable to you and ambessa.

ambessa, always cunning and quick wit, replies, “what do you think, sweetheart?”

with a pause, you let the interactions of the night wash over you. ambessa’s quick determination to touch you as she had approached. sevika spending a minute too long doting on you with the drink. offering a far too special creation. the sharpness of each of ambessa’s words towards you. both women had, not too discreetly, expressed their interest in you.

“what are you…to each other?” your eyes flicker between ambessa and sevika. sevika now closer. only a few feet at the sink idly washing her instruments.

ambessa scoffs. the sound makes you whip your head towards it. “what does it matter? i think it’s clear what we both desire.”

sevika chuckles at the subtle harshness in ambessa’s words. or maybe it’s lack of disinterest to further coax the truth into you. ambessa is patient but headstrong. flipping her shakers to dry, sevika closes the distance. creating a bubble between all three of you and the rest of the patrons.

“don’t make this difficult, doll.” sevika’s tone is much suave than before. “come home with us tonight. we’ll show you a good time.”

you cannot remember how or when you’d said yes to the proposition. it didn’t take a genius to jump on the opportunity either. all you could remember was sevika and ambessa sharing a grin. then with a snap of ambessa’s fingers—sevika switched spots with another bartender. another blur of time went on and were wedged between both women in the back of a black suv. sevika’s lips were attached to your neck while ambessa stroked her hand teasingly along your inner thigh.

ambessa cackled once you spread your legs open for more of her touch. it never came. it didn’t matter much to you in the moment. you were aware it wasn’t rejection from ambessa. the woman craved to have you all but salivating for her touch.

“you’ll beg us to stop touching you soon, darling.” ambessa purred near your ear before nipping at the soft flesh of the lobe.

no one said a peep as ambessa tugged you through the lobby of their penthouse suite. her fingers crushing the silk of your tie. the sight alone invoked a lowly moan in your throat. you were not embarrassed to admit, to yourself, you grew damper in your underwear.

nothing and absolutely nothing could have prepared you for the ways in which ambessa and sevika desired you. once your feet crossed the threshold of the elevator into the penthouse—sevika’s fingers worked in tandem to unbutton your dress shirt. it dawned you on far too late about your suit jacket discarded in the suv.

before you could even get a word in, sevika already sunk to her knees and maneuvered your pants and cotton underwear down to your ankles. it was a momentary lapse of awkwardness as you attempted to wiggle your feet out of both shoes and pants. within seconds of freedom, sevika’s face is buried between your legs. her tongue does not hesitate. an eager lick is taking of your folds—a warm tongue paired on your even warmer pussy.

“fuck…” you mutter with the sheer hunger and heat behind the first pass. you reach out for sevika’s hair to steady yourself from stumbling over.

sevika’s tongue moves with a messy yet deliberate rhythm. she moans into your cunt—savoring every last inch of you. you watch in awe as her eyes are closed and tongue exploring every nerve that makes you whine. her tongue delves lower—teasing your entrance only with the tip—before bringing it back to your swollen clit. you’re far too wet for sevika’s tongue to dissolve your juices rapidly. you feel her tongue spread your desire all over your clit before she sucks the bundle of nerves between her lips.

your nails scratch profusely at her scalp. any attempt from embarrassingly falling over as she eats you out. your moans turn more frantic and your whimpers more high pitched. before you can think to warn sevika—a commanding voice demands sevika stop. both sevika’s and your disappointment rings in the air. the woman on her knees grumbles into your cunt. you release a mewl of annoyance. sevika chastely adores your clit with a kiss before returning upright.

“don’t look too sad, buttercup.” sevika playfully nudges your chin.

before you allow yourself to respond, ambessa steps behind you and secures one arm around your waist. she molds your bodies together. the older woman is completely naked. her breasts press into your shoulders. her hips are positioned on your lower back. you tense momentarily feeling her breath on your skin but it dissolves immediately.

ambessa’s head dips to your neck and licks a strip of skin along the curve on your shoulder. “such a pretty little thing, aren’t you? so eager and willing for us.”

you forget almost instantaneously about your loss orgasm. sevika steps closer which graciously allows more support for your trembling body. both her hands grip into the ample, tender flesh of your hips. she smiles wickedly.

