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konoharfts · 4 months ago

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Look Alive Sunshine ~

New Bulletproof Hearts AU lore just dropped

Here, have Kakashi and Genma’s character intros and thumbnail designs and notes for 6 out of the main 7!!! (I’ve already posted Anko ;) )

(If this is the first Bulletproof Hearts AU post you’re seeing, for context this is my Danger Days inspired AU featuring the tokujo squad and also Kakashi :) )

And now for the official intro:

In the fallout following the Resource Wars , and shortly after we lost Kiri to the waves, the Senju company in collaboration with the Red Fan company establish Neo-Konoha, the new capitol of the remnants of the Land of Fire. A shiny new city free from the troubles of post-war faction life, and the dizzying desert heat.

Here in the city everything runs on chakra energy. No more nuclear or fossil fuels, that’s for the old-world now. By tapping into the “dragon veins” flowing through the earth chakra can be cultivated and converted into the fuel that powers all of Neo-Konoha’s beloved bright lights, hover-cars, gadgets, and gizmos. It’s even opened up the doorway to cybernetics and body-modification. With chakra being an energy source that resonates with life it’s never been easier to merge man and tech. Now, many new companies wanting to make their mark on chakra-tech industries have sprouted up, and Chakra City (Neo-Konoha) is very kind to those wanting to contribute to the expansion of the city, and the growth of the economy.

The city is split into three main branches. The tall buildings and neon lights of the inner-city, the seedy bars and backroom deals of the under-city, and the plastic smiles and white picket fences of the residential district. Everything inside the city walls is labeled as Neo-Konoha, and everything outside in the wide open desert plains is labeled as the Outer-Ring, where many live in the little non-radiated pockets of barely habitable land. Made barely habitable thanks to the over mining of chakra, causing the land to be drained of its vitality. Life in the O.R is rough, it’s a lawless wasteland filled with criminals, thugs, and the kindest and realest people you’ll ever meet. It’s the home of all of those who don’t belong inside the city walls. Those who were cast out, or those who chose to leave, and those who had no choice but to be born.

After the tragic death of chairman Minato Namikaze the Golden Era of Neo-Konoha has been replaced my Sarutobi Hiruzen’s age of radio silence, aided by president of ROOT Danzo Shimra who’s company specializes in keeping the people “in line”. A powerful regime threatened only by a newly established pack of desert rats out in the Outer-Ring consisting of two of Minato’s former bodyguards, the previous head of the intelligence division, a woman who’s more machine than human, a sickly smuggler, and more recently a once-double agent turned pink hearted. These anarchists call themselves Wildfire.

Operating out of an abandoned gas station from back in the old era of gas powered vehicles Wildfire’s unofficial leader Genma Shiranui runs a 24h radio station - titled S.E.N.B.O.N radio - where you can tune in to all of the greatest punk-rock hits AND get all the information you need regarding the movement of Neo-Konoha’s exterminators, soldiers, and SCARECROWs out in the O.R. How to best avoid them, and how to best blast ‘em to one of the four respectable levels of dead without sending yourself sky high with ‘em. Unintentionally Shiranui becomes somewhat of a guardian angel for the people struggling against the chains of oppression out in the wastes. What was once a station created to provide some musical escape with just a sprinkling of survival tricks turned into the stage in which the revolution is set.

In that same gas station that’s home to such an iconic station are all of the other main members of Wildfire. We’ve got Anko Mitarashi, who has a mechanic shop where she can do just about anything given the proper materials. Anything from mods to prosthetics, vehicle repair and customization, making whole new gadgets, and making cyber-cycles from scratch. Meanwhile, when he’s not out on an assignment Raidō Namiashi’s running the “convenience store” that’s really just a front for the whole fence thing they’re running. Ibiki Morino is used as the group’s ‘intimidation and muscle’ but when he’s not scaring Konoha dogs shitless he’s slaving over his pride and joy, a car that’s more modifications than car. Hayate Gekkō manages their connections to the smuggling routes and also makes it his life mission to act like the station’s cat. Agent Yūgao Uzuki, former SCARECROW assigned to take down the rebels, turned double agent, turned Wildfire loyalist tries to take charge of planning as much as she can. After witnessing the state of the leadership in the revolt rocking konoha she’s flabbergasted they accomplished as much as they did.

On the side of Neo-Konoha Kakashi Hatake, Mad Dog, agent #07, and Hiruzen’s top SCARECROW, is assigned to take Wildfire down. The group consisting of his old comrades and friends, before they turned traitor. With his soldier prowess and the use of the advanced AI program ‘B2’, created by Obito uchiha, Kakashi is the only individual able to stand against Wildfire, the question is, does his loyalty to Neo-Konoha and his trust in “Obito” outweigh the ache he feels. The niggling feeling that there’s something very wrong, something he’s missing.

This is not a tale about heroes. This is not a tale about glory. This is a tale about people. People living, and people dying, and people clawing their way through life, and people snapping at the hand that tightens the leash. There is no victor, there is no clean cut, just what is left when the fire burns through. The embers that sparked the Wildfire are doomed to fizzle out and die in the infancy of the flame. But as long as you stick around to witness the trees burn, they cannot claim it hadn’t happened at all. When a tree falls in a forest, tune in to the sound. Because remember, they can’t control you if you don’t give in to the silence.

Orrrrr

The tokujo gang fight against the oppressive fascist regime of Neo-Konoha while spreading chaos through the wastes and making Kakashi’s life way harder :)

So yeah, I hope that makes sense T~T it’s so late at night when I’m writing this I fear I may be too cryptic…. BUT PLEASE TELL ME YOU GET THE VISION!!

If anyone is interested in more lore feel free to ask anything <<33 I’m going to try and post some mini comics and blurbs for this AU often-ish (for art practice and also I want to push my brainworms onto y’all) so stay tuned?

Alright I think that’s enough yapping (for now ;) ) if anyone read all of that I shall give you one (1) soft little forehead kith :) 😙💋

Okay byeeee~~~

#bulletproof hearts au #I did not proofread all that so if it makes no sense eeeeeh 🤷‍♀️#there are some things mentioned in the character design guide sheet thing that y’all have NO context for but I swear I’ll release more lore #the scene between Kakashi and Genma in their respective character sheets is referring to when genma (with raidou and ibiki) left konoha #because genma uncovered a conspiracy involving the nature of Minato’s death #genma trusts those three with this info since they were all close to minato but kakashi rats them out to danzo #(kakashi is being manipulated into believing that Genma is a lying traitor so HE feels betrayed)#and the monent where it clicks that the one to betray them was KAKASHI??? his friend and comrade and maybe secret third thing KAKASHI???#devestating…#anyways :)#naruto #naruto fanart #artists on tumblr #kakashi hatake #genma shiranui #ibiki morino #yugao uzuki #hayate gekko #raido namiashi #raidou namiashi #i’m not normal about them *knawing at the bars of my enclosure*#EDIT: ACCIDENTALLY POSTED A CROPPED VERSION OF THE THIRD IMAGE OOPS

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literaryvein-reblogs · 6 months ago

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Have any ideas on how a spy's job would work? I'm struggling to write about one

Writing Notes: Spy Characters

In the intelligence world, a spy is strictly defined as someone used to steal secrets for an intelligence organization.

Also: agent or asset; a spy is not a professional intelligence officer, and doesn’t usually receive formal training (though may be taught basic tradecraft). Instead, a spy either volunteers or is recruited to help steal information, motivated by ideology, patriotism, money, or by a host of other reasons, from blackmail to love.

From an intelligence perspective, their most important quality is having access to valuable information. For this reason, a government minister might make a great spy—but so might the janitor or a cafeteria worker in a government ministry.

Espionage - process of obtaining military, political, commercial, or other secret information by means of spies, secret agents, or illegal monitoring devices; sometimes distinguished from the broader category of intelligence gathering by its aggressive nature and its illegality.

Double Agent - someone who works for two sides.

Intelligence - In the spying world, intelligence means information collected by a government or other entity that can help guide decisions and actions regarding national security. But intelligence can also mean the process by which that information is acquired

How are spies recruited? Spies are recruited via an approach or pitch by a case officer. This often seeks to persuade the individual through appealing to ideology, patriotism, religion, ego, greed, or love, or sometimes by using blackmail or some other form of coercion.

How do spies go undercover? Intelligence officers often operate abroad under some form of official cover, perhaps as diplomats in an embassy. Others operate without the protection of their government and must create a convincing cover that explains their presence and activities in a country—a businessperson, perhaps, or a student. The Russians call these officers “illegals,” the Americans call them “NOCs” (for Non-Official Cover). If caught, they’re on their own, and face arrest, even execution.

How do spies communicate?. Face-to-face meetings can be impractical, even deadly—especially if spies are caught red-handed passing or receiving classified information or carrying spy equipment. That’s why sharing information relies on covert communication or COVCOM. Methods include secret writing (such as invisible ink or tiny microdots) or sending and receiving secure messages using special technology (often concealed or even disguised to look like everyday objects).