“come on, ambessa. you promised i’d have my fun with her.” sevika fakes a frown. despite her words directed to ambessa, her eyes remained on you.

ambessa chuckles lowly against your skin and her nose tickles as she nods. “very well. i’ll play nice for now.”

before you can catch the needy whine it slips out the second you’re deprived of ambessa’s warmth. she steps away with a pleased smile at your reaction. within a blink of an eye sevika’s scooped you into her arms bridal style and is following closely behind ambessa.

“i can walk, you know?” you mutter with a quiet tone as you position your arms around sevika’s neck.

“so? not enjoying the princess treatment?” sevika returns without missing a beat.

you scrunch your nose to starve off the blush threatening to bloom over your face. sevika only laughs knowingly. now as you’re in the bedroom—you don’t have much time to properly appreciate the deliberate decor and interior design. sevika carefully lowers you on the bed—treating you almost too delicately for your liking. ambessa situates her back flushed to the headboard.

ambessa spreads her legs a few inches wide and pats the space between them. “come, dear.”

with a deliberate nod, you crawl towards ambessa until you’re kneeling between her legs. she offers a genuine smile and a tilt of her head. a bashful feeling washes over you at her undivided attention. it takes a few seconds but then you understand the silent command. you sit between ambessa’s legs—your back leaned against her chest.

“i knew you were smart.” ambessa praises and her hands diligently part your legs until each one hangs over one of hers. “we like safe words around here, dear. as it is your first night we will start with the traffic light system. do you know what that is?”

“yes, ambessa.”

you cannot see it but you can sense another wide smile spreads across ambessa’s face. “delightful. let us put it to the test while sevika gets ready.”

one of ambessa’s hands cups your breasts and the other slides down your torso. fingers hovering over your mound before she speaks again. “what color, dearest?”

an immediate raspy whisper emits from you. “green.”

ambessa hums her acknowledgment then her fingers part your folds. the cool air tingles on your exposed cunt. you even hear the slickness as she spreads you apart. her hand on your breast gives a firm squeeze before palming at the flesh. your sharp breath causes ambessa to pause and you immediately reply with, “g-green…” her actions continue with the confirmation. ambessa rolls your nipple between two fingers as she ghosts the other fingers over your clit. your hips instinctively buck—feening for more friction. ambessa deviously chuckles near your ear. while twisting your nipple with a surprisingly delicate touch, ambessa’s middle finger draws circles over your clit. it takes almost nothing to tip your head back against her shoulder with a moan.

ambessa eagerly drinks in your approval and continues with the ministrations. the circles prove to only tease you and leave you leaking on the sheets. after a full minute passes, ambessa’s finger wanders lower. the same digit trails teasingly over your entrance.

“what color, sweetheart?”

you groan lowly. “green…please…green.”

as the last syllable leaves your lips, ambessa effortlessly drives two fingers into your waiting cunt. you both moan for the same yet different reasons. the two fingers curl expertly drawing another moan from you. it takes no effort for ambessa’s fingers to glide in and out of you without resistance. each movement filling your ears with the profane wetness between your legs. you whimper with your lips parted as she curls her fingers deeper and fucks you slowly yet deliberately. as if she’s waiting for something. or someone.

“she ready?”

sevika’s voice cuts into the sounds of your pleasure and ambessa’s fingers stretching you. with half lidded eyes you find sevika through the haze of lust glazed over them. on her hips hang a dildo of about six inches with healthy width of girth. the harness accentuates the dips and curves of her defined hips and legs. as you’re shamelessly checking sevika out—she is doing the same. her eyes trained on ambessa’s fingers expertly curling in and out of you.

your back arches as ambessa adds a third finger. ambessa drops her hand from your sensitive nipple and wraps her arm around your waist—pulling you back flushed against her body.