How much does a secret agent make? Professional intelligence officers receive salaries based on their level of experience, like all government employees. Few own vintage Aston Martin DB5s and order beluga caviar on a regular basis. Spies can earn a lot more money, though. In the 1980s, CIA officer Aldrich Ames received over $4 million from the Soviets for betraying US secrets, enough to buy himself a half-million-dollar home in cash and a flashy red Jaguar. But living beyond his salary aroused the suspicions of US intelligence, which ultimately led to his arrest.

The Intelligence Cycle

Refers to the process through which spy agencies acquire information. It consists of at least 5 stages:

Planning: Decision-makers task an intelligence agency to acquire information on certain topics or specific issues of concern (“requirements”).

Collection: This is where the spies, agents, case officers, tech ops, scientists, hackers, and others come in, acquiring information from different sources in a myriad of creative ways.

Processing: Collected information needs to be narrowed down, prioritized, and put into some kind of digestible format. This might also involve having to decode information.

Analysis: This is the stage where collected information becomes something useful that decision-makers can use: intelligence.

Dissemination: Intelligence agencies get the final product to the decision-maker or “customer.” Of course, it’s quite possible that this might prompt more questions… and the intelligence cycle begins all over again.

Tips on Writing About Spies

Some tips from different sources:

Being a real-life spy isn’t always James Bond-glamorous. Spies are typically brilliant when it comes to reading people—your spy character needs to be curious and patient. It may take seven years for a spy to get their footing.

Normal people make the best spies. In real life, handlers are looking for a Regular Joe or Plain Jane with access—they don’t want someone who sticks out in a crowd or whose life is in disarray. They also want someone who is honest and immediately willing to own up to any mistakes they might have made. (Elizabeth Bentley may have had problems with this.) So, having a character who is bland as vanilla (at least on the outside) may work well in your favor.

Your spy could be overheard at any moment. It’s a good idea to have your spy flip on the radio to cover important conversations, or meet in a loud restaurant. (Which also solves the problem of having a potentially bugged apartment.) Even better is to meet near a water feature—the sound of falling water is unique and difficult to filter out even in modern-day recordings.

Spy gadgets are really cool. Ticking off the KGB is not. If your spy character runs afoul of the KGB (or one of its many predecessors), be prepared for creative assassination attempts that may or may not make use of more lethal spy gadgets. (Just ask Bohdan Stashynsky, a KGB officer who used a cyanide spraying spray gun to assassinate two Ukrainian nationalist leaders.) In a pinch, the Russians might resort to a tactic like Leon Trotsky’s ice pick to the face, but either way, it’s not going to be much fun for their target.

You need a good reason to be a spy. Idealists often make the best spies, but there are other motivations that might get your character to join up with the CIA, KGB, or some other spy organization. Does your character need the money being offered? Are they looking for a sense of purpose or belonging? Do they have an axe to grind with the government? Also, remember that the CIA doesn’t coerce people into informing for them. The Russians, on the other hand… Well, they’re a different story.

Don’t draw portraits of spies, but draw portraits of people who happen to work as spies. The choices they make in their lives emerge from who they are, and those choices might conflict with the requirements of their spy work. The spy’s job may be to suborn friends, lie to adversaries, betray a trust, but it is the spy’s nagging, perhaps inconvenient, humanity that makes them suffer their choices, and excites the reader’s empathy.

Writing Tips: Spy Thriller

A step-by-step guide to writing a spy story with international intrigue and non-stop action:

Think of a killer concept. There are a lot of spy novels out there, so you need to come up with a story that has a new and unique angle. If you’re a history buff and have a specific area of interest—like Russian operatives, Nazi Germany during WWII, or American soldiers in the Middle East—go with where your passion lies. Come up with a fresh idea that people won’t feel like they’ve read before. Do some research. Find inspiration in real-life spy stories to tell yours.

Get familiar with spy tools. From spy cameras to surveillance equipment, the cool tools and gadgets of espionage fiction are part of what makes the genre fun. Get to know spycraft and tradecraft—the technology and techniques real spies use to track the enemy. Read news stories to see how espionage works today or in the time period you’re writing about. While espionage can also be incorporated into another genre, like science fiction, for the most part, spy novels emerge from actual events. That doesn’t mean you need to just use real tools of the trade. Create your own spy tech for your story.

Create an incredible protagonist. From Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan, a CIA agent first introduced in The Hunt for Red October, to Ian Fleming’s most famous secret agent, James Bond, the protagonists of spy stories have long been ingrained in popular culture. Create a main character who readers will root for and who will persevere no matter what obstacle you throw in their way.

Send your character on a world-saving mission. Think about James Bond. His heart-pounding missions crossed international boundaries, and they always involved more than just taking down a bad guy: He always had to stop a massive attack that would kill innocent people. You need to justify the intense action by making the consequences big. To do this, start by coming up with your antagonist. Who are they and where are they from? What is their goal in the story? Once you know that, you’ll have your protagonist’s quest that will propel your plot.

Write highly visual action scenes. Red Sparrow and The Bourne Identity are action-packed films based on bestselling espionage novels. Spy books make great movies because the action translates well to the screen. When you sit down to start your story, think in pictures. Readers are expecting action so you need to lead with a dramatic scene that shows your protagonist at work in a perilous situation. You’ll need a few of these big scenes throughout your story—not to mention the climax which has to be big, suspenseful and, yes, visual. Use descriptive words to get the reader into the middle of the pulse-racing scene.

Use page-turning literary devices. Plot twists, cliffhangers, dramatic irony, foreshadowing, red herrings: When you write a spy novel, you’ll get to employ literary devices you might not have used before. To write a real page-turning story of espionage, make sure you take advantage of the tools that literature has to offer for maximum suspense.

You can also read about real life spies to guide your writing. Some examples:

John Walker (American spy)

Donald Maclean (British diplomat and spy)

Mata Hari (Dutch dancer and spy)

Nancy Hart (Confederate spy)

Audrey Hepburn as a WWII resistance spy

Famous Women Who Were Secretly Spies

Some of history’s most notable spies

List of spies

Some Terminology: Espionage

Agent - A person unofficially employed by an intelligence service, often as a source of information.

Black Bag Job - Secret entry into a home or office to steal or copy materials.

Clean - Unknown to enemy intelligence.

Dangle - A person who is made accessible to a foreign intelligence agency with the intent of being recruited by that agency to then work as a double agent for the person’s own country.

Eyes-Only - A designation signifying who may read a specific, classified document.

False Flag - A deliberate misrepresentation of motives or identity; an operation designed to appear as if it were conducted by someone other than the person or group responsible for it.

Ghoul - Agent who searches obituaries and graveyards for names of the deceased for use by agents.

Honey Trap - Slang for use of men or women in sexual situations to intimidate or snare others.

Innocent Postcard - A postcard with an innocuous message sent to an address in a neutral country to verify the continued security of an undercover operative.

L-Pill - A poison pill used by operatives to commit suicide.

More spy-related terms: 1 2 3

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#spy #espionage #writeblr #writing tips #character development #writing reference #spilled ink #dark academia #literature #creative writing #writers on tumblr #writing prompt #writing advice #character building #light academia #fiction #writing resources

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madamsnape921 · 11 months ago

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Phone Help

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x female reader

WC: 2557

Warning: f/f smut; I really went out of my comfort zone for this one but I think it turned out okay; my husband deserves a shout out for his help of writing this one: Thank you, Nick!

Tags: @alwaysachorusgirl @beccabarba @storiesofsvu

You had just started your first month at Quantico, not exactly your dream job but it provided a steady income and federal benefits. It was a relief to be able to afford a two-bedroom apartment in the city after your recent relationship ended. However, the agents were a challenge. They were arrogant, thinking they were the ultimate saviors, and their actions reflected that attitude.

“YN?”

As you snap out of your self-absorbed tirade, you notice one of the top members from the Behavioral Analysis Unit standing in front of you, looking just as perplexed as you feel. Why is she here? You wonder to yourself.

“Yes, Agent…?” you look for a nametag.

“Prentiss. Emily Prentiss. I am with the BAU. So, hey. Our normal tech person is not keen on doing our personal phones. She mentioned I should come to the new girl, which I am assuming is you, to help me?”

You despised phone work. Actually, you loathed it. But you knew that earning some brownie points with a senior agent could be beneficial in the future. So, you forced yourself to answer the call and politely responded, "Of course, Agent Prentiss. What can I assist you with?"

“The phone is acting slow and I can’t seem to find any of my files,” she hands you a card. “YN, here is my work number. Call me when you figure it out?”

“Sure. I’ll look at it here and then I’ll see what I can…,” you started.

I'd rather not use agency time or equipment for this task. The data on my device is personal and I don't want anyone else to have access to it. One of my close friends happens to be a top-notch hacker, so she probably has something lurking around in there.”

Prentiss gave a nod and then exited your office. She walked away with ease, her sensible pantsuit moving smoothly with each step.

After a grueling day at work, you finally reach your apartment. Your fingers are still warm from typing on the keyboards as you touch the doorknob. You step inside and are greeted by your faithful feline companions. "Sorry guys, Mom has to fix a friend's phone."

A friend's phone? That was unexpected, you thought.

You pour yourself a glass of wine and sit down at your computer, confident that this task will not take too much time. All I need to do is scan the phone for any harmful files and reinstall everything. It should be a piece of cake, you think to yourself. After completing the scan and finding everything to be in order, you give Agent Prentiss a call, relieved by the ease of the process.

“Hey, Agent Prentiss, it’s YN. Your phone is finishing up now. If you want to head down I can text you my address.”

“YN, that would be fantastic! Thank you for being so efficient,” Prentiss exclaimed. “I'll be at your residence in 15 minutes.”

“How do you know that?” you asked.

“I’m with the government. I know everything,” Prentiss joked.

After completing the scan, you realize that there is an issue. The program alerts you to the presence of a malicious app on the phone, Calculator PlusPlus. You launch the app and it prompts for a password. Using your own knowledge, you successfully crack the password and let out a triumphant laugh, "Take that, Penelope."

The next thing you see are numerous pictures of nude women, all with the same hair color and style as you. This must be what's taking up all the storage space on the phone, along with all of the data. You panic when you hear a knock at the door.

“YN, it’s Emily. I’m here about my phone,” Prentiss called from the hall.

DOUBLE SHIT. MINIMIZE MINIMIZE MINIMIZE! SHIT it’s frozen. SHITSHITSHIT.

“YN, I thought it was ready,” Prentiss knocked again.

After hearing a knock at your door, you call out "Coming!" and get up to answer it. You open the door to see Agent Prentiss standing there.

"Hey there, Agent Prentiss. Please come in," you say with a smile, dressed in your comfortable lounge pants and cat mom tank top.

“Please call me Emily, we’re not at work.” You close the door behind her, her in the same suit from work.

“Please sit. Do you want something to drink?” you offer.

“I’ll have a beer. It’s been hell with the BAU.” She sits on your couch and begins to pet one of your cats. “Beautiful cats, YN!”

“Thanks, they’re my babies,” you smile.

You grab the beer from the fridge and pop it open, handing it to Prentiss. As you both relax and chat about work and other small talk, an hour and a half quickly passes by. Suddenly, you remember something and say, "Oh, your phone! It's in my room. I'll go get it for you."

Upon entering your room, you find the computer still frozen on a picture of a nude woman. The figure resembles you, but not entirely. It's almost like a lower-quality version of yourself. You are immediately jolted by the realization that these intimate images are displayed prominently on your oversized screen.

“Oh, I see you found the Calculator PlusPlus App…,” Prentiss whispered.

“OH MY GOD! I AM SO SORRY. I was trying to find any malicious apps and I cracked this one’s code and…. I wasn’t snooping. I promise,” you apologised.

“I believe you, but you know what this means, right” Prentiss scowled.

“No…,” you said in response.

Prentiss puts her hand on her gun holster, “I’ll have to kill you to keep my secret safe.”

The room fell silent, and Prentiss let out a chuckle. "Just kidding," she said with a smirk. "Just put them back and don't tell anyone. I have a type...smart, dark-haired girls like yourself."

The phone was too easy to fix. Would she… she wouldn’t.

Prentiss gently brushed your hair and whispered, "We can keep another secret just between us, if you'd like." Your face paled as she tenderly kissed your lips. You had never been with a woman before, let alone one as stunning as her. Feeling unsure of yourself, you tentatively kissed her back, unsure of what to do next.

“Do you want to do this, YN?”

You nod your head.

Prentiss continued to kiss you softly. Mostly on the center of your mouth, but then switching to the left and the right sides, keeping you guessing. You felt yourself become weak in the knees.

“Let’s sit on the bed, YN.”

“Yes, Agent Prentiss.”

You both sat on the bed and continued to kiss. Prentiss’ hands exploring your body. Your mind and your arms begin to open up.

“Good girl, YN. Take off my jacket.”

You obey the orders given to you, carefully removing her jacket and placing it on the chair next to the bedside table. She sits there, still wearing a sleeveless blouse and her gun holster.

“Now take off your top, YN.”

You cautiously remove your top, wondering how she has such control over you. Your breasts are now exposed to the cool air, and the intense energy in the room causes your nipples to harden. Suddenly, a soft yet firm suction envelops your left nipple, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You've had boyfriends do this before, but never a woman. Prentiss continues to knead and suck on your breast while gently stroking your hair, creating an overwhelming sense of bliss.

Prentiss stopped and moved to the other breast. It was just as amazing. However, you where brought out of bliss with a sharp bite. “Ow,” you moaned.

“Pay attention,” Prentiss stated.

“Yes, Agent Prentiss,” you moaned again.

Prentiss finished with that breast and stood up and removed her shirt, bra, and gun holster. “Now you do me,” she smiled.

You attempted to replicate Prentiss’ actions on her, but your efforts fell short. Prentiss chuckled and giggled as you struggled, until you accidentally bit down too hard. She stopped and got up. You panicked.

“Pants off. Now!” Prentiss ordered.

“Yes, Agent Prentiss,” you jumped to your feet and stripped. She stood there and watched you sit back on the bed.

“Lay back.” You did as you were told. “Now don’t cum until I say or I will have to leave. Understand?”

“Yes, Agent Prentiss,” you sigh.

Prentiss flashed a sly smile before sinking to her knees. From this new vantage point, she spotted a drawer slightly open and couldn't help but peek inside. She found a small vibrating wand tucked away and placed it beside her feet. Starting at your thighs, she lavished kisses leading up to your glistening womanhood. You let out a soft moan as she got closer to your sensitive areas. With deft fingers, she parted your lips and exposed you fully to the world. "I bet your ex never did this," she said with a hint of smugness. "And I guarantee it won't be this good with anyone else."

Prentiss pressed her tongue against the sensitive spot above your clit, applying a constant and firm pressure. At the same time, she used her thumbs to press into your lips, causing a rush of sensation to flood through your body. It was a new experience for you, and you couldn't help but gasp in response. With a smile, Prentiss continued her oral exploration, slowly moving down from the flat spot towards your hood. She flicked her tongue gently against your hood, alternating between soft and medium pressure while also pulsing on your opening and lips. Your moans of pleasure grew louder with each movement she made.

“Don’t cum, YN. Don’t be a bad cadet!”

“Yes, Agent Prentiss, I will be a good cadet.” Cadet, where did that come from?!

Prentiss started licking your clit. This licking was a continued game of alternate pressures and circular licking. You hear a vibrator turn on.

SHIT! SHE FOUND MY STASH!

Prentiss moaned.

“You naked girl, spread out for me, huh?” She did two licks around your clit. “Mmm, who’s wearing the pants, cadet?”

“You are, Agent Prentiss.”

“And who is the naked slut, cadet?”

“I am the naked slut, Agent Prentiss.”

“Who’s in command of this pussy, cadet?”

“Agent Prentiss is the commander of this pussy.”

Prentiss then takes the vibrator and places it firmly on your clit. You start to buck. You are so close. You don’t want her to leave. Prentiss then takes two fingers and slides them into you, putting sudden and strong pressure on you G-Spot.”

“What do you want, cadet?”

“To cum, Agent Prentiss.”

“You may cum, as long as you ask nicely.”

“May I cum, Agent Prentiss?”

“Nicer.”

“May I please cum, Agent Prentiss?”

With that she presses hard against your clit with the vibrator and your g-spot with her fingers. You quake as a hard, loud, and wet orgasm rolled through you. You feel shaking and the last thing you see before passing out is a smiling Prentiss.

You came to and found Prentiss taking her phone from your computer. She is now fully dressed.

“How long was I out?”

“Thirty seconds or so. I got you a glass of water. It’s on your table. I’m going to leave, wheels up in the morning.”

“If you need any more phone help, let me know.”

“Oh, next time I need phone help I’ll make sure you do all the work.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can feel every thrust deep inside you. Each one makes a distinctive thud and shlick sound. Your orgasm is building, getting closer with every movement. You tightly grip onto the strapon as it fills you up. Nothing has ever felt as unyielding and solid as this before. The plug in your backside grinds against the bright red toy, adding to the intense pleasure of being penetrated.

“Come for me, Cadet.” Prentiss demanded.

You feel the grip of orgasm squeeze you tightly and pleasure erupts from within your core. Your body trembles and shivers as a powerful orgasm overcomes you. As it subsides, you take a moment to catch your breath.

"That was incredible," you exclaimed with gratitude.

"Rocking a holster isn't the only thing I'm good at," Prentiss replied with a sly grin on her face.