“she should be ready. are you, sweetheart?” ambessa lathers your neck with kisses after her question despite her fingers still moving steadily inside of you.

“yes…” your focus is split everywhere. unable to keep your eyes trained on sevika without moaning as ambessa stretches you further for what’s next.

nonetheless sevika finds herself in bed with you both. she inches forward on her knees until she’s in the space ambessa created between your legs. both her and ambessa exchange a look before the fingers inside of you slowly slide out. you whimper at the loss but know it’ll immediately be replaced with something bigger.

sevika’s hands soothingly massage the length of your thighs. her thumbs lightly digging into the flesh—easing any residual tension. you sigh out a moan as her thumbs move further up. they find themselves in the valley of your hips and legs working with more added pressure.

“please sevika…” you attempt to arch your back—desperate for more than teasing.

ambessa’s arm tighten its hold on your torso. “none of that, doll. you’ll stay still and wait for sevika.”

“ah, it’s okay, ambessa. she’s kinda cute like this.”

sevika positions her knees underneath ambessa’s thighs for leverage. her non prosthetic fingers dance and dip between your folds—ensuring you’re ready. she guides the head of the strap towards your hole. the tip nudges against your entrance. both you and sevika bite your lips in anticipation. ambessa’s hands are tenderly caressing your sides sending goosebumps everywhere.

with one swift yet deliberate thrust sevika has sunk the entirety of the strap inside of you. likewise a moan is buried in your throat wanting escape but unable to. you feel the roughness of ambessa’s hands settling into their positions. one hand returned to your breast and the other slithering down to locate your clit once again.

the moan finally releases once sevika cautiously grinds her hips down and ambessa applies a delicious pressure to your clit. you find yourself melting into ambessa’s arms as her lips idly kiss along your shoulder and neck.

“one last time dearest…what color?” ambessa mutters against your skin.

“green…fuck…green for the whole night…”

you hear both their pleased chuckles and a blush dusts on the apples of your cheek. the momentary embarrassment dissipates the second sevika lazily drags the strap out then thrusts it back inside of you. she repeats the action a few times—stretching you out before setting a pace. once sevika’s patience runs thin of the teasing, she grips your thighs and starts thrusting her hips. it’s a steady momentum and rhythm. you feel the veins of the fake cock sliding against your spongey walls. the slight curvature allows a pleasurable friction on your g-spot each time sevika drags the strap out.

your moans gradually grow more and more desperate the more sevika thrusts into you. ambessa’s firm circles on your clit accelerates the process of your orgasm. paired with the interchangeable stimulation of your nipples from talented fingers. sevika pants and occasionally grunts above you. she cannot decide whether to watch her cock disappear inside your cunt or the expressions on your face. her nails leave impressions of half crescent moons on your thighs.

“feels so fucking good, baby…shit…” sevika growls as she crouches forward. her forehead grazing only an inch above yours.

sevika’s hips begin to move with a little less grace. snapping into you with such an intensity you’re already preparing for the lingering soreness tomorrow. you cannot even get the noises of pleasure out from within. your head falls on ambessa’s shoulder—no longer able to support the weight. ambessa, always an opportunist, encircles your neck with her calloused fingers. the action draws a moan out of you and it’s immediately paired with ambessa adding more pressure to your clit.

“oh fuck…that’s…gonna make me…cum…”

ambessa’s squeezes the sides of your neck experimentally and the walls of your cunt flutter and tighten around sevika’s strap. it produces a series of tiny whimpers as sevika’s thrusting is unrelenting and ambessa fingers never once pause their careful, pressured circles on your clit.