She gently pulls out your plug and carefully cleans you up with a towel from the bedside table. You thank her with a smile as she helps you stand up and put on a robe. Prentiss starts to get dressed, putting on her panties first before reaching for her pants.

“Why don’t we spend the day together? We can watch a movie?” You suggested.

“YN, we just finished fucking… you don’t need to ask me for a “movie” to watch,” she laughed.

“No really, Emily, stay with me.”

You two have been fucking feverishly and often in a kinky mist of desire and need for a few weeks at this point. Emily was not an odd name to call her, but it was new. You didn’t know if you should call her that or Prentiss.

“Why? We both finished and I’m sure you’re busy today. As am I.” Prentiss declared.

“Actually, it’s Saturday… at 11 am. I’m off today. Aren’t you? Or am I a lunchtime snack?” you smiled.

“You’re definitely satisfying my appetite,” she replied with a coy smile.

I stood up from the bed and handed her a shirt.

“So, we have underwear and shirts covered… I’ll grab some drinks. You can choose the movie.” You suggested.

Prentiss strolled into the living room and switched on Netflix while you headed towards the kitchen. You grabbed her favorite European beer from the fridge, excited for the chance to surprise her. Balancing both beverages in your hands, you made your way back to the couch where Prentiss had already pulled up "Une vie de chat," a French cartoon about a cat.

You sit down and offer her the beer.

“Thank you! This is my favorite beer! It’s only at that one German store downtown. How’d you know?”

“You mentioned it once. I thought it’d be a nice treat,” you smiled.

As the cat's misadventures unfold, you realize that you and Prentiss have gravitated towards each other on the spacious couch. You rest your head on her shoulder as you continue to watch the show together.

As she begins to say, "This is my favorite..." you rest your head on her shoulder. Emily grins and gently kisses the top of your forehead. It's a new experience for both of you, but it feels natural and perfect in that moment. Your stomach flutters with excitement, but it's a pleasant sensation that matches the rhythm of your heart. It's a mix of thrilling and serene feelings all at once.

"Emily, this is really nice," you say with a smile.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it, YN. It's been a while since I've felt this relaxed. I could definitely get used to this," she replies, returning the smile.

"I have a proposition for you. In here, I have my Emily and in there..." you start, but she interrupts with a knowing smile.

"...you have Agent," she finished your sentence. You try to hide in her embrace, but she finds you anyway.

"Yes, YN, you can have your Emily out here and your Agent in there," she confirmed, snuggling into you as you both fall asleep watching TV together.

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #criminal minds #emily prentiss fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction

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pechoraflow · 6 months ago

Text

All the fake-death and family angst aside, I feel like the Agent 37/Spyral arc should have been given to Tim.

DC is struggling to figure out what Tim wants to do with his life - why not make him a covert spy-op infiltrator? He has the detective skills and tech skills to keep himself off-grid. He is just as toxically self-sufficient as Bruce. He's the type to have backup fake identities to his backup fake identities. He's one of the few Batfamily members that wouldn't just manage to stay undercover for a few months - he could do it for years, and he could thrive in that environment. His morals are looser than Dick's and Bruce's, but he still follows orders better than Damian or Jason. He'd be the perfect double agent.

I mean, if it were me, I'd make Tim's parents part of the Court of Owls, make the Court a worldwide organization, and have Tim's life goal be dismantling every Court operation around the world. But perhaps that's too much canon divergence for some. That's ok.

Even the family angst plays into Tim's character. Having to go off grid for so long, go months, years without contact... He might start to wonder if he even matters to the family. He checks in on them periodically to make sure they're okay, and they're just fine. At first, he's relieved. But after awhile, he's hurt. He's glad they're fine, but don't they miss him? He wishes they were a little sad he was gone - then hates himself for thinking that way.

He throws himself into his work to keep himself from that train of thought, because he's taken that line before and he doesn't like where it leads. It all leads to the family having to pull him out every so often to reassure him that they love him, that he is irreplaceable in the family, and that he can come home whenever he wants to. After one too many extractions, they start making holiday attendance mandatory and Tim starts to get a better handle on work-life balance.

Idk. I'd like to read some Tim Drake spy adventures. I think he'd be great, and I think you could get at least a decade of great stories with him stretching his wings a little. Give him his own enemies in the spy world - hackers, assassins, people with just as many false identities as he has... It could be awesome.

#batfamily #Tim drake #red robin #robin #dc comics #agent 37 #idk is this just me?#like am I crazy or am I onto something here?#I get that Spyral happened because Dick's fake death was an opportunity #and honestly a bunch of needless family drama faking Dick's death to the rest of the fam but I digress #I suppose I will also tag #court of owls #and also #alternate universe #if anybody writes something or draws something inspired by this PLEASE tag me I really wanna see it!

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ltechofficial · 5 months ago

Note

Does L-Tech have any insurance in there programing to ensure there software isn't used by malicious (well, i guess in this case more malicious) actors for traditional corporate crime ala corporate espionage? Also, what kind of security is in place (if any) to insure valuable L-Tech equipment cant be compromised by malicious agents outside of working hours?

I need the tech knowledgeable people to help me with what the exact methods would be but they are extremely serious about securing their program in multiple ways

1. Software is proprietary and heavily encrypted

2. It takes a huge amount of data or access to L-Techs cloud software to run the complex and purposefully non-optimized software. OSeditor looks simple on the user end but is constantly iterated on and bloated with tweaks and from the complexity of successfully interfacing w an outside entities mind

3. The install requires multiple written guides that explain things not available in the software itself, so even if you crack the program, you also need the internal literature to operate it correctly. I think many unauthorized users are stopped by accidentally hypnotizing themselves

4. There are some basic commands built into the hypnosis and a handful of top secret number combinations that can affect an OS without their admins approval.

5. They have government support and support from other large corporate entities to discourage the spread of information about OSeditor

6. They work hard to deincentivize corporate espionage resulting from employee dissatisfaction or disloyalty... the perks are very high and if anyone seems like a risk for disloyalty, you can always tweak them a little... Which can make them into a very useful double agent

Its still not impossible for hackers to mess with it ofc... there's always people working hard to undermine L-Tech despite all the hoops... many T4T yuri hacker couples

#non sexy infodump

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swappetf11 · 2 months ago

Text

They used to call him Big G.

Gregor Dalton. 6’4”, 300 pounds of bad attitude and beer weight. A barrel of a man with a red-blonde beard so thick it practically had its own zip code, arms like hams, and a gut that hung over his duty belt like a second badge. His scalp was half-bald, ringed with tufts of sunburned orange hair slicked down with sweat and neglect. His eyes—cold, small, pale—hid under thick brows and a permanent scowl. His voice was a mix of gravel and bile, often used to bark orders or chew someone out, especially if they were brown and on the wrong side of the fence.

He wasn’t just a border patrol agent—he was the border patrol agent. A legend. Gruff. Abusive. Proud of it. Everyone on the force knew not to cross him, and no one wanted to ride with him on long shifts unless they liked hearing words that made their stomachs churn.

He didn’t just detain migrants—he broke them down.

“Get on the fuckin’ ground!”

“You think you can just sneak into my country?”

“You speak English? No? Then shut up!”

He’d slam their faces into the dirt, zip-tie them too tight, make them sit in the sun for hours. Sometimes he’d flick his cigarette ash at them. He didn’t care if they were women or kids. If they crossed the line, they were trespassers, criminals, filth.

“Don’t wanna get treated like animals?” he’d growl. “Then stay in your cage.”

And yet he believed he was doing good. He saw the job as sacred. Saw the border as a wall between order and chaos. He hated coyotes—those smug bastards who sold hope and death in equal measure. And he hated how the routes kept changing, how every time they cracked down on one tunnel or one trail, five more popped up like snakes from the dirt.

So when the higher-ups summoned him to the black site outside El Paso, he thought it was for commendation. Another medal. Another pat on the back.

Instead, they told him:

“You’re going under.”

Gregor blinked. “The hell does that mean?”

“You’re being placed in Rancho Silencio,” the man in the windbreaker said. “Durango. Rural town. The cartel’s established new smuggling paths through the region. People. Drugs. Coyotes are adapting. You’re going in to learn how they work. Blend in. Observe. Report.”

He laughed so hard he wheezed. “You want me to play fuckin’ dress-up as some beaner hillbilly and sniff out tunnels?”

“You’ll be transformed.”

Gregor’s face went dark.

“This is ‘cause I broke that Guatemalan’s jaw last month, huh?” he hissed. “Because I made that Honduran bitch piss herself when I yanked her kid?”

Silence.

“We’ve selected you because you’re effective,” the suit said flatly. “But to continue being effective, you must become the enemy.”

The rage boiled in him. Become the enemy. He clenched his fists, chest heaving under his sweat-stained undershirt.

“You’re gonna turn Big G into some taco-slinging campesino. This is humiliation.”

The female tech interrupted, calm and clinical. “This is necessary.”

They stripped him down. Watched him grumble and spit as he peeled off his uniform, revealing rolls of pale flesh, sunburnt and freckled. His arms looked like raw roast pork, glistening with sweat and red hair. His legs were thick and hairy, with thighs that chafed with every step. He stood there in a paper gown, his manhood hanging fat and pale between his legs, red bush tangled above.

Gregor had never felt more exposed.

“Drink this,” the tech said, handing him a glowing green vial.

He hesitated. Then, bitterly, he growled, “Fuck it.”

The potion burned like molten metal. It hit his gut like a hammer and exploded outward. He doubled over, gasping, clutching the table as his insides twisted like a snake was coiling in his belly.

“AHHH—fuck—what the fuck—!”

Then came the change.

His massive frame crumpled, bones cracking like firewood under an axe. His spine shrank. His gut melted, rolling away into nothing as his chest and shoulders collapsed inward, losing bulk and girth. His legs shortened, cracked, reshaped—his feet pulling back like a tape measure snapping shut.

“¡Madre… MADREEEEE!” he screamed, in Spanish, the voice pouring from his lips like it had always been there.

He tried to say What the hell? but what came out was:

“¿Qué… qué verga me está pasando, güey?”

His hands were different now—smaller, darker, callused in places they never were. His skin rippled with heat, peeling away layers of pink and freckle, shifting to a golden brown, then deeper. Dusty. Earth-worn. The skin of someone who’d worked under the Mexican sun their whole life.

His red beard began to itch—then fall out in clumps. He gasped, watching the wiry orange hairs drift down like autumn leaves. In their place, black stubble sprouted fast and thick. His scalp—once balding—tingled with pressure as black hair burst from it, dense and bristled, styled like it had just been clipped by a guy named Chuy who charged fifty pesos and used a straight razor.

Gregor’s lips swelled slightly, his cheekbones sharpened, and his nose broadened at the bridge. He stumbled forward, panting, sweat pouring off his body. His gut was gone. His back was lean, shoulders tight. His thighs were firm now, strong, compact. He stood maybe 5’6”, with the body of a man who carried bricks, not a badge.

And then—

His teeth began to fall out.

He howled. The sound was animal. He spat blood, watching his old crooked, yellow teeth hit the floor in a mess of gum tissue and drool.

“¡NO! ¡NOOO!”

New teeth grew in fast—pushing out sharp and white. A bit uneven. Real. Not American dental perfection. Teeth that had chewed tortillas, sunflower seeds, and weed stems.

His cock had changed, too. No longer pale and chubby, it was darker, narrower, but heavy and veiny, with thick, swinging balls that hung low between his thighs like they’d been there for decades. When he moved, they bounced with that familiar masculine sway—but they weren’t his. Not Gregor’s.

He panted. The stench of his new sweat filled the room—richer, muskier. A body that didn’t wear deodorant, that worked hard, that smelled like sex and dust and heat.

When he opened his mouth again, he didn’t speak English. He couldn’t.

“Yo… yo soy… Álvaro… ¿no?” he whispered.

The techs nodded. “Yes. Álvaro Medina. Born in Rancho Silencio. You’ve smoked weed since you were fifteen. You work odd jobs. You know how to listen. You don’t draw attention.”

They handed him jeans. A faded brown flannel. Cheap cowboy boots. A belt with a cracked leather buckle.

He dressed slowly. Every motion felt wrong—but familiar. He reached down and tugged the crotch of his jeans up. The denim hugged his thighs. His new bulge sat heavy between his legs. When he walked, it swung.

The mirror didn’t show Big G.

It showed a short Mexican man in his early 30s. Warm brown eyes, black hair in a clean fade, a dusting of stubble on his cheeks and upper lip. A mouth that naturally turned down at the corners. The face of a man who’d seen enough.

His new gait was quiet, nimble. No longer a stomping bully. His shoulders rolled differently. He looked… wary. He looked real.

They handed him a joint.

“You’re gonna need it,” the tech said. “You’re Álvaro now.”

He lit it without thinking. Held the smoke deep. Exhaled slow.

And as the high settled in his lungs, he heard the whisper of coyotes in the back of his head—names, faces, paths carved through dry creeks and abandoned tunnels. His mission pulsed behind his temples like a forgotten dream.

Gregor was still in there, buried, raging.

But Álvaro Medina took another drag and muttered in a voice thick with smoke and certainty:

“Vamos a ver cómo chingados se mueven esta vez.”

The first time Álvaro caught his reflection—really caught it—was when he stepped into the narrow metal washroom outside the facility, barefoot, the floor cold beneath his smaller, roughened soles. The joint still clung between his fingers, burning slow. The flannel shirt they gave him stuck to his damp back, a film of sweat caught between cloth and skin. His new jeans hugged his thighs, the denim still stiff, smelling faintly of old soap and dust. And underneath, tight against his hips, a pair of faded gray briefs that had clearly seen years of wash. They were a bit snug, the elastic curling slightly, pressing in around the base of his cock where his thick new shaft curved to the left, balls hanging low and pendulous in the cramped pouch.

His hand trembled as he pushed the door open. He wasn’t used to feeling small.

Everything felt too big now. The ceiling seemed higher. The sink farther. The stall too tall, too cold. His gait—once a wide lumbering stomp—had narrowed. His hips shifted differently, his knees bent more. He moved like a man built for maneuvering, for ducking under fences and sliding through brush, not for throwing weight around. The boots clicked on the tile with a sharper rhythm, his steps lighter, quieter.

The mirror above the sink wasn’t kind. But it was honest.

He stepped close.

A man stared back—rounder face, sun-warmed skin, eyes dark and rich with shadow. His lips were slightly chapped, the corners cracked. His stubble was thick, black, hugging his jawline tight. His ears sat closer to his head. His brow furrowed differently now—less harsh, more suspicious, like someone who’d spent years watching his back.

“I… I look like I sell oranges on the side of the road,” he muttered in Spanish.

And he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

He blinked, heart stuttering. The words weren’t English. They weren’t translated either. They were the only thing that came out. Pure reflex.

He dropped the joint, squashed it under his boot. The smoke lingered in the room, earthy and sweet. He grimaced.

“I hate this shit,” he said aloud, again in Spanish. “Smells like dead grass and cheap decisions.”

He was still aware of Big G—Gregor—in this moment. Could still feel the anger curling in his chest. Could still remember the way he used to glare down at migrants, sneer at addicts. He remembered slamming a kid into the hood of the truck for lighting a blunt during processing. He’d spat on the floor and called him trash.

And now he stood in a pair of borrowed briefs, smoke curling around his stubble, lungs filled with that same junk, a thick weight between his thighs that didn’t belong to him, in a stranger’s body that felt like home.

He stared at his hand. Callused in different places. Fingers longer. Nails different. He flexed.

Then reached up, running his fingers along his jaw, over the dark stubble. His beard used to be coarse, a wild fire of red. Now it was tightly packed and felt like velvet thorns. His scalp—he rubbed it, gritting his teeth—thick with hair. His bald patch was gone. He had a fade now. A damn fade.

He chuckled bitterly, still in Spanish.

“I used to mock guys with hair like this. Fuckin’ gang bangers. Now I look like I just stepped out of a cantina with two grams of coke in my sock.”

He ran water into the sink. Splashed his face. Watched the beads roll down his darker skin. It clung differently. Held heat longer. Smelled different too—earthy, like clay and sweat.

His hand slid instinctively down to the waistband of his briefs.

“Dios…” he muttered, palming the weight of his new package. “These balls are gonna kill my back.”

They were heavy. Long, meaty, pulled low by gravity and heat. His cock lay thick against his thigh, curved just enough that he had to adjust it in the jeans every time he moved. He shifted awkwardly, pressing a hand against his fly.

“I used to laugh at these guys walking around with their dicks swinging like they owned the world,” he muttered. “Now I walk like that.”

He pulled open the door and stepped back into the hallway. A mirror along the side wall reflected his full figure. He looked—young. Maybe early thirties. Hard years, but nothing like the red-faced monster he’d once been. He used to waddle when he walked. Now he moved. There was rhythm in his hips, a purposeful bounce in his step. His shoulders rolled with quiet confidence. His whole body said: “I’ve done time. I’ve worked hard. I know who I am.”

He didn’t.

But in about 12 hours, he would.

Because the memories were fading already.

The thoughts of Gregor—his face, his full name, his boots, the gravel of his voice—they were dissolving. Like smoke.

Already Álvaro couldn’t remember his old phone number. Or the name of his ex-wife. The memory of beating a teenager during an arrest? Blurry now. He remembered the blood. But not the name. Not the face.

He stepped outside, the air warmer now. The smell of diesel and dry grass filled his lungs

He lit another joint. Didn’t cough this time.

And then he said, in perfect, relaxed Spanish, staring out toward the hills:

“I wonder if Carlos is still working the arroyo. I bet the new path cuts north.”