“come for us, baby. you’re so pretty like this…so perfect…” ambessa whispers softly near the shell of your air.

you’ve never once came on command. you figured it was a myth. that is before ambessa cuts off your air circulation. before sevika manages to spread your legs wider and somehow move even faster. the fingers on your clit match the speed in which you’re being fucked. ambessa tips your head backwards so sevika can crash your lips into a heated and passionate kiss.

within seconds everything comes crashing down. your legs tremble from the onslaught attention. tongues messily clashing as you both moan into each other. the blood gushes rapidly in your ears drowning out the squelching sounds of your cunt being filled. you’re not even sure if you moaned or if it was a silent one. neither of them relent until you’ve limply sunk into ambessa’s embrace.

sevika draws back from your lips. smiling proudly as a string of saliva connects you both. ambessa’s hand encroached around her neck drops and starts caressing your trembling form. her lips return with more intent kisses anywhere she can reach. sevika’s hands carefully lift your legs off of ambessa’s and settle them on the bed after she draws the strap out of you.

you whimper with the empty feeling. despite the emptiness, your cunt throbs achingly around nothing. you hear someone ask you a question but you cannot determine from whom.

“did you hear that?” the voice asks and you shake your head truthfully. you feel the laughter rumbling on ambessa’s skin—must’ve been her. “do you need a break? or are you ready for more?”

“m-more?” you whine out as you half heartedly watch sevika loosen then step out of the harness.

ambessa bites gently into your shoulder emitting a tiny yelp out of you. “yes, more. you think sevika is the only one with all the fun? oh darling…i myself need to taste you and feel you come around my tongue, my fingers…maybe i’ll bring out a bigger toy. would you like that?”

“yes, ambessa…” the prompt answer is without hesitation.

ambessa licks the bite mark embedded in your shoulder now. she words settled deep into your core. “oh…you’re too perfect. i think we’ll keep you, pet.”

[msfantasy-comics]

The Family Meet and Greet

Damian Wayne x Reader

Request/Summary: Hey hun! I wanted to send in a request for Damian Wayne x reader. Maybe reader being introduced to the family/the family finding out about them?

A/n: Honestly I can’t tell if the picture is Tim or Damian.

Masterlist - Tip Jar

Damian is a pretty private person and doesn’t intend to do an awkward meet and greet with his beloved girlfriend.

He knew that all of his family members would find out one way or another anyway.

Dick Grayson:

It wouldn’t take a genius detective to know that Damian is asking for advice for his love life.

Damian sits in his hero costume, hunched over as his legs dangle over the side of the building. His eyes evade Dicks, a red hue spreading across the tips of his ears.

A soft smile embellishes Dicks lips as he sees his younger brother whom is typically egocentric, now looking timid and shy for the first time ever.

“So my friend started seeing someone recently and he had this dilemma on if he should keep seeing her or not because on one hand he has all this baggage he doesn’t want to burden her with and on the other hand he just can’t bring himself to break things off with her.”

“So this girl your seeing-“ Damian’s eyes bulge, snapping his neck towards Dick, acting too defensively.

“Ugh, are you not listening Grayson? I said it’s about my friend.”

“Right, right, I forgot. My bad…” Dick think’s carefully on his words. “Sounds like your friend is a classic over-thinker. Relationships are far from logical, it’s all based on feelings. It might be hard for your friend, but just enjoy it for what it is.” Damian sits and stares off over the Gotham skyline looking unconvinced. “Look Dames, there is no right answer. Just do what feels right.”

Leaning back into his palms he stares in amusement at his beloved younger brother continues pining in anguish.

“So… how long do we keep pretending that we aren’t talking about you? Can I see a picture?” Damian rolls his eyes with a sigh, sliding his phone out of his pocket, he taps on the screen silently before shoving his phone into Dicks hands.

There laid the image a happy couple. Damian’s arms wrapped around your shoulder. The dark city filtering behind the brightly lit couple, forever captured in permanent laughter.

Dick, initially keen to tease the cheesy photo before him, now silent in pure aw to see the genuine smile, Damian’s eyes lit in adoration.

“Do not tell anyone Grayson. I will share the news when I am ready.”

Tim Drake:

The little rat has been acting rather odd.

Tim tried talking about it to Dick but he just kept evading his questions by pathetically redirecting his attention with someone else’s random drama.

They’re both acting weird and secretive, and there is no way Tim is going to be kept out of such an intriguing mystery.

Usually Tim would just stalk his targets, but this is Damian we are talking about. It is incredibly difficult, if not impossible to track Damian without him noticing. Starting with Damian’s social media, Tim pin points all of the photo locations and begins to visit each site one at a time. He hacks the local cameras and reviews the footage from around the date the photo was uploaded.

Low and behold, footage of Damian smooshing his face into another ladies face….

Whelp, Tim was certainly not expecting to see such a DISGUSTING display of affection. YUCK.

He didn’t even know the rat could even feel those types of feelings.

Tim, now laying on his bed cuddled up to a pillow is looking… traumatised.

Sometimes, it’s better just not to know.

Barbara Gordon

No freaking way.

Barbara could not believe her very eyes.

When completing a Internet background check on the Wayne family to scrub any suspicious allegations or accusations, Babs found the Holy Grail of finds.

An account with a mysterious woman with months worth of photos with the Wayne’s local angsty brat, Damian Freaking Wayne.

When completing a generic photo match search. Lovey, dovey poses with Damian and a girl by the name Y/n flashed up on the screen.

This is juicy! To tell Bruce or not to tell Bruce, that is the question.

Jason Todd

Disgusting. Absolutely foul.

It’s a random Tuesday evening when Jason jumps roof tops only to discover a couple making out all hot and heavy.

Their bodies tangling together as the man rips his shirt off. The girl sliding her hands along his abdomen before landing on his belt buckle.

The man then slides his hands from the back of her neck to her ass, giving it a needy grope before sliding his hands to the back of her thighs, lifting the woman with ease and pressing her against the wall.

This is hilarious, they have no idea Gothams most infamous Vigilante has caught them about to get down and dirty on Gothams roof top.

Jason sat down and ate his figurative pop-corn in humourous delight, until his eyes adjust.

“Ain’t no FUCKING way!” Jason yells, humours delight now churning into a disturbed nausea. He swallowed the bile raising up in his throat.

Pulling out his phone he calls Damian. Panting breaths filter through the phone, only furthering Jason’s disgust.

“What?! I’m in the middle of-“

“I know what your in the middle of you sick bastard! Take it indoors!” The line goes quite for just a moment. “Little freak, your family patrols the roof tops you know, ugh, I can’t - I’m having a flash back to Selina and Bru- ugh I’m gonna vomit.”

Duke

“Finally!” Duke announces, hoping over the back of the couch and sprawling out on the soft cushions of the plush couch. Without a second to spare Duke switches the TV on to watch the latest episode of his favourite show.

“Thomas-“

“No talking!” Duke wholesomely announces, crossing his arms over his chest.

“My phone… forget it.” Damian grumbles, seeing Dukes eyes glued to the TV. Squishing further into the cushions, Duke feels the uncomfortable poke of a hard object pressing into his rib.

Wrenching the wretched object from its place, Duke holds a phone. His haphazard fingers pressing into the screen which lights up and shows the text of a person named Y/n.

Y/n: Can’t wait for our date tonight, I miss your handsome face xx

Dukes cheeks heats up, seeing a private message he shouldn’t have seen. Damian is incredibly private and may murder Duke for accidentally learning something he wasn’t suppose to.

Wiping any evidence of his fingers touching the phone Duke places the phone back between the cushions.

Best if he just abandons his show for now for a tactical retreat.

Bruce Wayne

God, why are his kids so weird?

Seriously? Out of all 20 of them, not a single one was normal��

Sitting at the head of the dinner table, he watches his children talk amoungst themselves in weird cryptic speeches.

“Do you know what I know?” Tim asks intensely, the broccoli wedged on his fork, pointing at Dick, who stares back wide-eyed.

“I don’t know anything … why what do you know?” Dick says scanning the rest of the room to see if they somehow knew what Dick was referring to.

“I can’t share what I know, but just know it. Is. Juicy.” Babs announces with a sly and taunting grin.

“I don’t know anything, I didn’t even want to see it. Oh god, I’m feeling queasy.” Jason says crossing his arms over his stomach.

“IDidntSeeAnythingEither.” Duke announces quickly, and begins to quickly Hoover his dinner.