He didn’t know where that thought came from.

But it felt right.

He didn’t dream.

When Álvaro woke up, his mouth was dry. A thick layer of sweat clung to his chest, his shirt twisted around his torso like he’d been rolling for hours. The fan overhead clicked rhythmically, slow, mechanical. It was early. Still dark outside the barred window. Somewhere, a rooster called in the distance, muffled by the heavy concrete walls.

He sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. His fingers felt… different. Thicker knuckles. Slight curve in the nails. His skin was darker. Dry. Familiar.

He blinked a few times and looked around. A twin mattress, a chipped sink, faded curtains with some cartoon lemons printed on them. The house was quiet, still. In the silence, there was no alarm. No sound of the city. Just birds and the faint buzz of insects warming up for the day.

His stomach growled.

He swung his legs off the bed, felt the smooth concrete under his bare soles. The fan ticked. The heat was already rising.

He scratched his chest absentmindedly—and paused.

His hand grazed over a new terrain. The skin was taut, the chest flatter, leaner than he expected. The hair there was short, sparse, wiry. Black.

He looked down, lifting his shirt. His skin was bronze, brown, sun-warmed. His abs—not ripped, but defined—tightened when he shifted. The line of black hair trailed down toward the waistband of the briefs he was wearing: grey, old, tight. They hugged his hips closely, the pouch heavy and full between his thighs. His cock rested to the left, long and relaxed, with his balls hanging like ripe fruit, already sweaty from the heat.

He breathed in slowly.

This was his body. It felt right. Familiar.

But something tugged in the back of his head. A name. A whisper.

G… Gre…

Gone. It evaporated.

He stood up, stretched, arms reaching overhead. He caught his reflection in the window glass.

Thicker neck. Buzzed black hair. Jaw square with a tight shadow of stubble that clung to his cheeks and upper lip. A small mole on his right cheekbone. Brown eyes, the kind people didn’t remember clearly but trusted anyway. His shoulders were broader now in proportion to his shorter frame—strong, solid. A man who worked with his hands.

He turned sideways. Looked at the shape of his body in the mirror on the wall. His ass had filled out, rounded and firm under the snug cotton briefs. His thighs were powerful, thighs that had carried weight and moved through tight places. His calves were muscular, legs shorter than he expected, but they moved fluidly.

He walked back and forth across the room.

Light steps. Quick. Not heavy.

His old gait—if it had existed—was gone.

He paused in front of the mirror.

“Soy… ¿Álvaro?” he asked, half-laughing, half-startled.

(“I’m… Álvaro?”)

It didn’t feel wrong. The name sat on his tongue like a worn pebble, smooth from years of use.

Then, memory struck.

A room. Cold and bright. White tiles. The hum of machines.

The transfer facility.

He saw it in flickers.

He’d been standing there in just that robe—white, thin, open at the chest. His old body had been taken from him. They’d given him clothes—used jeans, a flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, a pair of boots dusty with wear. He’d felt it all shift, his body changing, bones cracking, voice dropping into a quick, northern accent.

There had been mirrors there, too.

He remembered standing with his arms at his sides, sweat still dripping down his back. A tech had told him, “Look natural.”

“What does that mean?” he’d asked, his voice already softer, more nasal.

“Be you. Be Álvaro,” the tech said, then lifted a camera.

He had stood, one boot forward, hand on his hip, and tilted his chin slightly. And the shutter snapped.

Flash.

Then they printed the ID.

Álvaro Medina Estrada

32 años

CURP: AEM920711HMCLSR09

Santiago Papasquiaro, Durango

The photo showed him exactly as he looked now—tired, weathered, but composed. The kind of face that had seen hard work, too much sun, and still managed to nod politely when addressed. A man who could disappear in a crowd. A man whose backstory didn’t need explanation.

He remembered walking the halls of the facility after that. His boots clicking. His shoulders naturally hunched, one hand resting on the beltline of his jeans like it had always been there. He’d spit to the side and muttered,

“Hace calor, cabrón.”

(“It’s hot as hell, man.”)

No one corrected him. It was right. His mannerisms had already changed. He scratched the back of his neck with his pinky extended slightly. He coughed after smoking and muttered a “pinche madre” like he’d been cursing that way for decades.

It wasn’t Gregor who walked out of the transfer facility. It was Álvaro.

Now, standing in the morning light of his small house, Álvaro poured water from the cracked jug into the kettle, placed it on the rusted burner, and yawned.

He didn’t miss the old voice. Or the old body.

But when he caught a flash of himself in the mirror again, he hesitated.

He touched his cheek. Rubbed his stubble.

His eyes narrowed.

“Te pareces a alguien,” he whispered to himself.

(“You look like someone…”)

But who, he couldn’t say.

He turned from the mirror. The kettle hissed.

He muttered, “Primero café… luego trabajo.”

(“First coffee… then work.”)

And Álvaro Medina got on with his day.

The morning sun pushed its way through the faded lemon-print curtains as Álvaro stood in front of the mirror, barefoot and bare-assed. The fan overhead ticked slow circles, casting lazy shadows across his chest. The heat had started already, clinging to his skin in a humid, earthy sheen. He’d just dried himself off with a threadbare towel, steam still lingering from the kettle on the stove and the quick splash-bath from the cracked basin.

His body—his body—felt loose and warm, like he’d worn it all his life. He scratched under his belly, fingers brushing over the thick black hair that fanned out from the base of his stomach and bloomed into a natural, unkempt bush. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t trimmed. It was right. Coarse and sweaty and deeply him. His cock rested heavy against his thigh, limp and long, while his balls swung low, pendulous, their weight undeniable.

He turned, eyeing the way they hung—low and proud, sweating in the heat of the morning.

“Puta madre,” he muttered with a half-smile, lifting them in his palm. “Estos huevos cuelgan como campanas.”

(“Fucking hell. These balls hang like church bells.”)

He let them drop, and they swung, a slow, humid rhythm like two sacks of grain shifting beneath him.

He bent down to grab his briefs—gray, stretched at the waistband—and carefully stuffed himself in, adjusting his shaft so it didn’t bend awkwardly to the side. His balls took a second to settle, one dropping lower than the other, pressed against the soft cotton. He gave them one last tug before pulling on his jeans.

They were tight around the thighs, worn-in just right. When he pulled the zipper up, the bulge at his crotch was impossible to ignore. Not obscene, but present. Honest. Worked. He threw on a tank top, the armpits already stiff with yesterday’s sweat, and stepped into his boots.

No mirror check. No hesitation. This was Álvaro.

At the counter, he took out the tin. It used to be a cough drop container, now full of crumpled, sweet-smelling mota. He unrolled a small square of paper, licked his finger, and began rolling. The weed crumbled easily under his fingertips, sticking just enough to form a tight roll. His fingers worked fast—practice that didn’t make sense if you asked him to explain it. But they knew. His body knew.

He licked the paper, sealed the joint, and tapped it twice against the tin. Then he sparked it, taking a slow, full drag through pursed lips, his cheeks hollowing as the smoke filled his lungs.

The taste was earthy, sweet, mellow. It hit the back of his throat and settled in his chest like a heavy sigh.

He exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Así empieza un buen día.”

(“That’s how a good day starts.”)

Outside, the dirt kicked up as the truck pulled in. A beat-up Chevy with one door in primer gray. Inside: Manuel, a thick-necked man with a permanent scowl and three gold teeth. Álvaro flicked the joint into the ash dish by the door, grabbed his bag, and stepped out, the morning heat wrapping around him like a blanket.

“Listo, carnal?” Manuel grunted.

(“Ready, bro?”)

“Simón. Vamos por el canal viejo.”

(“Yeah. Let’s hit the old canal.”)

They drove past the dry canal beds, bouncing over unpaved paths, dust swallowing the tires. Álvaro leaned out the window, elbow resting on the frame, eyes sharp but relaxed.

He knew these roads. Not because someone told him. But because they were in his bones now.

They pulled into a shaded grove, where three men waited. Gaunt, sunburned, eyes hollow but hopeful. A woman cradled a toddler with cracked lips. No bags. No food. Just them.

“Cuatro esta vez,” Manuel said. “Van hasta la cueva, después los recoge el otro lado.”

(“Four this time. They go up to the cave. Someone picks them up past it.”)

Álvaro jumped down from the truck, cracking his neck.

“No hablen. No griten. Caminamos rápido,” he said to them calmly.

(“Don’t talk. Don’t yell. We walk fast.”)

He passed them each a small pouch of water, then checked his waistband for the knife. Not for fighting—but for cutting through fences if needed. His gait was light as he walked. His boots didn’t stomp. They slid over gravel and dry earth, careful not to kick up sound.

The group followed.

And Álvaro moved forward—not as a man pretending to be someone else.

But as Álvaro Medina, coyote. Smoker. Northern son of dust.