Damian sighs, massaging his temples at his idiotic siblings.

“So I take it that you have all found out about Y/n?” Bruce asks calmly, slowly sawing into the plump steak on his plate.

The room falls dead silent as all heads turn towards Bruce, surprised that he knew and surprised that he had the guts to say what everyone else was thinking.

“Father, how do you know about Y/n?”

“… I’m Batman.”

[lvmimis]

“Hold still.”

In your attempt to stabilize the young man’s face that keeps recoiling childishly further and further away from you the longer you apply antiseptic on the littered cuts and scrapes before they swell and get infected, you feel your frustration mounting, gripping his chin more firmly than you intended.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow!!!” Luffy yells and fidgets, but once your fingertips are posed on his skin, he stills, no longer pulling away. Just moments ago you’d think that every time you applied alcohol-soaked cotton it would sizzle upon contact with his skin with the way he was moving, and bite your lower lip in annoyance, but soon an image of what caused those injuries in the first place flashes back in your mind, and your approach softens quickly into empathy.

Luffy is strong and his pain tolerance is far higher than yours, so if he’s whining now, it’s because he feels safe enough to feel in your presence, and you should cherish that.

“I’m almost done, Luffy,” your voice comes out more compassionately, your hand sliding gently from the base of his visage, and trailing down his neck to rest on his shoulder. It’s unintentionally intimate, and there’s the softest tinge of pink that blooms under Luffy’s bruised up face as you lean in close. “Just give me a few more minutes, okay?”

He pauses, and his voice turns similarly gentle.

“Okay.”

The last place you work on is the developing shiner under his left eye, the one puffing up under his childhood scar. As you gently massage cooling ointment into his skin, his eyes close, his head tilting up as it melts into your touch. 

He’s behaving. Giving himself to you.

“I’m done,” you whisper a few minutes later, and Luffy opens his eyes, deep brown irises warm with gratitude. 

He beams.

“Thank you.”

Your cheeks warm for a moment, and in your constant need to emotionally self-regulate, you turn away from him quickly, busying your hands with the task of putting away your tray of first aid materials.

“You can thank me by thinking twice about getting into fights.”

It’s unfair, you know, as soon as it comes out, given that he needed to get his hat back one way or the other from Zephyr, but he quickly redirects you before you can apologize.

“Why would I do that when I have you to patch me up so nicely every time?” Luffy retorts with a grin. You turn to give him an exasperated look, but he’s moved from the location where you left him, faster than you could perceive, and is standing before you now just a little too close, enough to almost startle you.

Before you can take a step back, he’s gripped your chin the same way you did to him earlier, tilting it up towards him. It’s a show of dominance, but playful - as much as you tease and prod him and push him away, Luffy’s quick to show you that he has the upper hand always, easily. 

“I’m making it Chopper’s job next time.” A threat you give him, without any teeth.

“Ah, that’s a bummer,” Luffy says, his grip spreading to pucker your lips. You know what he wants to do before he does it, his eyes and yours half-lidded before he kisses you, and the smell of pungent, herbal ointment fills your nostrils, quickly blunted by the sweet taste of his lips pressed against yours, his tongue seamlessly slipping into your mouth. 

You kiss perhaps a little too long, your hands wrapping around his shoulders and his around your waist - you back together into a wall slowly, and still a little bit longer, you devour each other, relishing in the passing of bandaged and bruised hands over your skin.

He finally pulls away, grinning widely, satisfied with his work as you stand there, breathless and flustered.

“Well, I don’t think I can repay him like that.”

“Luffy!”

The smack you give him in the arm has him yelp and you immediately apologize, panicked that you broke something of his, but as you do so, he chuckles.

“Just kidding.” 

You wonder if you should kick him for real but he mollifies you by taking your hand and kissing the unblemished knuckles.

“I’ll stop teasing you for a bit, promise,” he says to your dissatisfied pout.

You huff, but soon change the subject, as your fingers interlace and you leave the ship clinic hand in hand.