And the memory of Gregor Dalton?

Just a vapor in the wind behind him.

#bodyswap #male transformation #male body swap #male tf #transformation kink #mental change #body swap #body possession #body transformation #racetf #race sawp

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calebjorgens2024 · 1 year ago

Text

Star Wars: Shadow Agent

in light of the series finale of the Bad Batch, I have made this Fic set during the time of Rogue One in which CT-9902 “Tech” uses his CX training as CX-2 against the Empire by acting as a Double Agent and considering his exceptional mind, Tech would make sure none of the imperial leadership will ever learn of his double status. In fact he will use the coldness given to him by the late Dr. Royce Hemlock from his CX conditioning to full advantage to the point that as an acting high ranking ISB Agent (rank of Intelligence Marshal), no would dare question Tech. Not of all. Additionally, he would be Luthen Rael’s secret contact! With such demeanor, Tech would weaken the empire from within all while having high security clearance to the most confidential Imperial secrets. Tech would use his CX training to secretly assassinate several Imperial officers who pose a threat to not just him but the rebellion and he would subtly blow many imperial ships just to avenge the Marauder he had blown up and prior to that, he had returned to Pabu to desperately retrieve all past records of Clone Force 99’s highly classified missions that are salvageable and then Tech would have a deep and serious conversation with Shep Hazard with Tech giving a serious look to Shep and apologizing about everything and that the next imperial who tries to arrest will have to go through Tech and that if it comes to that. Tech would use his CX training and his high ranking position in the ISB as a double agent to threaten them with telling Tarkin about their failure and that Pabu is of no interest to the Empire.

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noforkingclue · 1 year ago

Note

Hey I have a James Bond x reader request for you. Everything is up to you but could the reader please say "Back off Bond. Not all of us are classified by the Navy as a friendly port." Please feel free to ignore.

Of course, anon!

Hope you like the fic :)

Title: Flirtations

“Back again Bond,” you said as you folded your eyes and leant back in your chair, “maybe Q was right about you.”

“And what has Q been saying about me?” asked Bond as he slowly walked around your workshop

“I’m surprised you don’t know.”

“Maybe I just want to hear it from you.”

You took a sip of your coffee as you watched Bond inspect the half built gadgets. It was late and you knew you shouldn’t be drinking coffee this late but you needed to stay awake. You were behind on your latest project and you knew Q was expecting it to be finished any day.

“Hey, don’t touch that!” you said

Bond’s hand hovered over a seemingly innocent looking watch. He looked over at you, eyebrows raised and a look of amusement on his face.

“And why not?”

You got up and carefully moved the watch.

“Because it contains explosives.” you explained

“You touched it.”

“But I know how not to set it off. Well,” you grimaced as you slowly put it back down, “most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

“Well, I might’ve had a little accident… you remember that fire alarm last week.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s just say it wasn’t just a test.”

“Sounds like a fascinating story.”

“Q was pissed. I owed him a lot of Earl Grey for helping me to clear up the mess.”

“Sounds amusing.”

“Not from where I was standing.”

“Maybe you’d like to tell it to me.”

“And when would I have the time to do that?”

“Over dinner.”

“Dinner?” you gave him an incredulous look, “and when would I have the time to go to dinner?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“That is what I said. Does Q know that you’re turning into a parrot.”

“I think he’d be disappointed if I did. He might lose one of his best workers.”

“One of his best? I see his arrogance is rubbing off on you.”

Bond slowly walked towards you and you leant against your desk. It was always entertaining when Bond turned up, especially if he had just come back from a mission. While you never liked seeing all the tech you had worked on being destroyed, seeing Q angry and arguing with the double O agent was always good entertainment. By now Bond was directly in front of you and caged you in against your desk. You were forced to sit on top of it just to try and get some personal space.

“You never answered me about dinner.” he asked

“I think I did.”

“You implied that tonight wasn’t good. But there are plenty of other nights.”

“Back off Bond,” you said teasingly, “Not all of us are classified by the Navy as a friendly port.”

“Hmm,” one of Bond’s hands settled on your waist and began, “that’s not what you were telling me the other night.”

“That was then, Commander.”

“And tonight?”

“Like I said- I’m busy.”

“Tomorrow.”

“You’re not going to give up, are you?”

“No.”

Bond pressed a rough kiss against your lips. You moaned softly and tangled your fingers in his hair. When Bond finally broke the kiss he said,

“I’ll take as a yes.”

“Only if you’re paying.”

#fanfiction #james bond #reader insert #request #james bond x reader

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brights-place · 11 months ago

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Valorant Agent Headcannons

Pairings: None <33

Warnings: Fluff, Sillies, Headcannons,

A/N: My friend and I were rambling and writing stupid headcannons after playing a comp match so here we are \(･◡･)/

-Yoru is double jointed -Sage is heavily questioning her sexuality

-Omen is heavily questioning his mental insanity -Phoenix has a sneaker collection -Raze and KJ wake everyone up with there bots

-Chamber when he gets mad he starts speaking french sassily -Kay/0 has a file that's filled with comfort shows for the agents -Kay/0 knows how to make pancakes and makes them for everyone -Skye drags every new agent into a run in the morning -Omen once made every agent a knitted sweater for christmas… Ugly sweaters for life <33 -Breach makes good swedish sweets for everyone -Wingman would make beaded bracelets to agents he likes -Gekko bought a bead set for wingman so he could make more bracelets -When Kay/0 feels petty at an agent he will translate their mother tongue into english for the others to hear ESPECIALLY when someone talks shit (reyna) -Neon knows how to play Bass -All the young agents have tried to make a band together -Sage likes to gossip with Iso over tea and boba -When Clove’s pissed they make fanfics of the other agents >:D -Fade plays with her haunts like yarn (CANNON) -Astra collects seashells for Harbor -Sova has once had a snow globe obsession. He would bring them back to show his grandmother and place it on a shelf -Gekko has called older agents slang names -Viper is obviously a coffee woman and Reyna is a tea woman -Jett has tried to make Skyes birds move faster SHE WAS NOT HAPPY -Deadlock & Sova sometimes have a snowman building contest -KJ likes anime but also phoenix who hides it -Yoru and KJ know phoenix like anime Yoru found out by seeing Phoenix dance to anime songs -Yoru would bring back trinkets for them but denies he thought about them (LIAR)

-Reyna wants to take up crocheting

-Astra is really good at the drums

-Gekko has gotten curious on how his little friends taste he made a list

-Deadlock braids hair, and helps breach braid his

-Iso is really good at cooking and cooks with Jett in his spare time.

-Similarly, Jett and Iso have cook offs and get the other agents to vote

-Clove sneakily puts pride flag toothpicks in everyone's food

-Raze sneaks love letters in everyones lockersand watches with breach and laughs

-Harbour has a bath bomb addiction and collects them like an insane person

-Brimstone has reading glasses

-Cypher gets gifts from everyone on fathers day and also mothers day

-Kj likes making forts

-Chamber corrects the waiters pronunciation at french restaurants

-Reyna plays basketball with Gekko and helps him aim

-Phoenix is trying to learn how to sew so he can make better jackets due to Jett trying to take them

-Clove has an etsy and the only people that buy are breach and gekko

-Neon VS Gekko in any sports (NEON WINS PINOY PRIDE MFS) -Deadlock is scared of dogs

-When Neon gets sick every agent fears for their lives. Her sneezes are BIG (Zoomies) - Neon and Jett get the zoomies if they have energy drinks or coffee -Brim is a BBQ dad he makes good burgers -Imagine Fade looking into Deadlock's nightmares and seeing Cub instead of the bear -Cypher has tinkered with Chamber,Raze, and KJ’s is tech for funsies -Cypher will use people’s fetishes against them -Sova wears one of omens knitted scarves when he goes hunting -Omen gets overwhelmed by crowds sometimes so he likes to hide somewhere quietly -Jett would GRIND on Wuthering Waves and Honkai Star Rail

-Sova has different variations of prosthetic eyes and sometimes he gets gifted weirder or cooler looking ones for fun -Sova as a party trick has taken his prosthetic eye out and some younger agents who haven’t known scream like a banshee -Phoenix is a mama’s boy (I BELIEVE HE HAS TWO MUMS)

-Sage has binged Avatar The Last Airbender many times and takes inspiration from Katara

-Jett has a hidey hole full of other agents' belongings. Yoru’s knives, Phoenix’s shoes, Cyphers hat (sometimes)

-Yoru has tried time travelling, Phoenix jokes about it all the time

-When someone has a bad day, cypher watches over them over the camera to make sure they aren't doing anything bad to themself

-Yoru gives haircuts and is actually good, but he keeps yapping while using his different knives

-Gekko sings creep by radiohead in the shower when he's sad and Neon films from outside the door and jokes about it

-Omen gets too much candy due to being treated as a trick or treater

reblogs + comments are appreciated ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

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sweetdispatch · 11 days ago

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Chasing Justice

masterlist

summary: Special Unit of the FBI is tracking down everyone who's against the law but one case is stuck with them for the past year. What they don't know is that when they catch the killer, it will open the Pandora' box and whole network will wake up

warnings: crime, murders, medical terms for the deceased, swear words

MAIN CHARACTERS

Special Agent Clara Thorne

Clara decided to be a detective when her parents were murdered and the killer was never found. She wanted justice and this was her mission that she accomplished. She’s not afraid and won’t step down until she solves all the cases. There’s no term in her dictionary like unknown killer.

Special Agent Ryan Archer

Ryan is a war veteran. After returning to the country, he went to work with the FBI because didn’t want to sit at home. He’s not scared of physical fights and he’s the first one to stand up for his team and sacrificed himself.

Special Agent Dean Black

Dean is a tech analyst. He’s responsible for collecting all the digital data like phone calls, messages and bank payments. He’s always digging into the rabbit hole to learn everything about victims and possible suspects.

Doctor Elizabeth Graves

Elizabeth is precise. Nothing will escape her eyes when she’s examining victim’ body. She’s running the morgue and is a main doctor there. In every case, she’s doing a double check of the body to make sure that previous doctors didn’t miss anything.

Unit Chief Edward Hayes

Edward has been working in the FBI his whole career. He’s rarely on the field with the team but he’s always ready to go and help them. He’s cold and collected. Barely showing any emotions because the work taught him to keep it to himself. He doesn't want to retire until he finds someone good enough to replace him.

CHAPTERS

Case closed

Remorse

#matt rempe #matt rempe imagine #matt rempe fanfiction #matt rempe au #nhl #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl au #new york rangers #chasing justice #crime au #v' work #clayton keller #clayton keller imagine #clayton keller fanfiction #clayton keller au #utah mammoth #utah hockey club

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naferty · 7 months ago

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It's been a minute, but I'm happy to say I wrote something stony! And avac stony to boot.

This was heavily inspired by an old BL manga I read many years ago.

~~~

Tony wouldn’t say his time in Avengers Academy was bad. He wouldn’t say it was good either. As the son of a SHIELD agent and a HYDRA double agent, it was hard to find people to hang out with, let alone have any friends. What with the whole ‘he could be a double agent waiting to reveal secrets for his own benefit,’ thing looming over him thanks to his father.

It didn’t matter that his mother had been a dedicated agent who left his father the moment she learned he was double-crossing and raised him herself to be a good person. All her efforts were ignored and Tony was lucky to be called a backstabber at worst and a turncoat at best.

At least this school accepted him with minimal difficulty. Granted, he was ignored by the two main affiliates he was associated with, but at least he was able to study and hey! He was given permission to use the engineering room. He had that going for him.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom though. Sure, the one individual who managed to overlook his whole conflicted birth was not exactly a person to write home about, but Loki had a sense of fashion compared to most and always made sure Tony looked his best.

“No Asgardian prince will share common space with a pauper,” were Loki’s everyday words when he found Tony wearing his admittedly cheap outfits. Conveniently forgetting Tony wasn’t exactly carrying a nation’s treasury in his back pocket like the prince.

All in all, it wasn’t so bad. He had a sort-of friend but really an acquaintance who found his presence less annoying than most. He was given permission to tinker and experiment with tech and invent whatever he wanted. Within reason. He was given his education. He even managed to share space with some of the greatest names known! Both on Earth and from space.

Captain Marvel, the Hulk, Falcon, heck, he even managed to catch a glimpse of Moon Girl and had Iron Woman look at him once! The last one had made Tony’s entire day. What he would give to share, like, ten minutes with Iron Woman and pick at her brain. See how she worked. A dream come true.

Often, he would daydream of one day joining any of their groups. Just once. Even if it was only a minute or two. He would daydream of perhaps making a difference somewhere, even if small. Invent life-changing tech. Maybe even become a hero in his own right? Anything to show he wasn’t just a simple agent who was ready to turn their friends over at a moment’s notice.

What he would give for just a glimpse of what that would feel. Not having everyone watch your every move.

Well, not much to be done there. He just had to buckle down and work harder than most to go against the whole school’s expectations of him. Every day he attended his classes, completed his extracurricular activities, worked on his shabby attempt at an AI and daydreamed about what-ifs.

“Yo, Clint, hurry up. You’re already late!”

Tony turned to look behind him where the Hawkeye and the Falcon were casually waving at each other. Going about their day like usual and walking around as if they didn’t carry big names on them.

He sighed and went back to his work. He was finishing up his coding for another attempt at Friday’s calculating. He was alone at Club A. The engineering room having been taken up in its entirety by up-and-coming SHIELD agents wanting to be the next big shot. As Tony was not in the mood to be constantly stared or pointed at, he decided to finish his coding in the one building devoid of bodies this time of day.

However, even if alone with nothing to distract him, he couldn’t help his mind wandering around the place. In particular, a rumor that had begun circulating around the Academy recently. A rumor involving the golden boy. Captain America himself.

What was the rumor? Why, apparently Captain America had a crush. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t exactly something worth talking about, but if one was following Captain America’s career closely, it was big news.

Captain America was a big name, and the person responsible for it wasn’t someone to ignore. Steve Rogers was kind, respectful, brave and a very, very private person. Especially with his romantic aspect of it. It was rare to ever see the guy go on dates or show even a lick of interest to anyone. One could say if he ever found love again the person lucky enough wouldn’t have to ever worry about his eyes straying.

Peggy Carter was a very lucky woman, or had been lucky, he would say. If the rumor held any truth, the founder of SHIELD was no longer the one holding the Captain’s heart.

According to hearsay, Steve Rogers had a crush on someone in the engineering club, and while Peggy Carter was a genius in her own right, she wasn’t exactly tech savy for the club. This left a few possible contenders. Excluding the SHIELD agents – because come on, why would Captain America go for a lowly SHIELD agent? – the heroes at the top of the list were Moon Girl, Ironheart, Shuri, Spider-Gwen and, of course, Iron Woman. There were more, sure, but the rumor listed these specifically.

Tony sighed again, tapping the end of his pen against the wooden surface he was working on top of. He should probably stop thinking about this particular rumor, but he couldn’t help it. Ever since growing up, he looked up to the idea of Captain America. Going against all odds to be the hero he was today. Tony couldn’t help but compare himself and his hardships with the guy, and somewhere along the way he kind of, sort of, maybe had gained a little bit of a crush on the hero, so hearing about the hero liking someone was a little painful.

If he had to guess, the one the Captain was crushing on was probably Iron Woman. The one and only Natasha Stark. He often saw the two hanging out with each other. Always together with their ‘click.’ It was only natural Steve would catch some feelings if they hung out every day.

Didn’t hurt any less though.

“Okay,” he said to no one. “Focus. Focus.” He couldn’t waste his hour of free time away thinking about this. He had coding to finish and nobody was going to help him with it. Loki was useless when it came to tech and didn’t exactly make for encouraging company, so it was now or never.

He slammed his pen down, harder than necessary, but the paper had no feelings to hurt so he didn’t particularly care, but he did utter a soft ‘sorry’ for disrespecting the code.

He got to work and made good progress. His calculations might be a little off but he could hammer it down once he had access to the engineering labs again. The important thing was he had the base to work with.

He decided to stop when he got stuck. He needed to test out his idea, but with no access right now to the computers at the labs, it was pointless to continue. He shuffled the papers together and stuffed them in his backpack. He still had twenty minutes left to kill time before his next class, meaning his next destination was the park. There, he was left alone and he could sit with his thoughts.

Ah, perhaps that wasn’t the best idea. The last thing he needed was time to think about the rumor again. Then again, he was thinking about it now as he attempted not to think about it. A vicious cycle.

As he was busy with his inner turmoil, he failed to notice someone getting closer from behind and by the time they caught his attention, Tony was left staring blankly at a flower in his face.

It was a rose. Very red and very much smelling of a rose. It was jammed right in front of Tony’s nose and he went a little cockeyed looking at it. The person at the other end of the rose was none other than Steve Rogers.

Whoa, Tony thought. He had never seen the Captain America standing so close before. Had his eyes always been that blue?

So enraptured by those eyes, Tony could do nothing as the Captain reached out to cup the side of his face and pulled him forward. Tony went wide-eyed when the hero placed a small kiss on his mouth. A peck, really. Tony barely felt it.

The hero pulled back and gave a blinding smile. Then, just as quickly as he appeared, he left the rose on his lap and disappeared, leaving Tony alone once more in Club A.

Tony placed his good hand over his mouth unconsciously, and as his thoughts started catching up he went bright red.

He just – he just – he – k-kissed -

A squeak he would deny for the rest of his life escaped him and Tony quickly scrambled to run back to his dorm to hide.

#naferty writes #stony #stevetony #long post #avac stony #may or may not be a part 2 #rumor au #fandom ships

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